It was a typical Tuesday morning. Alex had stayed over in Wandsworth and was up early to prepare breakfast before cycling over to do some jobs for Mr. Shah. On the mat by the door was today's paper, Si got the Telegraph delivered every day. Alex did not normally bother to read the press, but the lowest headline on the front page caught his eye.

Machiavellian Spymaster Blunt dies, will identity of teen spy now be revealed?

Alex was conflicted. Not at all sad to see that bastard in his grave, pity it was natural causes; but the idea of his past becoming open season dismayed him. He knew he had no allies at the Bank to back him up and if the press caught up with him, he would be on his own.

Maybe it was time to forgive Edward, a man he had accused of betrayal by talking to Tulip, when he knew the man was on no position to refuse her, as the bank had remained his legal guardians as the Pleasures had only been fostering him.

He went through the motions of his routine and made scrambled eggs, toast and grilled tomatoes for two, knowing Si would be down in a minute. He had read the terse and brief obituary, as if the columnist could find very little of positive note to describe the life of Alan Herbert Blunt. The front page spin reflected the slim details in Edward's biography of the man and his fall from grace for using a fourteen year old as an agent.

He wondered about that man's funeral and the fact would it was oh so tempting to go and trash that man's sending off. He could bet Blunt had lived in some detached house in the Home Counties, attending church every Sunday and having a devoted wife. The perfect image of a city banker or civil servant for a man trading death, pain and blackmail.

Si sat down with his morning coffee and read the back pages about the cricket first. After eating the hot breakfast, the photographer turned the paper over and scanned the headline news. "Are you ok?" He asked giving his full attention to his companion.

"Feel like dancing, actually. Says it was an aneurism. Pity, that sounds like it was probably quick and painless, I'd have preferred for Dr. Three to torture him for maybe two or three months, so death as a result of constant agony. If you believe in Hell, he's going to be joining Ian down there." Alex finished his last slice of toast, before loading the dishwasher and wiping down the surfaces. "I might be late tonight, going to drop by the library for a bit of research"

"If you are wanting to know the time and place of Mr. Blunt's funeral, I can pay a visit to the Army and Navy Club and enquire. Quite a few of the chaps had dealings with the SAS and probably your uncle's bank as well. I would think it will be family and friends only."

"Is it that obvious I want to gatecrash? Technically Blunt was my guardian after Ian died, funny I only met him to do his bidding." Jack was in the impossible position of de facto guardian but with also completely under Blunt's thumb. That bastard had not cared that Alex had started to go off the rails after Point Blanc, nor the huge amounts if school he missed.

Si could understand the need for closure. "If he had done half of that shit to me, I'd be pissing in his grave not dancing on it."

The former Captain, true to his word, had popped into his club in central London and over a few G & T's with other retired and serving officers relaxing at the bar, found out the date, time and location of service and burial for the former Director of MI6 Special Operations. A memorial was being arranged for all mourners, as the funeral was a strictly private affair.

On Thursday, the young barman was back in complete spy mode. Alex was going to borrow a motorbike to attend Blunt's funeral. The vehicle in question was stored in a poorly secured shed on the next street over from the pub. The owner was currently on holiday. Si was busy until Sunday with a series of advertising shoots. Even so, he had offered to accompany Alex, but it wasn't as if he was an official mourner, or even wanted to be noticed at all. Alex already had leathers, boots and a helmet; bought to ride pillion with Si. When he got his act together he planned on taking his Part Two Motorbike Test and maybe getting his own bike. The borrowed ride was an untaxed, fifteen year old Honda with a 750cc engine, luckily in good mechanical order and very fast. With a bit of black tape, the number plate was disguised and Alex headed for rural West Sussex, his route on B roads avoiding traffic cameras and congestion.

...

Alan Blunt's funeral service had been brief, concise and no-nonsense, like the man himself. The funeral party went from the small Norman church into the extended Churchyard to stand beside the freshly dug grave. The twenty mourners were all over forty, including work colleagues and other agency directors from Interpol, the EU, America and Russia. Alex observed from the shadows in the wooded copse off Birdham Lane. One man near the back, he recognised, Joe Byrne of the CIA. The two people he expected to definitely be there were absent, Tulip Jones and John Crawley were not invited to the funeral of their former boss.

After the coffin was lowered, Alex made his way to the rear of the barn where he had stowed the motorbike. He had walked the long way around the village, giving all the others time to disperse to the wake.

It was very warm as he went to put his leather jacket back on; when he was started by the familiar American accent of the Deputy Director of CIA Special operations "Nice Bike, Alex. Are you still living on the streets?"

"The bike is not mine and is technically stolen. It'll be back in its garage tonight and the owner none the wiser that its been borrowed. That fat bastard has a bad back anyway and this beauty is off the road otherwise and has been for a while." Alex turned around to face the spymaster, "I'm renting a room off two nurses at the moment. I have a job and a boyfriend. In fact, I'm moving in with Simon at the end of the month." He did not like Joe Byrne, but he did not hate him. He had treated the teenager as an adult with problems rather than as a problem teen, when they last met. Sure, the man was a bastard, but he had been bothered to visit Alex, when he was in the clinic in California, to motivate the desperately morose kid to move on from rock bottom.

The spy seemed very relaxed, loosening his tie in the mid summer heat. "Glad to hear, you're doing OK. Are you still in therapy?"

"Yeah, after six years of sticking my head in the sand, I'm seeing a guy in Clapham. He's helped a lot. I get that talking does actually help. Must cost Si a packet, but he says the shrink helped him colossally after his last serious relationship went sour. Before you ask, my lover has already asked me to be his one and only and we're planning on a civil partnership ceremony next summer."

"Congratulations, will I get an invite?"

"Sure, Joe. I'll send it via Langley, shall I?"

"I would get it. Although I'm retiring at the end of next month. You know the truth; that unless you cut all ties, you never really leave this business. I will be in a few days a month tying up unfinished business over the next few years. Good thing, I now have one less loose end on my books, now that I see that you are recovering, happy and settled, far from spooks-ville."

Alex reached into his back pocket, for a tall, lean and mean black guy emerged from the nook he was hiding in, gun in hand, poised to fire; and barked "Hands out front where I can see them."

Alex stood still for a moment in shock before moving both hands in front of him, palms out. "I haven't handled a gun since Cairo. I was just going to give Joe my card, I have a few in my wallet. It has my mobile on it. So, I work at the Dog and Duck on Wandsworth Common, Friday evenings and all day Saturday and Sunday. If you visit on Sunday after 7, you can meet Si."