There had been a subtle change in the Sprintz household, even Dieter noticed his housekeeper was uncharacteristically cheerful. Perplexed as there would be more work with two boys to feed and nurture, he asked what had occurred as Frau. Schenken was normally not shy in her grumbles.

The spry older woman practically beamed with joy when singing their guest's praises, "Sasha is a joy. He cleans his room and the shared bathroom and now James is following his example. This morning the boys baked those lemon and poppy seed muffins we all had for breakfast. I have to say it was mostly Sasha's doing, but James said he had to learn to be self sufficient to stand on his own two feet sometime and if he had been altruistic he would have taken food tech like his friend. They even offered to go into town and get the items I need for dinner. I trust Sasha, as his grandfather taught him to hunt, skin and butcher. He'll know a decent cut of meat and not be fobbed off with second best."

The housekeeper had always hated the habitual untidiness of her employer's only child, not that she had the heart to correct him. She understood Mr. Sprintz's lax attitude to discipline, considering the problems with the poor boy, traumatised after the abuse, imprisonment and attempted extortion at that school. As a reward for his maturity, the widow was planning on an afternoon excursion to her cousin's farm later that week. She was aware that James had failed on so many levels in his relentless pursuit of his father's high expectations, but he had always been more vocational than academic in nature. Being a butcher, baker, tradesman or farmer were equally acceptable professions as banking or finance. The boy's mother had her head in the clouds, writing those tawdry romance novels after retiring from modelling. Blythe was successful with a new title out every year, hated by the critics, but still getting into the bestseller lists. A fact that James found extremely embarrassing, as he had been teased mercilessly about the more racy erotic content at his boarding schools.

…..

The junk in James' closet was almost insurmountable. Four years of junk pushed out of sight and forgotten about. Alex pulled items out and then his friend made the hard decision to keep, sell or throw away. The listings for eBay would be impressive, including the stack of gifts from Blythe and her family that had never been worn or used. Then again buying for an almost monosyllabic teenager was nearly impossible for a mother and grandparents who only saw Jamie for a few days a year.

The last place to clear was under the bed, where James had shoved his battered school trunk, filled with books, very few notes and an impressive pile of painting and drawings. James sneered and without a pause said "Bin all of it", as all things school were to be repudiated and reviled.

Rather than comply straight away, Alex pulled out a few of the sketches. "These are good. That's an excellent likeness of Miss Stomachbag and here you drew me on a snow-ironing-board. I'm jealous, my attempts at art therapy were abstract in the extreme. Have you ever thought of Art School?"

"What's the point of that?" queried his friend who was putting clothes into a pile to photograph.

As a person with practically no artistic talent himself, with the exception of wearing clothes that did not clash horribly, Alex knew there was more to Art School than being a tortured self absorbed soul starving in a garret. "Its the best place for those of a more artistic lean or into performance. Think Hirst or Emin, their stuff is worth a packet and they ain't even dead yet. Most successful musicians went to art school as well: John Lennon, David Bowie, that bloke from Pulp. Probably the same for DJ's, not that I can name any off the top of my head. Movie Directors as well. Its a stepping stone. Even Art Therapy or teaching. Look at fashion, advertising, photographer or graphic designer. Hell, think art insurance assessor or auctioneer, you need to know your bling to value it. The choices are endless. Better than banking, spying or being stuck as a Xerox copy of your dad like Paul or Dimitry. Even if you just photograph cars, planes and motorbikes, its better than number crunching, ain't it. We can start by photographing all this stuff." Alex picked up the Moschino t-shirt and draped it over his Gap one. "I can model if you like. Most photographers take hundreds of photos and use one or two. Draw or paint this stuff, me, the fantastic vista outside. Look at your dad's collection of posters, art and vases. He bought them as investments but they are more than that. The blue ugly thing in the hall is Ming Dynasty, which cost more than my dad earns in a year."

Alex then pondered his own blinkered expectations; that maybe he should be considering alternatives to social work or activism. He still needed money to live and eat. He thought about Johannes and Tom's brother. Neither had nine to five boring jobs. He was fluent in several languages and could surf, dive, ski, snowboard, climb, had been a talented soccer player and was a black belt in karate. A long list, though he was not passionate about any of it , not anymore.

James had been surprised by his friends passionate interest in his own talents then his own internal self reflection, turn into darker self hatred. "Come on, my friend. We have a lot of stuff to sell. There's a shop in town specialising in designer cast offs. We can see if they're interested in this junk."

….

It was way too early, before dawn, as James crept out of his room in his best attempt at stealth. He closed his bedroom door and pondered the guest room, listened to Alex talking Russian in his sleep. He was OK to continue on. Downstairs, the room with the best view of the Italian Garden, was his dad's office. The door was slightly ajar. The teenager felt like he was intruding on his dad's me time as he could hear the early business news headlines on the BBC World Service. With a soft knock, James entered the room he normally only visited to be bollocked for bad behaviour or a poor school grades. "Dad, can we talk? I'm worried about Sasha."

As he listen to James' observations, ideas and loose game plan, he was suddenly so proud of the young man before him; putting friendship before his own wants and needs. /getting up early to talk to his father without fear of being disturbed. Concerned that his best friend, their hero, was concentrating on getting James on the right path, but using avoidance and diversions skilfully to hide his own uncertainties and insecurities.

The hardest job in his life had been parenting. His son was a fine young man exploring his future path with the same spirit and openness that he had found endearing in his ex-wife Blythe when they first met. The acrimony and bitterness of the divorce had affected James so badly. All the more for Blythe's poor choices at that time, putting her career before James, falling in love with her new manager; moving back to London. Then, she had concentrated more on fighting the prenuptial agreement than for joint or full custody of her only child. A document signed when it had been her fortune that was being safeguarded at the time of their engagement in 1985, when he had a net worth of a mere 5 million deutsche marks, not the billions at the time of their break up. The ex-model had ended their ten years of marriage with a more than generous £500,000 settlement, but had only then realised the family court in Dusseldorf did not consider her a fit mother, having being absent from her son's life & development decisions for over eighteen months.

She had kept every visitation and holiday since, but James had lost his faith and trust in her and in turn his links with his Scottish extended family. He had acted out as a teenager at being forced to go away, leading to the expulsion from school. It had been Blythe who contacted Dieter about that school. A joint parental decision, but a mistake James laid purely at his mother's door. At eighteen, James had no reason to still be in contact with his mother and had no plans to keep up the pretence of a relationship. He was not without fault, but had tried to be a balanced parent, giving good examples to follow, but working too hard had caused problems with Blythe and then James. He only dfollowed the example of his own father.

"This is meant to be a holiday for both of you, first and foremost. You have both finished school, which you both considered more a chore than a milestone. I think you must get Alex relaxed and distract him from his demons. Only when such worries no longer pray on him will he realise what he enjoys and what drives him, he will be inspired. His health will always be a consideration, but not the driving factor in who he is." Dieter then pondered his own choices at eighteen. "Yes, you are both expected to start your career path. It is not the simplicity of necessity, but consider I too was not the son my father expected or wished for. I am not a sportsman. I cannot abide football, his great passion, he played regionally into his early forties. I was studious, I liked numbers and patterns, logic and law. Things he had no time for. Its still my great joy playing the game of winning market projections. Its a form of gambling. My father died while I was still working for Deutsche Bank, not yet a fund manager. He respected my choices, but that were not what he would have done. You are your own man. No me, not your mother or your grandparents. You do have more choices, as I will back you as long as you are passionate, driven and most of all, happy."

….

Sir Cecil Marsden went through the package sent by Dieter Sprintz meticulously. He knew his predecessor had learned of the use of a teenager by Special Operations only after the fact. Now, Blunt's less than legal methods had been proven beyond doubt and in a way that cast the man in the worst light without putting his department under scrutiny. Misappropriation of funds was the polite way of saying outright fraud. He now had to chase down precisely how the £8million worth of assets belonging to nephew of Ian Rider had been dispersed in some creative money laundering. It was early afternoon before the phone call from the palace summoned him for an immediate audience. He might be inwardly cursing Dieter Sprintz for his excellent detective work, but sorting this out behind closed doors would be better in the long run. Bad enough they abused a fourteen year old and sent him abroad for the CIA's FUBAR, but to have defrauded the young man as well, the press would quite rightly be wanting full disclosure of all operational spending. He was already planning of one man taking the fall, As it was Blunt who had been named as both executor and guardian to the young man in question. The change of guardianship of young Mr. Rider in 2001 was highly suspicious, bringing into doubt the legality of Sarov's adoption; not that there was any chance of the Russian's disputing their own court's legalities. Blunt had used the change in nationality as a proof of treachery and therefore his grounds for his actions. A fact that would have no bearing in court as a child's inheritance was not to be squandered over such esoteric points of morality when the minor in question was being blackmailed and abused by all parties

After a week in Switzerland, he had been swimming, hiking and shopping with James after their clear out marathon. They were going to a music festival next week, accompanied by the least dour of the security staff. All paid for by the sale of unwanted gifts and clothes. Dieter had organised a fortnight in his villa in Spain in three weeks. Joe had been in contact briefly every day, mostly to say call hm if he needed to chat. Mom and Dad were in Maui, getting it on. He was slowly relaxing, as James explored his love of art and drew his surroundings and with his friend as muse at every opportunity. Even Dieter appreciated his son's raw talent. Alex had commandeered his friend's camera. He could take photos. He wondered how much a Nikon like James' would set him back.

The two sarcastic, loners were each others foil. Close and easy companionship, more real than his fiction of love with Paul. Maybe in Spain the two eighteen year old would go clubbing and try dating of the holiday romance variety, no strings and no expectations to muddy the water.