10.27 am, Friday, 3rd June
Tangier, Morocco
It had taken Ian a few days to pinpoint exactly what he wanted to say to the assassin - and more than that, to figure out how much he was going to reveal. He had to be careful, of course; there was no guarantee that Gregorovich wouldn't simply hand his letter over to his employers, and if SCORPIA found out that John Rider's son was currently working for MI6…
It didn't bear thinking about.
After writing draft after draft on nondescript white paper, he finally finished the letter and, after calling in a few favours - as well as contacting both Ben Daniels and Lee Bauer to try and track down the man - he had sent the envelope to be delivered to the other side of the world where the assassin had last been sighted.
He knew that it would take a few days for it to arrive, if not a few weeks, and then he could only assume that Gregorovich would take his own time replying too.
If he even replied at all.
Ian was therefore pleasantly surprised to find yet another nondescript white envelope waiting on his doorstep one afternoon, giving nothing more than a time and a place. Their meeting date was far later than he'd have liked - it had been three and half months since Alex was kidnapped - but the fact that the man was even agreeing to meet at all could only be a good sign.
Even if he did want to meet in a desolate bar in Morocco.
Ian briefly wondered if the assassin had chosen this location because it got him out of England, in case it was a set-up, or because Morocco had no extradition treaty with quite a number of countries that Gregorovich was wanted in, or even just because he had a… job.
Either way, he booked the next plane out there.
He knew that Blunt was still keeping tabs on him - he occasionally caught sight of bland-faced agents in his peripheral vision whenever he left the house - but he highly doubted that MI6 could spare the resources to follow him this far. Possible international incident aside, he had told the man that he was going to go on holiday for a while, and chances were, Blunt thought that was exactly what he was doing.
So now, here he was, sitting in a hole-in-the-wall bar in the middle of Tangier, a half-empty glass of Mahia on the table, scrolling the news on his phone while he waited.
It was a habit he had gotten into long ago when he first became an agent - it was a necessary job requirement back then to be constantly aware of what was happening in the world - but these days, he was more focused on strange happenings or unexplained events that could be traced back to Alex. So far today, he was having no luck.
U.S. Missile Kills Top Militia Leader in Somalia.
Pakistan Leaders Agree to Reinstate Judges.
Zimbabwe Announces Presidential Election Results.
The "Sex and the City" gals return in a feature-length film.
Jamie Blitz announced this year's most likely Wimbledon champion-
Someone politely cleared their throat in front of him, and Ian jumped, head jerking up only to find-
Yassen Gregorovich gazed back at him impassively.
Ian hadn't seen him come in. Or heard him, for that matter. One moment, the chair across from him was empty, and the next, it simply… wasn't.
Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world…
Yassen Gregorovich raised a solitary eyebrow and Ian realised that he was staring.
Although to be fair, there actually was quite a lot to stare at. The assassin was surprisingly… pretty. Foxy blond hair, glacier blue eyes, perfect cupid-bow lips-
He coughed and quickly shoved his phone back into his pocket.
"... Hello".
The younger man merely inclined his head in greeting.
It was straight to business then.
"I, uh… I need your help".
Whatever the assassin had expected him to say, it clearly wasn't that. Gregorovich blinked, once, twice, three times in quick succession, and Ian felt a smug sense of satisfaction at causing a SCORPIA agent to actually emote.
"You need… my help?"
His voice was soft, surprisingly so, and there was no trace of an accent.
"Yes" he confirmed, before quickly adding, "And by you, I mean, well, uh, you. Not your… employers".
Now the man seemed even more startled, blinking four whole times, before tilting his head to the side like a rather confused puppy and Ian distantly wondered if Alex's absence was affecting his mental health more than he thought because cute and assassin should not go in the same sentence and-
"Explain" Yassen said, straightening up, "Now".
Cool, calm, and collected - so similar to intelligence agents yet at the same time completely different.
"I will" he replied, angrily shoving those thoughts away, "But first, I want your word that none of what I say will get back to SCORPIA".
"And why should I make such a promise?"
Which-
Fair enough.
"... Because this isn't about me. It's about John Rider's son".
That shut him up.
It was a bit of a gamble to take, Ian had to admit. They had always been on opposite sides of the playing field, and he didn't know how much Gregorovich knew about his brother's true loyalties. But what he did know was that the man had once respected John Rider, perhaps they had even been friends - and John had saved his life more than once, so the least the man could do was help him save his son.
After a moment or two of staring back at him contemplatively, the assassin slowly nodded.
"SCORPIA will know nothing of this meeting. You have my word".
"Thank you". He was smart enough to be polite to the serial killer. "His name is Alex. At the beginning of March, he went missing. Since then, it has become… apparent that MI6 are forcing him into working for them. Given your… line of work, it's possible that your paths may cross. If that happens, I need you to tell me".
He slid the photo of Alex across the table, and when he glanced down at it, the assassin… twitched.
If Ian hadn't been so well trained, he wouldn't have even noticed it.
"What?" he asked, quickly, "What is it?"
Yassen slowly reached out and picked up the photograph with slim pale fingers.
"… We've met".
"You've what?!"
"I presume you've heard of Herod Sayle?"
"Of course. The entire Stormbreaker fiasco. I know that Alex was involved in it too, somehow, but- Sayle went into hiding".
Yassen carefully slid the photograph back across the table and gave him a look.
"Sayle… didn't go into hiding".
Ian sighed and wondered just when the hell his life had turned into playing Cluedo with a contract killer.
"I take it that you killed him then?"
"Yes". There was no hesitation - no flinch or sign of guilt. "Although your nephew had apparently tried before me. He has a rather terrible aim - you should fix that".
Ian stared at him in disbelief, because if there was one thing on this planet that he knew, it was-
"Alex wasn't aiming to kill".
"... Oh". He straightened up in his seat. "Well then. In that case, if his intention was to hinder Sayle, I suppose his aim was… adequate".
What.
The older man took a deep breath and desperately tried to not feel a burst of pride at a trained hitman telling him he taught his eleven-year-old kid how to shoot someone adequately.
"We're getting off-topic" he said instead, "When did you meet Alex?"
"The day of the Stormbreaker convention. April first. Sayle had managed to escape the authorities and had dragged Alex to the roof, where I was meant to help him escape. However, my orders had since changed-"
"-so you shot him" Ian finished, barely containing his rage, "In front of my fourteen-year-old child?!"
"... Yes". As if sensing his rage, Yassen frowned, briefly, and gave him an almost curious look. "I did not intend to. The boy should not have been mixed up in this world. But Sayle was about to shoot him - if I had waited, then Alex would have been killed instead".
Oh.
Right.
Well.
"... I still don't like it" he admitted, somewhat awkwardly, "But… thank you… For saving him, I mean, not for murdering a man right in front of him. That, he most certainly could have done without".
"I understand. Had there been any other option-"
"I know" he interrupted, "Just… Thanks. Don't do it again".
He nodded, once, and Ian wondered if this cool, calm, collected persona was something that all Malagasto graduates were taught or if Gregorovich was simply better. His track record spoke for itself, after all, and if he ignored the fact that actual, real, human beings were the assassin's targets, then the level of accuracy he had with each shot was actually kind of… impressive.
"Did Alex say anything to you?"
"We spoke. Briefly" Yassen replied, "He asked why I killed Sayle and if I was going to kill him too. I… suspected who he was, but I did not know for certain and since I never got his name-"
"And you couldn't have asked?!"
"There are almost eight billion people in this world, Rider. A few of them are bound to be blond teenagers". He shrugged, elegantly. "I had no orders concerning him. From my point of view, he was just an unlucky child who was in the wrong place at the wrong time".
"An unlucky child who has been blackmailed into working for MI6!"
"Yes" Yassen agreed, "Although I did not realise that blackmail had been involved until… after".
"After?"
"... I told him to go home, to go back to school. To say no, the next time Alan Blunt asked for him" he explained haltingly, "But the boy said… he said they hadn't given him a choice. That was when I suspected blackmail - but before I could ask any further questions, MI6 arrived".
"And you just left him there?!"
A brief, amused smile flitted across the assassin's face.
"I would hope that you raised him better than to go to a secondary location with a known contract killer, Ian".
And- oh.
The man might not have had any noticeable accent, but that soft voice saying his name like that was-
He quickly blocked that line of thought.
"And besides, if the situation is as bad as you say it is-"
"Why would I lie about this?!"
"-then why didn't the boy ask for my help?"
Ian stared at him.
"Uh, maybe because you were a stranger with a gun who had just committed first-degree murder in front of him?!"
"And that made me a worse option than MI6?"
"Yes! I mean, no! I mean- God! Look, I don't know, alright! Didn't you ever learn about stranger danger when you were a kid?!"
Yassen levelled him with a look.
"Almost seventy-five per cent of all violent crime is perpetrated by someone the victim knows-"
"What, did you read that on the back of a cereal box?"
"-so I would've thought seeking help from a stranger would be the safer option given the people that Alex currently knows".
Ian grimaced and took a moment to level his breathing and calm down. The dangers of getting angry with a contract killer aside, him taking his frustration and worry and fear out on Yassen bloody Gregorovich right now would help no one, and least of all Alex.
"We think MI6 is blackmailing him with me. Or, more accurately, Alan Blunt is blackmailing him with me. Holding my life on the line to make Alex do as he says".
"We?"
"They sent him to the SAS for a while after he went missing" he explained, "He trained with a unit at Beacons for a few weeks. They were told not to ask any questions, so they didn't… Until I showed up. Long story short, no one in the military is very happy with Alan Blunt right now, so I've got the sergeant and Alex's old unit on my side. One of them was seconded to MI6, and I've got a few friends from the old days there too, so we have a… inside man, if you will".
"And yet Alex did not ask any of them for help".
There was no judgement in the assassin's voice, nothing that suggested he thought any less of the boy, and Ian got the impression that he was smart enough to have realised that there was more going on behind the scenes than what they knew about.
"One of the SAS soldiers, Wolf, thinks that they put a tracker on him. Probably some sort of listening device, too, since Alex didn't ask any of them for help, but we still don't know how or where or what or- or why he hasn't simply tossed it by now!" Ian explained, "A few weeks back, Wolf managed to get a moment alone with him in a hospital room, long enough to pass on a coded message, and since Alex didn't outright say anything to him even then, MI6 is clearly listening in somehow".
Yassen had suddenly gone very… still.
"A hospital room?"
His voice was perfectly even, but Ian could've sworn there was something tense in his frame.
"Apparently, he snowboarded down the French Alps on a makeshift ironing board before crashing headfirst into a train" he replied wryly, "And survived".
"... It would seem that the Rider luck is hereditary, then".
He laughed despite himself, and the assassin looked strangely surprised at the sound. Ian guessed that the man didn't hear much laughter in the business of murder.
"Yeah, well, if that's the kind of thing that Blunt keeps sending him head first into, I'm sure you can understand why I want to get Alex the hell away from him".
"Hence the letter".
He shrugged.
"Hence the letter".
Yassen's gaze briefly left his to stare at the orange-painted walls over his shoulder instead, and Ian momentarily mourned the loss of those arctic blue eyes pinning him in place, before angrily shaking himself out of it. There were numerous reasons why that train of thought would only lead to nothing good, and he cursed himself for ever getting distracted by those blue, blue eyes-
"I'll do as you ask".
He blinked and quickly tuned back in, feeling his heart rate suddenly jump as that piercing gaze landed on him once more.
"If I see him again, I'll contact you" Yassen continued, "I'm unable to actively ask around without my employers finding out, and I believe we can both agree that the world will be a far safer place if Julia Rothman never learns of your nephew's existence".
Ian made a face and quickly nodded. Given the unhealthy obsession that woman had with John, he didn't even want to imagine the horrors that would await John's near-identical-looking son.
"Thank you" he replied, somewhat belatedly, "Really".
Yassen inclined his head in acknowledgement, stood, paused, tapped the table twice and then slowly sat back down.
"Have you told him about them?"
"About SCORPIA?" Ian shook his head with a snort. "Before or after football practice and homework?"
The corner of the assassin's mouth twitched. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and Ian immediately tensed but he held up his other hand in a silent gesture of peace and pulled out a business card before sliding it across the table.
Ian cautiously picked it up. Thick cream, expensive card, and embossed silver ink. A number - no name, no address.
"Should you locate the boy before I do, I would not be... averse to being informed about his well-being".
Which was really just big bad scary assassin talk for I'm worried too, so let me know, 'kay?
Ian nodded in agreement and glanced back down at the card.
When he next looked up, Yassen was gone.
3.01 pm, Monday, 27th June
Millennium Building, London
Alex was really, really, really starting to hate tennis.
It had been over a month since Crawley had first told him about the Wimbleton break-in, and since then, he'd been put through the wringer almost every single day, both by nameless MI6 agents every morning and evening, and by the ballboy and ballgirl trainers during the day.
He'd successfully completed the required fifty training sessions in an accelerated course. He didn't know what Blunt or Crawley had told the Wimbledon officials about why he was starting so late, but he'd been assigned a very unimpressed middle-aged man whose job was to help him catch up to the other employees - the training sessions were meant to be spread out across five months after all, but given how late he'd started, he'd had to complete that five-month training in just five weeks.
And he was really, really, really starting to fucking hate tennis.
But now here he was, dressed in the dark green and mauve colours of the All England Tennis Club. He'd forgotten just how incredible the sun felt against his skin, the fresh air in his lungs, the gentle breeze that ruffled his hair, the sight of the sky and just- everything outside of that bleak concrete cell that Blunt kept forcing him to return to.
If he closed his eyes and ignored the persistent itch of the tracker just beneath his skin, then he could almost pretend that he was here willingly, that he'd never met MI6, that he'd applied to be a ballboy of his own violation, that he was just the same and just as normal as every other teenager here.
Almost.
Alex silently sighed as he crept after the guard through the tunnels hidden beneath the Millennium Building. The man had been acting suspicious since he'd first seen him, and after reporting as much to Crawley, he'd been told to follow him at the next possible opportunity. It didn't matter that Alex had already figured out what was happening, had already figured out that the break-in hadn't been random, that the burglar had left something behind, and that - whoever these guys were - they had poisoned the water supply to drug certain tennis players.
He'd told Crawley this, even told Alan bloody Blunt, but they didn't care. "We need more evidence" they said, "We need to know beyond a reasonable doubt". Alex had felt like telling them to check the bloody water filters themselves if they wanted "concrete proof" so badly, but he was quickly starting to learn that some arguments in MI6 just couldn't be won.
Even if Crawley did say that at the first hint of trouble, he'd take care of it.
What's one more liar in an organisation built on them?
So now, here he was, alone with the guard who had just ducked into a wooden door marked RESTRICTED.
Alex paused for a moment, then followed. He found himself in a cement corridor with yellow industrial markings and ventilation pipes overhead. A couple of teenagers in green aprons and jeans walked past him, pushing two plastic bins. A waitress went the other way, carrying a tray of dirty plates. There was no sign of the guard and for a moment Alex thought he'd lost him.
But then he saw a figure disappearing behind a series of translucent plastic strips that hung from the ceiling to the floor. He could just make out the man's uniform on the other side of the barrier. He hurried forward and went through. Alex realised two things at the same moment.
He no longer had any idea where he was.
And he was there on his own.
He was in an underground chamber, banana-shaped, curving round, with concrete pillars supporting the roof. It looked like an underground car park and there were indeed three or four cars parked in bays next to him. But most of the space was taken up by trash - empty cardboard boxes, wooden pallets, a rusting cement mixer, bits of old fencing and broken down coffee vending machines, thrown out and left to rot on the damp cement floor. There were beer barrels, hundreds of bottles of fizzy drinks, gas cylinders and, clustered together, eight or nine massive white refrigerators, each one carrying the label RAWLINGS REFRIGERATION.
But where was the guard? Why had he come here and who was he going to meet? Alex crept forward carefully, once again feeling very alone. He was on a raised platform with the single word DANGER repeated in yellow letters along its edge. He didn't need to be told.
And then suddenly, he saw a dark shape rushing out of the shadows.
He was in the middle of the concrete floor, out in the open. The guard was behind the wheel of a forklift truck, the metal prongs jutting out towards him like the horns of an enormous bull. Powered by its forty-eight-volt electric engine, the truck was speeding towards him on pneumatic tyres.
Alex glanced up and saw the heavy wooden pallets, a dozen of them, balanced high above the cabin. He saw the guard's smile, a gleam of ugly teeth in an uglier face. The truck covered the distance between them with astonishing speed and then came to a sudden halt as the guard slammed on the brake.
Alex yelled and threw himself to one side.
The wooden pallets, carried forward by the truck's momentum, slid off the forks and came clattering down. He should have been crushed, would have been, but for the beer barrels. A line of them had taken the weight of the pallets, leaving a tiny triangle of space. Alex heard the wood smashing centimetres above his head. Splinters rained down on his neck and back. Dust and dirt smothered him.
But he was still alive.
Choking and half-blinded, he crawled forward as the forklift truck reversed and prepared to come after him again. How could he have been so stupid?! The guard had seen him watching him all week! Alex had even openly gaped at the circular tattoo on the man's arm the first time he'd seen him! Of course, the guard had known who he was and what he was doing. It didn't matter that he was a teenager. He was dangerous. He had to be taken out.
And now he was going to kill him.
Choking and sick, Alex staggered to his feet just as the forklift truck bore down on him a second time. He turned and ran. The guard looked almost ridiculous, hunched up in the tiny cabin. But the machine he was driving was fast, powerful and incredibly flexible, spinning a full circle on a ten-pence piece.
Alex tried changing direction, sprinting to one side. The truck spun around and followed.
Now the guard reached out and pressed a button. The metal forks shuddered and dropped down so that they were less like horns, and more like the twin swords of some nightmare medieval knight. Which way should he dive? Left or right?
Alex just had time to make up his mind before the truck was on him.
He dived to the right, rolling over and over on the concrete. The guard pulled the joystick and the machine spun around again. Alex twisted and the heavy wheels missed him by barely a centimetre, then crashed into one of the pillars.
There was a pause.
He got up, his head spinning. For a brief second, he hoped that the collision might have knocked the guard out, but with a sick feeling in his stomach, he saw the man step out of the cabin, brushing a little dust off the arm of his jacket. He was still smiling. All he could see was a defenceless boy - and one already weakened by two encounters with the forklift truck.
With a sudden cry, he lashed out, his right hand slicing towards Alex's throat. If the blow had made contact, he would have been killed. But at the last second, he brought up both his fists, crossing his arms to form a block. The guard was taken by surprise and Alex took advantage of the moment to kick out with his right foot, aiming for the groin. But the guard was no longer there, having swivelled to one side, and in that moment he knew he was up against a fighter who was stronger, faster and more experienced than him and that he really didn't have a chance.
The guard swung round, and this time the back of his hand caught him on the side of his head. Alex heard the crack. For a moment he was blinded.
He reeled backwards, crashing into a metal surface. It was the door of one of the fridges. Somehow he caught hold of the handle and as he stumbled forward, the door opened. He felt a blast of cold across the back of his neck and perhaps that was what revived him and gave him the strength to throw himself forward, ducking underneath another vicious kick that had been aimed at his throat.
Alex was in a bad way and he knew it.
His nose was bleeding. He could feel the warm blood trickling down over the corner of his mouth. His head was spinning and the electric light bulbs seemed to be flashing in front of his eyes.
But the guard wasn't even breathing heavily. For the first time, Alex wondered what it was that he had stumbled onto. What could be so important to the guard that he would be ready to murder a fourteen-year-old boy in cold blood, without even asking questions? He wiped the blood away from his mouth and cursed Crawley for ordering him to do this, cursed him for ordering him to follow the guard instead of sending in one of MI6's actual agents instead.
The guard started walking towards him. Alex tensed himself, then dived out of the way, avoiding a lethal double strike of foot and fist. He landed next to a dustbin, overflowing with rubbish. Using all his strength, he picked it up and threw it, grinning through gritted teeth as the bin crashed into his attacker, spilling rotting food all over him. The guard swore and stumbled backwards. Alex ran round the back of the fridge, trying to catch his breath, searching for a way out.
He had only seconds to spare. He knew that the guard would be coming after him and next time he would finish it.
Alex looked left and right. He saw the cylinders of compressed gas and dragged one out of its wire frame. The cylinder seemed to weigh a ton but he was desperate. He wrenched the tap on and heard the gas jetting out. Then, holding the cylinder in front of him with both hands, he stepped forward. At that moment, the guard appeared round the side of the fridge. Alex jerked forward, his muscles screaming, shoving the cylinder into the man's face.
The gas exploded into the man's eyes, temporarily blinding him.
Alex brought the cylinder down, then up again. The metal rim clanged into the guard's head, just above his nose. He felt the jolt of solid steel against bone. The guard reeled back. Alex took another step forward. This time he swung the cylinder like a cricket bat, hitting the man with incredible force in the shoulders and neck. The guard never had a chance. He didn't even cry out as he was thrown off his feet and sent hurtling forward into the open fridge.
Alex dropped the cylinder and groaned.
It felt as if his arms had been wrenched out of their sockets. His head was still spinning and he wondered if his nose had been broken. He limped forward and looked into the fridge.
There was a curtain of plastic sheets and behind it a mountain of cardboard boxes, each and every one of them filled to the brim with strawberries. He couldn't help smiling. Strawberries and cream was one of Wimbledon's greatest traditions, served at crazy prices in the kiosks and restaurants above ground. This was where they were stored.
The guard had landed in the middle of the boxes, crushing many of them. He was unconscious, half buried in a blanket of strawberries, his head resting on a bright red pillow of them. Alex stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame for support, allowing the cold air to wash over him. There was a thermostat next to him. Outside, the weather was hot. The strawberries had to be kept chilled.
Alex took one last look at the man who had tried to kill him.
"Out cold" he muttered, before reaching out and twisting the thermostat control, sending the temperature down below zero, "Out colder".
He closed the fridge door and limped painfully away.
With any luck, Crawley would tell him "job well done" and he'd be taken far, far away from this crazy competition - but even as he hoped for the best possible outcome, he knew that it was unlikely. The guard had rigged the water dispensers in the club to poison the tennis players. Just because Alex had managed to knock him out didn't mean that his part in this entire disaster was over.
They still needed to know why, after all, and he'd bet good money on Alan bloody Blunt sending him out to investigate.