Disclaimer: I don't own any characters blah blah blah owned by Anthony Horowitz blah blah blah don't sue me.
Summary: Some rules are meant to be followed. Others were made to be broken. John decided the rule of not writing about his ordeals was one of the latter. Years later, Alex finds a notebook in the attic and decides he needs to know what it means. His decision changes a lot.
Slight AU (Alternative Universe), characters acting slightly OOC (Out Of Character).
'Cause you're a Natural
Chapter 9
The phone rang.
He had multiple phones, all with different numbers, all linked to one contact, all had slightly different ringtones, and he had them all memorised.
He knew the phone currently ringing had been given to someone who had died in a ball of flames thirteen years ago. Since he didn't believe in reincarnation and doubted John would give the phone away, it meant a relative had gotten hold of it.
Ian was dead as of four days ago (Nile had reported Ian's death in his latest report); the housekeeper they had employed probably wouldn't know the procedure or want to contact him (each phone would only accept contact from one other phone. An attempt by a different phone number to connect to the phone would result in the hardware of both phones being wiped), and he doubted Alex knew Russian.
"слушаю". (Listening)
There was silence on the other end of the line, apart from the sounds of breathing. If he received the wrong response, he'd hang up, which would cause the phone to erase all data from its software.
"Был ли мой отец террористом?" (Was my father a terrorist?)
It was the wrong response. He should hang up; his thumb was on the button.
"Джон был шпионом, посланным для сбора информации," he replied, "что требовало, чтобы их заметили. Он не был террористом; не был он и невиновным человеком. Он убивал людей - по общему признанию, меньше, чем я, - но он был хорош в обеих работах. Я многому у него научился," (John was a spy sent to gather information ~ which necessitated being noticed by them. He wasn't a terrorist; neither was he an innocent man. He killed people - less than I have, admittedly - but he was good at both jobs. I learned a lot from him) he replied, moving his thumb away.
There were another few moments of silence. Yassen revised his opinion of Alex. It seemed he had managed to learn Russian at some point.
"Мой дядя погиб в автокатастрофе?" (Did my uncle die in a car crash?)
Yassen blinked. So that was the story they were going with. How original.
"Технически нет. Произошла автокатастрофа, но это произошло уже после его смерти. Хорошо подумайте, нужны ли вам все подробности. Они не для слабонервных," (Technically, no. There was a car crash, but that happened after he was dead. Think carefully as to whether you want all the details. They're not for the faint-hearted) he warned, using his spare hand to hack the location of the phone call. He'd narrowed it down to somewhere in London before Alex replied with a simple, "Да". (Yes)
"Он умер, когда пуля попала ему в голову. С того места, где пуля вошла и вышла из его мозга, это было мгновенно. Принять запрос," (He died when a bullet entered his head. From the location the bullet entered and exited his brain, it was instant. Accept the request) he commanded, hitting the enter button on the laptop. There was a confused, "какие?" (what?) over the phone, before a faint ringtone and a sighed "Oh" was heard. The phone hung up (and began erasing all data) as the laptop showed the face of a teenage boy.
He examined the boy (he was aware of being examined in return). An older version of the kid who'd asked for his help in the library years ago. Blonde hair, blue eyes… a future heartbreaker in the making.
Or he would be, once the redness around his eyes went away.
"Сочувствую вашей утрате, Алекс. Твой дядя пользовался уважением в обществе. Мои работодатели пытались соблазнить его присоединиться, но безуспешно," (I'm sorry for your loss Alex. Your uncle was well regarded in the community. My employers tried to tempt him to join but were unsuccessful) Yassen stated. The teenager frowned, glancing at something held in his hand, out of the camera's view.
"Вы не банкир". (You're not a banker) Alex returned.
"И я не собираюсь становиться им," (Nor do I have any intention of becoming one) he replied; the confusion he felt wasn't evident from his tone or face. Out of all the accusations ever levelled against him, this was the first time he'd faced this one. The boy closed his eyes with a sigh, and Yassen took an educated guess.
"Ян не был банкиром," he declared. "Работникам нашей профессии приходится лгать семье, друзьям за пределами сообщества… всем, кого они встречают. Это опасность работы. Он был одним из лучших сотрудников МИ-6, а это опасно для дальнейшего существования." (Ian wasn't a banker ~ People in our line of work have to lie to family, friends outside the community… everyone they come across. It's a hazard of the job. He was one of MI6's best, which is a hazard to one's continued existence)
"Ты убил его?" (Did you kill him?) Alex demanded.
Yassen had been trained by the best. He could fool a polygraph with ease and lie with nary a tell. He never knew when that skill could be needed.
It wasn't, at that moment.
"Нет". (No)
Alex studied his face for a few minutes. Whatever he was looking for, he seemed to find it and opened his mouth to say something. Yassen wasn't finished, though.
"Ходят слухи, что МИ-6 искала ребенка, чтобы использовать его в качестве шпиона. Возможно, они ложны. Однако, судя по вашим увлечениям, местам отдыха, языкам, которым вы обучались, и другим тревожным факторам, ваш дядя, возможно, предназначал вас на эту роль. Если любой из этих двух-" he sent two photos to Alex's registered phone number "-подходит к вам на похоронах, ни на что не соглашайтесь. Это Алан Блант, глава МИ-6. Женщину зовут Тюлип Джонс, заместитель главы. Они не боятся опуститься до шантажа - если они это сделают, напишите кому-нибудь букву Y. Я посмотрю," (There are rumours that MI6 have been looking for a child to use as a spy. Maybe they are false. However, judging by your hobbies, holiday destinations, languages you've been tutored in and other alarming factors, your uncle may have intended for you to fill that role. If either of these two ~ approaches you at the funeral, don't agree to anything. The man is Alan Blunt, head of MI6. The woman is Tulip Jones, the deputy head. They aren't afraid to sink to blackmail - if they do, text someone the letter Y. I'll see it) he ordered, mind whirling with plans, possibilities, people. The boy blinked, an uncertain light in his eyes.
"Ты делаешь это, потому что чувствуешь, что должен моему отцу?" (Are you doing this because you feel you owe my father?) Alex inquired.
"Частично. Я также думаю, что мир убийц и шпионажа для взрослых, а ты еще ребенок. Делай, что хочешь, когда ты взрослый, но дети заслуживают своей невиновности," (Partly. I also think the world of assassins and espionage is for adults, and you're still a child. Do what you want when you're an adult, but children deserve their innocence) Yassen replied, bringing his mind back from sirens, Leo, anthrax, Sharkovsky, Russian Roulette. The boy looked concerned for him for a few seconds - a small broken corner of his mind, hidden away for over twenty years, lit up at the positive attention - but blinked and thanked him before ending the Skype call.
Yassen allowed himself two seconds, staring at the blank screen before he stood up, a long forgotten emotion running through him.
(A.N: Translations correct according to Google Translate.)