The Hospital in Palma was decorated in calm tones with friendly, efficient and calm staff, but being trapped here still set Alex on edge, not a good place to be after having the worst asthma attack of his life. What was the point of adhering to his game plan, when his own body's failings could kill him? Going back over the events of this morning, considering the complete panic he'd working himself into after his breathing exercises had failed to work and he could not find his reliever inhaler and that if he had not knocked over the lamp no one would have known about his distress. Then the security guard had burst in like Rambo, causing Alex to panic even more and then faint. He shuddered remembering coming round in the Emergency Room, trying to throw himself on the floor and getting held down and tranquillised. The young, eager and efficient emergency room doctor, who had then insisted on the added torture of x-rays to explain his patient's very poor oxygen levels, despite the said patient insisting this was normal for him. Dr. Cortez could not believe an affluent American teenager could have lung damage from pulmonary tuberculosis.
He was now resting in a very anodyne private room with a panoramic view of the hospital car park, dressed in a blue gown, on oxygen and feeling like death warmed up after his early morning terrifying episode.
All tests done and dusted, results pending, all drama over and now he knew he should just give into the effects of the medication and sleep, but he was worrying about his parents and brother's reaction; who were likely to insist he came straight home just as he was starting to enjoy life back in Europe, where he had felt like he really belonged. He was sick of hiding his past, when he'd fallen into the habit of letting Joe give the background to his brother's heavily redacted life. He enjoyed conversing in German, French and Castilian and the bit of Catalan he remembered from his cosmopolitan childhood. He had even moved on from his annoying habit of weighing up the pros and cons of friendships.
The grim reality for the eighteen year old was that rather than sunning himself on the beach, he was here on his own alone until visiting hours this afternoon. At least Dieter had been here until just after nine, leaving once Alex was had been settled in his room.
With no phone, Alex could not contact Jamie or better still Lola. It was hours to visiting and the doctor had stated it would be at least an overnight stay and that he could only be discharged by the asthma specialist and psychologist. The eighteen year old briefly considered just leaving, but he had no clothes to change into. Then he realised that the security guy, Dieter, James and the two guys in the ambulance had seen him buck naked on the floor making a complete arse of himself. He rubbed his eyes and prayed his sleep was not interrupted by vivid images of his and his closest friends terrifying alternatives. In his twisted imagination, even Lola and Grandma Fran were transforming psycho doppelgängers plotting for world domination.
Rather than sleep, Alex started the game of memorising car types and colours in the car park.
….
Sabina Pleasure had seen her dad at his lowest and most emotional in those dark days during his long slow recovery after the bombing of their villa in Nice. She was aware that he tried to be very balanced about his job; to see both sides of the story, as nothing and no one was black and white. This afternoon, he returned home from Russia visibly shaken. Mum had picked him up as usual after an overseas trip. On getting home, their late lunch had been accompanied by a bottle of wine. She was perplexed at the cause of this change in routine as his visit had simply been following a last minute lead before the final edit of his book. She could not stand atmosphere with the polite and stilted conversation, as her parents avoided the issue that was obviously not suitable for their nearly twenty year old daughter.
She came downstairs at five, when her dad was sat in the living room staring at BBC News 24, but looking red eyed and grim. Liz was sat across from him with her barely touched glass of wine, but her dad had moved on to make a dent into his Irish malt whiskey. The tall blond pulled her long hair into a loose topknot and pondered if someone died? Moving on to the kitchen, looking in the fridge at the scant offerings, she calculated the only option for dinner was some sort of pasta. Calling into the living room to seek advice as she was hungry, "How does carbonara sound?"
Liz came into the kitchen, closing the door as she came through and spoke quietly "I'll order a takeaway. All Dad's favourites tonight, as he is in dire need of cheering up." The older woman decided to share what little her husband had spoken of, she was not under any need to protect sources, not when such information gathering had added years to her husband overnight. "He's had a real shock. His contact in Moscow was actually a state security sting. Your father got to see inside the Lubiyanka. They let him go, eventually. The whole charade was all just to give him a scare. From what Ed has told me, it's hours of interrogation on some spy codenamed Cub."
Sabina felt sorry that some poor guy got stuck with that awful pseudonym.
….
It had been the worst three days of his eventful life, as he arrived back at his one bedroomed flat in Battersea. Trevor 'Smiley' Smallbone had worked as personal security consultant for Edward Pleasure for nearly four years. He liked the bloke and his family. This gig provided enough to cover his living expenses, with his occasional other work as a bouncer to pseudo-celebs providing the profit. The threats to the journalist were real, making him work for his money not just stand around looking threatening This last trip to Russia had been a nightmare, as they had been suckered into a trap laid by the FSB. It all boiled down to those scary bastards letting the man know that Sasha Canterbury was under their protection and his disclosure of events had to be in a way not to harm their little hero.
The rumour mill from those graduating as Special Forces still spoke of the kid known as 'Cub' or 'Double O Nothing'. The whole thing viewed as a bit of a joke. For hours, he had no choice but to sit with the Edward and watch the video nasty, which proved that the mere two days of Resistance to Interrogation training were woefully inadequate.
The retired soldier memorised the dates and times shown on each short sequence. Seven separate interrogations, where from experience he could recognise that some were under the influence of truth serum, some under extreme duress of sleep deprivation and other well tried and tested methods to weaken resistance, and some under hypnosis. All interviews were in english. He surmised the kid with practically no knowledge of Russian when he captured by the FSB.
It all ended, with smiles and promises that they were all friends; as the TV was turned off. After the sharing had stopped, with a tight throat, Trevor had sipped of stone cold tea and then wondered why had the Russian's were sharing their proof of the inhuman treatment of a child by the SAS, the CIA and MI6? All sequences on the video dealt on the blackmail and abduction of a child who was forced to participate in training and then operations. Not a single waver from the kid. This was the truth. The only answer was this teenager was Cub, who had spoken of Blunt forcing him into Special Operations, training at Brecon in March 2001 and who crossed the path of the SAS in London during the Stormbreaker launch and a month later during the storming of that exculsive academy near Grenoble. Trevor felt ashamed as a kid under no circumstances should have been used for such dangerous missions.
He could not answer for the SAS, as dirty tricks from Blunt had been in play, but he could let his unit know that their unofficial unit member was OK and that all at MI6 Black Ops deserved shafting.
….
Edward finished his madras, mopping up the sauce on his plate with the garlic naan, pondering all now he was sober. Things did not quite add up. There was one piece of the puzzle he was missing. He really needed to speak to Sasha again. As they left the infamous headquarters of the secret police, Edward pondered the last short clip, the only sequence with no date/time encoding. It was not Alex, he was sure. That teenager had a superficial resemblance but had been far too flabby, the body language too arrogant and superior. It had to link back to Point Blanc, had the Russians gotten hold of the Grief clone. The journalist was under the impression five had apprehended in France and one in the US. Only there had been eight students. The unaccounted for clones were duplicates of Alex and Dimtry Ivanov.
….
The owner of the villa had been aware of regular pool maintenance, but had no idea the chemicals used could affect damaged lungs so dramatically. He had noted that his son used the pool daily, but Sasha preferred the sea, like himself. Only last night had he understood the reason his son's friend wore a medical alert bracelet. He had then learned the young man's first asthma attack had been after having an adverse reaction to indoor swimming at high school.
After corresponding with Joe Canterbury, he had been surprised by the return email from Mrs. Graylow, the grandmother who had taken charge while her daughter and son in law were enjoying their own holiday. She spoke of episodes in the past and how to handle a silent, difficult teenager who rarely communicated his ills. You had to pander to the fact Sasha expected no help, no comfort and was still surprised by empathy and TLC.
At three o'clock on the dot, Dieter Sprintz entered the room on the fourth floor of Son Llatzer Hospital, waking the patient as he entered. He noted the young man looked iller than he had this morning. "Good Afternoon, Sasha. Your Grandmother e-mailed me with a list of detailed instructions and your aversion to hospitals hindering your recovery not aiding it. I have brought a change of clothes and I have employed some agency nurses to provide the necessary home care; so you can be discharged straight away. We have moved your bedroom to the guest room on the garden side downstairs, so no chance of fumes from shocking the pool causing another asthma attack. You must adhere to the recommendations of the doctor, so bed rest and remaining on oxygen for the next two days."
With a bright smile, Alex relax with the good news he was getting sprung from this hell of quiet introspection, inedible food and no privacy. "You are the best, Dieter. I promise to be on my best behaviour as I do not want a return visit here."
The German drove back with a sleeping teenager beside him. His son still had nightmares, how much worse was it for Sasha considering the horrors he had survived? Maybe he should engage with this teenager more, find some common ground. He had enjoyed playing an engaging game of poker with him. Sasha had more of a head for feigning and counting cards than the security guys who he played with regularly. Maybe he should introduce his son's friend to the similarities of gambling to the game of international finance.
