Rather than talk, Alex closed his eyes and remembered when Alex Rider had hit rock bottom. Here on Harley Street he could the smell the dank, heavy air of the jungle. When his life had imitated a very similar journey undertaken by Hunter and Cossack in 1986, who had also been off to assassinate some jumped up war lord. History was repeating itself, as Alex was carrying a Soviet made sniper rifle, as well as most of the supplies for the three day trek through dense undergrowth. Their purpose of their forced march was to arrive at the guerrilla base undetected. Misha was affable and cheerful in spite of everything being wet, both of them being eaten alive by bugs and the constant horror of animals, insects and frigging plants that could kill you. In the young ex-spy's opinion, this misery was not worth even a million dollar pay check and Misha was getting paid nowhere near that. Alex suspected this job was personal as the Russian liked a nice cold dish of revenge. Moving from general to specific, Alex set the scene, "I used to think there were heroes and villains, good and bad, black and white. I lost the last of any notion of that in Columbia Province." Alex shrugged, looking briefly at his shrink and then avoiding eye contact with Dr. Pritchard.
The doctor kept silent waiting on his patient to put his thoughts into words.
"I should have told Edward to fuck off and told him just write his story and leave me alone. Only I started talking about Misha. Everyone assumes I hit rock bottom in Miami. No, I skidded to the deepest depths of my own personal hell ten weeks earlier. I was already self medicating, drinking, but drugs…. I only did drugs when Misha did. Special occasions, parties, whatever. He was very careful not to get addicted. I was already completely disassociated from my actions. Who cares if Misha was going to kill some lowlife. People died… I did not care. I got hurt, I did not care. I played Russian roulette as a party trick. One in six chance of certain death, I did not fucking care.
"We were doing our recon. At the time, there was a big government offensive against FARC. We were in the right place but definitely the wrong time. We got to our destination but we weren't the only ones after our guy. Place was surrounded by government troops and a couple of Americans speaking english. DEA, I guess or CIA." lex shrugged at that observation. "Only it wasn't just some marxist guerrillas at that base. They had children there, hostages. It was a stand off. Only no one was negotiating for those local kids, all under ten, still wearing their school uniforms. Misha had set up in a good location, waiting for his chance to get a shot in, just in case his target made a break for it. One more bullet in a firefight was not going to be noticed. I crept forward to the tree line, just behind a pair of green conscripts. I could see everything without a scope or night vision goggles. The troops moved back about another half a click down the only road in or out. I thought they were going to call in negotiators. The fucking bastards, the supposed side of law and order, called in an airstrike. I could taste the fuel from the aircraft as it flew low. I flattened myself against the ground. I must have been temporarily deafened by the explosion. I could smell burning …. burning flesh. Those kids were burned alive…. just like Jack…. a whole school of full of kids, murdered because of some asshole's political agenda.
"It must have been hours later, long after dawn when Misha did his circuit and found me. I was sat in the same spot. We were alone by then. The camp itself was completely gone and was still too hot to get close, even the surrounding canopy was smouldering. Nothing could have survived that inferno. We then walked back the way we came. The official story in the press and on TV back in Bogota was that FARC had killed all the hostages.
"I got back to our safehouse. The trek back have been days spent without speaking. Just doing as Misha ordered. After we washed, I asked MIsha if we could have a party. You know, when he invited a few friends over, lots of vodka, lines of coke, maybe some speed, and then all would take turns fucking me. Normally, I just did as I was told, but this time I wanted to be used. We were in that apartment for five days before we moved on to Caracas. I was drunk and high for the entire time.
"Misha tried to help. He locked me in a fucking basement when we got to Venezuela. I got to enjoy full cold turkey… no nice controlled withdrawal. He watched me the entire time, because three days in I tried to hang myself. Then I spent two days tied to a bed. After that I was little more than a zombie. Lights were on but nobody was home." Alex was sat staring at the floor. Worn out, cold and shivering, like he needed a fix. "He did one thing right, he tried and I mean really tried to help me and not with threats of boarding school or psychiatric hospital. There I was a skeletal wreck, because when you start doing charlie seriously, you stop eating. Misha asked me to tell him a secret. We both exercised a lot. Mix of martial Arts, Yoga, Pilates and Tai Chi; but Misha still did his set class, I joined him most days. I told him that for about three days after I was offered a place at the Royal Ballet School, I imagined growing up to be Nureyev, Baryshnikov or Stravenkov. When that all came to nothing, I told everyone I wanted to be a footballer, cause thats what normal teenage boys want to be. So, Misha arranged for both of us to go to a proper class every day we were in Caracas from then. He set the scene for me to find myself. My Russian mafia pimp boyfriend actually saved me.
"Then we went north to Florida, Misha had decided we should part company. Cortez wanted to buy me, funny how that all ended up being a DEA sting. Can I have a drink now?"
"I'll get you a glass of water" The doctor moved to the small fridge.
"Water's great, sparkling if you have it." The biggest lie in Sasha Makarov's life was him saying he wanted a mineral water, when the truth would always be 'Vodka, if you don't have that, tequila. A couple of bottles sounds about right.'
….
The apartment was tasteful and warm. Someone had already unpacked his bags. His dance books were arranged on the coffee table in the living room and his novels were on the bedside table in the main bedroom. His iPod already by the state of the art dock. He looked in all the cupboards, the toilet cistern and in every nook and cranny. The house was clean of any form of alcohol or chemical enhancement. Dieter was being a very thoughtful host. Alex sat on the sofa and put on the TV. It was just light and noise. He lay on the sofa and waited for the nightmares to rip across his mindscape. After all he discussed, a bed was the last place he wanted to crash.
He woke at 2am to his phone vibrating in his pocket. The name flashing up was Luci, only it was Piotr. "Hi, Sasha, Can you help me with my science assignment? The babysitter is bathing Nina and Gregori is watching TV. Its almost bedtime and I need at least a B, or Mom will ground me."
"So, you stole Luci's phone for a very long distance call? I am so proud of you, you're a real bad boy in the making. So.. tell me what's got you stumped?" Alex hoped it wasn't human reproduction, that was one topic that Petrushka's parents had to cover themselves, it was not the remit of a sort-of-but-not-quite big brother.
…
Sunday morning and Alex had found the small gym, this apartment had everything a billionaire could want and had enough a space to go through a mix of tai chi, yoga, pilates and finally katas. Most dancers rested on Sunday, but Alex used it to keep up his other life skills. He would occasionally practice knife throwing and target practice. His knives had been packed in their own case as well as a pair of Berrettas, which had been couriered over and had been placed in the same draw as his socks. The couriers and unpackers had been a company recommended by Paul. Probably a front for smuggling everything from hot art, diamonds, drugs and people.
At 9:30, Alex rang his old friend. "Fancy brunch, old man?"
"Less of the old. Yeah, I'll go out for some top nosh. There's a decent place just over the road from you."
"No I'll walk over to Soho, you can choose between that place on Dean Street or somewhere in Covent Garden."
"See you in twenty minutes, then trouble."
Paul McAllister was a man that did not need to book a table in the West End. All the restaurants were well aware that it would be bad for business getting on his wrong side.
The menu was perused by both men. Alex had eaten a light breakfast at 5:30 and was now quite hungry. He ordered porridge no cream, fruit salad, no pineapple or passion fruit, and avocado and poached egg on rye bread toast. He then frowned at the coffee on offer and requested "Cafeteire, Columbia medium roast, Cocora beans if you have them."
The waitress stopped writing for a moment. "I'm sorry, we have err the house blend. Its really nice." Damning it with faint praise.
Alex reached into his pocket and handed over a quarter pound of genuine Columbian beans. "You'll need to grind it. I get my supply from a friend in Miami. Best coffee in the world. I learned in Russia, take your own coffee with you, if you don't want to drink swill. I've been in Starbucks in New York and made then use my beans." He then smiled at the Scottish waitress, who had introduced herself as Kirsty. "Keep what's left over , because you guys should try this. Its amazing."
Paul sat back. "I forget you're American until you start ordering food and drink. Yanks are all so particular. My usual." Which was a full english, large with fried eggs, white toast and a pot of marmalade on the side. "No nancy bloody rye for me and a pot of his coffee. Thats all, darling."
The older man was dressed in an awful track suit matched with a designer t-shirt and wearing enough gold to be mistaken for a rapper. "So Ramon still sends you care packages?" Paul was well aware that Cortez like keeping any threats sweet. Alex was certainly an asset to keep in your arsenal.
"The guy's such a sweetie. This stuff has probably had cocaine washed off it at some point, but hell most of the supermarket stuff has as well."
It was at that point a familiar face said hello. "Morning Sasha."
"Morning Graeme, may I introduce Paul McAlaster, my pimp." Alex added with a large Cheshire cat-like smile.
"God, you're a comedian, Al. Your pimp at the moment is that bitch in New York, the terrifying Madam Ludmilla." Paul stood up and offered his hand in greeting to the Director of the Royal Ballet. "It a genuine pleasure. Please join us, more the merrier."
"Thank you, you're very kind. My partner will be joining us, he's just powdering his nose." So, this was the infamous gangster, who had sponsored the Manfred Schnagel dance troupe and was a close friend of Sasha Makarov. Rumour was the pimp comment was actually very true.