Yassen's grey SEAT blended in with the Barcelonian traffic much better than Crawley's government-issued black car, and no one took a second look at them – not even the police car that drove right past them with its blue lights flashing.
They had only gone around the first two blocks when Yassen fished out a towelette from the glove compartment and handed it to Alex. His eyes stayed fixed on the road.
"For your cheek," Yassen said before Alex could voice his confusion.
Alex wiped his face and was surprised when it came back red. It didn't sting, so the blood wasn't his own.
He swallowed. "Oh."
They drove in silence for a while, Alex absent-mindedly watching the crowd grow younger, dresses shorter, and ties less common as the first partygoers replaced the late dinner guests. Some of the youngest looked around his age. He had forgotten it was Friday.
They had turned down a less busy street when Yassen suddenly stopped the car and rolled down his window. He kept the motor running.
Alex straightened and blinked back to the present.
They were on a bridge. A few old streetlights fought to illuminate the asphalt and a short white railing that Alex wouldn't have to dare lean against in fear of it breaking off. Someone had sprayed STOP MORDASSA STOP POBREZA in black graffiti on the metal tube separating the narrow footpath from the road.
At the moment, they were alone, but it wouldn't stay that way for long.
"Phone," Yassen said and held out his hand.
Alex gave up his phone with a sigh, knowing any protest would be ignored – not that it would have been much of a fight, even if he wasn't exhausted and hollowed out by the events of the last hour.
Yassen unceremoniously threw the phone over the railing, and Alex watched it disappear into the darkness. He imagined he heard a small splash as it hit the water, though they were much too far away.
"That was my personal phone," Alex said as Yassen got the car moving again.
"You shouldn't have brought it then."
Alex took a deep breath and let himself sink further into his seat, turning back to watch the golden streetlights as they flitted past his window.
He must have nodded off because when Alex opened his eyes the next time, they had stopped again. This time, Yassen had parked the car under a tree at the side of a narrow street tucked in between apartment complexes painted in light reds and beige. Dark silhouettes of power lines crisscrossed the street, and the houses were all surrounded by tall fences.
Yassen stepped out of the car, and Alex watched as he walked back and opened the boot. Before Alex could decide whether to follow, Yassen returned, clutching a small duffle bag. He threw it at Alex – who barely caught it in time to prevent it from hitting his head.
"Change and put your old clothes in the bag," Yassen said and went back to the boot.
Alex could hear him rummaging with something. However, he didn't doubt the assassin was still keeping perfect track of his surroundings, and Alex hurried to change into the clean shirt and jeans he found in the bag.
The legs were a bit too long and the sleeves a little loose over the shoulders, but the clothes fit much better than they would have even six months ago – nothing noticeable.
Alex had grown a few centimetres over the winter, and he wasn't that much shorter than the assassin now. His cheeks had lost some of their roundness and there was a graveness to his expression that he couldn't shake even when safe at home. The shadows underneath his eyes refused to go away, even though he slept through most nights now, and he had noticed Jack cast concerned glances his way when she thought he wasn't looking.
Though still clearly a child, he no longer looked as young and innocent as right after his uncle's death and he would no longer fit through most of the narrow passages he had crawled through on his past missions.
He had naively hoped this would make him a less valuable asset in the field.
His old clothes felt stiff as he stuffed them into the duffle bag, and he saw something flake off and land in his lap. Alex made an effort not to look too closely as he brushed it off.
Yassen arrived a moment later to grab the bag. Cool night air rushed into the car when he opened the passenger door, and Alex shivered. He hadn't noticed the cold when they had walked from the hotel.
Yassen swung the duffle bag over his shoulder and gave Alex a small nod. "Wait here," he said and closed the door. Alex heard the car lock re-engaging before the assassin disappeared down the street.
Alex checked the street: deserted. Should he take the chance and run?
The car was locked, but he could use the headrest to smash a window and crawl out. It would be noisy and there was a good chance he would get cut by the glass, but if he hurried, he could be away before anyone came to investigate.
He didn't owe MI6 anything. He had tried his best and failed. If he turned up at the nearest British embassy and made enough of a fuss, they would have a hard time refusing him a ticket home.
Alex sighed and relaxed back into his seat.
Who was he kidding? He couldn't just leave the flash drive with Yassen. He might not know exactly what information was stored on it, but he knew it was bad. By giving up, he would be partly responsible for whatever happened next, and the whole trip would have been for nothing. He would have k… stopped Mr Martín for nothing.
Besides, the temperature might be above freezing, but Alex didn't fancy hiding the rest of the night behind a skip.
Yassen wasn't gone for long.
Alex startled when the assassin opened the door to the driver's side and got in – Alex hadn't noticed him approach, and he had been watching the streets closely.
Yassen ignored the half-hearted glare Alex sent his way and started the car without a word. If he was surprised Alex had stayed, he didn't show it.
"Where are we going?" Alex asked. Which he should probably have done before getting into the car in the first place, but he had been otherwise occupied at the time. The nap had cleared his head a little, but his limbs still felt too heavy. He needed some proper sleep.
"Somewhere safe," Yassen said.
"Which is where?"
Alex hadn't expected an answer, so he wasn't surprised when he was met by silence.
According to the dashboard clock, they drove for another forty minutes. Alex was pretty sure they hadn't gone the direct route. At least this gave him the chance to see a bit more of the city than the inside of a hotel room.
They passed the Sagrada Família. Hundreds of spotlights lit up the ghostly façade, and the impressive spires competed with tower cranes in reaching furthest into the sky.
Ian had talked about wanting to see the church a few times, but every time they had booked a trip, his work had gotten in the way. There was some irony in Alex seeing it for the first time like this – at night, sitting in a car beside his uncle's murderer.
Yassen took a few of the smaller roads, then followed the highway until they arrived at what Alex supposed counted as Barcelonian suburbs.
Small roads meandered up a hillside in contrast to the precise grid system of the city centre. The houses stood further apart, giving them the first good view of the stars as the streetlights became fewer and the sky bigger, and Alex felt like he could breathe easy for the first time since leaving London.
It was quiet, with no other cars on the road beside them, so there was no one awake to watch them as Yassen stopped at a light red two-story house overlooking the city below.
Alex stood aside while Yassen drove the car into the garage and unlocked the front door, then wearily followed him inside.
Yassen's jacket hung neatly on the coat rack. Alex brushed against it as he pulled off his shoes. He would have preferred to keep them on, even though they were a bit too small – just in case he needed to escape later – but he doubted Yassen would let him, and Alex had other things he would rather use his dwindling energy on than fighting about footwear. If needs must, he knew from experience that he could run a fair distance in socks, even if it would hurt.
The house was surprisingly light and homey, with white curtains in the windows, and old knick-knacks adorning the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in the small living room. On every windowsill stood small pots of flowers – their soil damp.
Someone was regularly taking care of the place.
Yassen turned on the TV, and the sound of a Spanish newscaster reporting about the most recent unrest in the Middle East broke the silence.
Alex found a few photographs on a sideboard and ran his fingers over each frame before grabbing one of them. A small, dark-haired girl was giving the camera a gab-toothed grin while holding up a white flower.
"Is this place yours?" Alex asked and set the photograph back down. For all he knew, Yassen could have broken into a random house while the family was on holiday.
"Yes," Yassen answered.
"And the pictures?"
Yassen smiled. "No." He turned and walked into the small kitchen. Alex followed.
"I feel like I'm the only one carrying the conversations here, you know? Could you maybe try using more than one or two words at a time?"
Yassen stood with his back to him, so Alex couldn't see his expression. The man started opening cupboards and pulled out a casserole, olive oil, and some thinly sliced ham. Starting to cook at midnight felt a little strange, but Alex couldn't deny that he felt hungry. He hadn't eaten much for dinner, and now relatively safe and warm his hunger was returning with vengeance.
"The flash drive isn't here," Yassen said, interrupting Alex's food-focused train of thought.
"What?" Alex blinked. "I wasn't– "
"You checked my jacket when you walked in, then searched every likely spot in the living room that I could have concealed it before you noticed. Now you're following me around in the hopes of getting an opportunity to check my pockets as well." Yassen turned his head to give Alex a hard look. "I would advise against trying."
Alex suppressed a flinch.
The ham started sizzling. Yassen summoned garlic cloves from somewhere and chopped them expertly into fine pieces.
Alex let himself slump on one of the two chairs standing at the dinner table. "You dropped it off with the duffle bag."
He took Yassen's silence as confirmation.
Tiredness started creeping up on him once more, and his next words came out sounding more defeated than he had intended.
"Why am I here?"
Yassen looked up again, but his eyes held no warning this time, only contemplation, then he turned back to the food and fished out the now crisp ham slices, set them aside on a plate, and added the chopped garlic to the pot.
"The bathroom is upstairs to the right. Go get cleaned up. Towels are under the sink."
"But– "
"Later."
Alex ran a hand through his hair in frustration. He was too tired and hungry to think properly.
He needed to figure out a way to get the flash drive back from whoever Yassen gave it to. He had noted the street name where they had stopped and could somewhat remember the route. If he stole Yassen's car…
Alex rubbed his head. He could feel a sleep-deprivation headache building up. The list of things he wanted to do consisted of stuffing himself with the delicious-smelling ham and collapsing on the nearest soft surface. Not necessarily in that order.
A bath sounded like too much effort, even though he could feel the dried sweat clinging to his skin. However, Yassen had promised him answers and was cooking him a somewhat free meal – the least Alex could do was not to stink while eating it.
"Fine," he finally agreed and stood up. He would figure out what to do about the flash drive after dinner.
Alex reluctantly dragged himself upstairs – ignored the two other doors on the floor which surely hid at least one comfortable bed – and showered.
Later, he would regret not going directly to bed.