Alex was still lying in bed at 11:30 the next morning. Tuesdays were now free as his three four week long courses were completed and only his two ten week courses now continued on Mondays and Thursdays, both finishing at Christmas. The twenty four year old handyman-barman-roofer looked at the ceiling and wondered at the can of worms he'd opened up by emailing Joe. There was a good chance James Sprintz would turn up at some point. The blond then stretched and lost himself in the memories of the German-English fourteen year old with sharp, caustic wit.
Simon returned to his bedroom and was tempted to forget about lunch and return to the warmth under the duvet and the loving arms of his beautiful companion. "Come on! Get up and get dressed, lazybones. I ordered a picnic from Luigi's. I thought we could have a few hours at the studio, before my meeting in Camden."
Alex could almost laugh, only Simon would order a picnic from an upmarket delicatessen, rather than make up salads and sandwiches himself from the odds and ends in the fridge and larder downstairs. The great artist had wanted to photograph his lover for months and his would-be model had finally acquiesced. The images to be taken using proper film and this evening the pair of them would use the small darkroom next to the kitchen to develop the negatives and print off the test strips. Finally leaving the comfort of the bed, Alex stood, naked as a new born baby and flexed his muscles, smirking at the fact his lover was appreciating the display. This afternoon Alex would allow Simon Carrington to photograph him. The older artist had still to convince Alex that he was beautiful despite of, or as the photographer insisted that all of his lover was wonderful, his awful scars.
…..
Any person who survived an assassination attempt should do all in their power to avoid repetition or the complacency of routine. Edward Pleasure still needed a cane to walk ten years after he nearly lost his life on the orders of Damian Cray. Even so, every trip back to London saw him meet up with the few journalists, copywriters and authors he had worked with or studied with. Wednesday nights at the Princess Louise had been his regular haunt back in the days when he wrote for the Guardian, the Observer, the Standard and the Spectator. Evenings spent discussing politics, family, the job and sport over pints of cask bitter. He was back in London for two weeks. Tonight, Liz was off seeing some art installation with Sabina and he got to drink four or five pints of beer and later meet his family for a curry. A decent pint and a proper jalfrezi were the two things he missed most in the States.
Already sat down in his usual spot was Jon Davison, sports editor now at the Standard. Edward had shared digs with him at Oxford. The first round slipped down like nectar. Jon slipped off to the mens and Edward rubbed his knee and began his usual set of exercises before putting weight on his gammy leg. As if my magic two pints were placed on the table, the journalist looked up to see who was joining them.
The tall blond haired man stood sipping a glass of coke before shaking his head and sneering "Drink up, dad. Thought I buy you a pint and tell you routine gets you killed. Every time you come back to London mid week, here you are. Did barely surviving Yassen's nice bomb not teach you anything?"
Edward sat and stared before blurting out in confusion, "Alex?"
"Yeah, well. Sorry for being a demon child, but you should never have played nice with Ms. Jones. I hate that bitch, big time." The young man then fidgeted, in the prolonged staring match between himself and the only man who had acted as dad to him. Alex had discounted the remote possibility of Alexei Sarov being a father figure long before the man shot himself.
"You called me dad. Am I? Are you finally able to accept us as family?" Edward broke into a smile as Alex gave the briefest of nods. "Sit down then. We have nearly six years to catch up on.
…..
The paparazzi at Heathrow took pictures at Arrivals of the A, B to Z list celebrities. Todd Brotherton had photographed the great and the good as well as the mediocre and the infamous. This morning, Cassian James and Paul Roscoe arrived on the same flight from JFK. The billionaire MD of the electronics and media empire was holding hands with his supermodel fiancee and deep in conversation with the world renown DJ, arranger and producer ignoring the fact pictures would be posted online and in the gutter press.
At extremely short notice, prompted by the email from Joe Canterbury, an alumni get together had been organised. All seven to meet at the Dog and Duck at 8pm on Friday night.
….
Tulip Jones pursed her lips and was tempted to crunch down hard on the clear mint in her mouth. She poured herself a glass of water to sip and then she read the field report from Ben Daniels. The office on the fourteenth floor at Liverpool Street was in the centre of the building, the blinds drawn on the bullet proof, plexiglass. Her desk faced the office door. The report had been filed and the conclusions agreed before she had returned from her holiday.
The boy who had been trained for espionage work from the cradle by Ian Rider and with full knowledge of Alan Blunt. As a man with ingrained instincts, she knew Alex would never revealed everything to anybody without good reason. She knew Alex had stopped being a child long before his short defection to Scorpia and that moment he failed to shoot her on the orders of Julia Rothman. That young man was still playing the great game, only on his terms. The fact he was living with a man just proved how fluid his personality was, that he could mould himself to any situation and not just survive but make all who met him believe that this was the real Alex Rider. The ex-operative at fourteen had decided MI6 were the enemy. Alex had outplayed her and she knew it; he had surfaced before his twenty-fifth birthday and more importantly before he could be declared legally dead. As a man in a stable, if unorthodox relationship, at college and in legal employment, he could not be classed as a danger to himself or society and that fact would ensure every penny held in trust would be released to him. The house in Chelsea was now worth nearly seven million pounds alone and the investment funds had also grown ensuring a substantial income over the years.
She had ordered a detailed background check by one of the interns and Alex was paying tax, an accountant sorted through years of low earnings in menial jobs. The young man had also recently taken his Part Two bike test, passing with no trouble. Not a single indication of any illegal activity or any contact with other agencies or terrorists. The woman knew the boy had avoided all medical help, until the intervention of this boyfriend. She neither had the resources nor the man power to watch over Alex, but she ordered the low level surveillance on his emails, mobile and any official contacts to continue.
She noted the arrival of two Point Blanc survivors in the capital today. Was it a coincidence that Liz and Edward Pleasure were also in London? Tulip Jones did not believe in coincidences, accidental occurrences or deja vu. She was worried as Dieter Sprintz was no friend of MI6 and Paul Roscoe had enough money to fund an army or every assassin on the planet.