Dieter Sprintz was really something else. Alex had arrived at Dulles and his dad's car pulled up to a waiting business jet. One of the fleet owned for rental by James' dad. The man who had several homes, but had lived near Lucerne since 2001, moving from Dusseldorf to a more secure location. Not that the guy looked uber-rich, he dressed well, but like an anonymous boring businessman, except he always wore his father's watch. What set him apart were things like the private plane sent for his son's friend without a second thought. James complained often enough that such effortless extravagance worked against him achieving real friendships, even at the several exclusive academies he'd attended and been expelled from.

The Canterbury's were fairly well off with a nice house and three cars. Though, not quite in the same economic bracket as most of the Point Blanc alumni. It was strange to think of such wealth, as Alex had never really thought of Paul as anything different, with the exception of his grandmother's home, which was large and spacious apartment with a view of Central Park worth tens of millions. His ex was unassuming, with no outward differences in terms of outlook and appearance. He travelled by commercial airliner, just not in coach. Otherwise had a high end car not a Ferrari, used taxis, but not the metro or bus. No different to Alex or Joe. Paul Roscoe would be a billionaire when he took over his father's legacy at twenty-one, all held in trust until then. His grandmother was a proud woman, who had paid all day to day expenses out of her own money. A woman of effortless good taste, knew what she liked and expected, but was definitely not ostentatious. With that realisation that money had caused his friend's isolation problems, he felt sorry for James, as Paul had a close to normal life post school from hell, not one continuously skewed by his family's wealth.

After ten minutes of fuss from Charlie, going over documentation, money, plans, medication, packing and possible emergencies, he had boarded to be served coke and a snacks by the steward as the pilot awaited the OK from traffic control. The bling jet would still take eight hours to Switzerland. The teenager was sure the very prim and proper steward was in for a boring flight. At least it was a redeye and the teenager planned to sleep, with the help of the chemical relaxation as recommended by Luke Majors. He'd needed therapy just to fly, not because of aviophobia per say, just the high likelihood of panic caused by reminders of the the trip from hell with Sarov from Cuba to Murmansk via Edinburgh four years ago. The four tablets were all he been allowed. So, no chance of overdose or getting dependant. His last session had concentrated on positive associations, with a step by step guide so he may never need to fear anxiety when going on holiday. With the last of his coke, he tried to be upbeat about not being kidnapped this time around and took his meds; settling back in the very comfy leather chair to sleep before the engines powered up.

Waking to the drone of the engines was jarring, making him switch from drowsy to wide awake in a second and then jump upright, alert for an attack. Luckily, no one noticed his minor freakout as the steward was busy serving the pilot. Rather than continue to act like a trapped animal, Alex went to the bathroom. Avoiding the mirror, the skinny blond kept his eyes closed as cold water was splashed over his face. The soft cotton towel was warm and smelled homely and fresh. He then sat on the toilet, rubbing his eyes and meditated to get into a better place mentally. After a full cycle of controlled breathing, he looked at his watch, still on Washington time stating it was midnight. He'd been asleep for six hours. Back in the cabin, he sat back down and forced himself not to feel claustrophobic.

The steward approached with a menu and a wide smile, "You slept well, Mr. Canterbury?"

"Call me Sasha, Johannes. Can I have another coke? My stomach is a bit unsettled." It had been Jack who had thought Coca cola was a cure all for any aliment, nor the vile and frankly weird Lucozade preferred by Ian when under the weather. Mimi had brainwashed Joe to think the full sugar version rotted your teeth and the brand was a symbol of globalisation gone mad. A drink available from the Congo to Kazakhstan.

The bottle arrived ice cold and was the expected absolute refreshing hit making everything seem better. Johannes sat opposite and made small talk. "So, you are friends with Mr. Sprintz?"

"James, yeah, same school a while back. We were BFF's there. My brother Joe was there as well. He's working a Prism Graphics and Games this summer." Alex knew it was a subsidiary of Roscoe Inc, but then again half of Silicon Valley was connected to that conglomerate in some way. "I'm undecided what I want to do, just like Jamie. Hopefully, we can brainstorm this summer and move forward." The only certainties, he was definitely not going to law school like Mom or joining the Army like his Dads and spying was up there with a loud, resounding hell no. The eighteen year old forced himself to continue the conversation, grasping at this diversion from less pleasant associations. "We last hung out last summer. James came to stay with us. Did the whole Smithsonian, Arlington and White House tour. Even got to play ball for Dad's team. I guess you do all that considering you travel a lot?"

The handsome twenty-something smiled and shook his head, "I wish, we arrived last night at five after dropping of an executive in New York. Dinner and hotel only, no sightseeing. Day before that we visited four countries in 24 hours. I am looking forward to going home for 48 hours to sleep in my own bed."

For the next two hours the pair spoke of home, sports and life choices. Alex even handed over his mobile number. A new friend in the making, one who had given him another perspective on navigating life as an adult.

…..

After the plane landed, Johannes Schmidt gave his psychological profile to his boss. "He had a panic attack on waking, but did not take a second dose of his medication. Related well, very open, seems very close to James as friends, but nothing more. He flirted but only briefly. No physical contact, he gave me his phone number and stated we could hang next time I'm in DC. A charming young man, who's coping well with obvious anxieties."

….

The billionaire financier had already been monitoring the international markets since 5AM. He would have breakfast with his son when Sasha arrived at 8. Technology meant he could work from home, keeping in contact with his team in Dusseldorf and see the trends on the markets. He also traded in more precious commodities. He had bought files about Point Blanc, Grief, his clones, Stellenbosch and Alexander John Rider.

As an expert in financial law as well as commodities and trading, in those documents he had acquired a full list of the assets held by John and later Ian Rider on their deaths. Money, property and investments held in trust by the Royal and General Bank. A considerable sum, which had been misappropriated by Alan Blunt, the supposed executor of Ian Rider's estate.

James' father was indebted to Alex and rather fond of the teenager after getting to know him. The Canterbury's were devoted parents, but their hands were full dealing with a psychologically damaged adopted son. He had been more than happy to offer some respite this summer. Rather than disturb the boy's holiday, Dieter knew better than to try and muddy the waters with lawyers, when the legacy concerned would be lost to fees at a rapid pace, he decided to delegate responsibility. The facts spoke for themselves, he was just a concerned friend of the wronged party as he addressed two packages to be sent by courier to the Head of the British Secret Service and the Private Secretary to Her Majesty The Queen. By lunchtime, the cat would be among the pigeons in London. A thought that brought a smile to the German's face.

The self made man lived for those moments, when he shook the establishment to its complacent foundations. He was comfortable as an outsider. His father a life long refinery technician, not a manager or a graduate. From such blue collar beginnings, Dieter had risen from a clerk in Deutsche Bank, a position he gained straight from school, to fund manager, independent trader, to billionaire. His luck at exploiting the wobble of the markets and currency uncertainty during the fall of the Gold Standard, then the adoption of the Euro. Money his son had no interest in. James had been quite vocal in his belief that acquiring more money than most countries GDP should be used to help mankind and the future of the planet, as those in power exploited and destroyed as they were more concerned for short term gains. His son would never be poor but 95% of all he had procured would be used to educate, adapt, improve and conserve. He had already given large endowments to various projects in Germany. In the next decade, his philanthropy would go global.

….

James knew precisely how badly Alex was failing to cope recently from detailed communications with Joe and the complete lack of feedback from Paul. Roscoe was a dick, not as big a idiot as Dimitri but close. Alex, AKA Sasha, was fragile in a way most of the guys from school did not get. As fast friends in 2001, Jamie had seen a mirror of his own crippling loneliness and isolation in the young Mr. Friend's interactions at school. That was why they had bonded. Both of them desperate for affection, with distracted and workaholic guardians and scarred from fickle pseudo friends at school. At least, he had parents who, despite their faults, loved him. After their holiday in New York in 2003, it had taken time and work for the pair to reconnect. Now, he would say he was almost as close as Joe to Sasha. He liked the thought they were all brother's from other mothers.

After Dieter had returned to his office, his son dropped the pretence of jolly and shallow. Concerned over the lack of food eaten and the bland politeness from the ex-spy, he decided on being tough but empathic, "You look like you need a long holiday, Sasha-baby."

The tall blond American had already slipped into pitch perfect Berlin-raised fluent German during breakfast, "What can I say, its been a shit four months. Mom had the right idea sending me here. I need a fresh perspective. I've painted myself into a corner. I was so sure Paul was a good bet for happiness."

The dark haired, pale boy's expression darkened at the mention of the evil ex. "He had us all fooled with his love struck, caring persona. Shame you're like me, can't connect to our peers as they have no fucking idea how shit life really is. Paul is in denial on many levels. You are the most real person of all of us. He just chooses to try and fake his way with his new buddies at college. I can't talk though as I prefer sexual relationships based on gratification not emotional connection. Both of us know trust is a hard earned commodity."

"You are an old soul, Sprintz". Alex was actually glad of the bluntness. He could not connect with most his own age, which ruled out reaching out for comfort or the gratification of casual relationships. "Its been five and a half months since I had sex. Chances are I'm going the long haul alone, but its OK. I'm cool with that. Better alone than any bastard getting close enough to hurt me". He appreciated the fact Jamie was upset about Paul's choices, but not like Joe, he was still cool at keeping all avenues open. When you had a handful of friends you should not alienate any of them because of their relationship going sour. "I'm so very over Paul. In a month or two, I plan to initiate detente. Friends again, nothing more. That boat has well and truly sailed."

There were more pressing problems for the two friends, Alex decided to steer the conversation to their future not the past. "So, Jamie? What are we doing to do to stretch our wings and be more than underachieving, over privileged, bad boys?"