As Alex Rider's real 30th birthday approached, Sasha's request for a three week vacation had been denied, even unpaid; despite the fact in three years of ten hours days five days a week he had taken not a single day vacation nor any sick days. He desperately needed to go home to Moscow, because working in the State Department Office of Russian Affairs was deathly dull. Calling Moscow home raised eyebrows here in Washington, then people put two and two together and figured out he was the son of that Kiriyenko, like it was such a common surname.

He missed working for MSF. Even as a mere volunteer intern in Geneva he'd had more responsibility and variety, even excitement on occasion. His supervisor here did not even trust him to do photocopying. Howard Langham was a petty bureaucrat with a chip on his shoulder and a nice sideline in character assassination. The bastard watched Alex like a hawk, assuming Kiriyenko's bastard was a mole for the FSB. This position was meant to look good on his CV, as his goal was working at UN Headquarters, but he'd had enough and was going to walk as chances of being offered a promotion was unlikely and a new career as being a barista in Starbucks was better than this tedium. The sad fact, he was running rings around Howie and his pathetic hazing and hate campaign.

Opening a new file on his computer, he wrote a letter to the departmental head he never saw and to HR, detailing the systematic hazing underlying constructive dismissal and waste of his intellect here. He then texted Paul, 'yes spy boy will take the job at your soon to be acquired space division in Moscow'. Full residency in Russia guaranteed. He was also going to apply for a Russian Passport. Packing up his desk took a mere five minutes and in the good old us of a, he could just walk out after quitting.

The ex diplomatic aide walked past Langham's desk well aware of the fact that man would never give anyone a decent reference. "Caio Howie, got a new job at Roscoe Space Industries earning five times your Federal pay grade. Not that I have to work, being a trust fund baby. Don't call. Don't write. Forget I exist. Definitely never ask me for a favour of any kind. Just think I can hire a PA and pay them more than you. Just remember my clearance to work here came from both the CIA as well as the FBI."

There was only one problem working for Paul Roscoe, the fact he was a romantic at heart and liked to play matchmaker. Then again, so did his sisters and his sister in law. Eight years single and he was no closer to dating anyone. Jamie had two kids now and made his dad a very happy and doting grandfather. Alex was not jaded, he knew love was freedom not possessiveness and he knew his faults, but being a jealous arsehole was not one of them. He was happy Jamie was happy. The fact Alicia hated his guts was mostly as result of her own nefarious actions pursuing a guy in a committed relationship, her own jealousy and the fact neither Dieter nor Maggie warmed to her. Dieter's insistence of a belt and braces prenup before the shotgun wedding after the unplanned pregnancy causing exit stage right for Sasha. One thing was true, Alex did not want any biological progeny of his own, ever.

Now, he had an apartment to rent out, several additional weeks of holiday to use and the truth that job had been squeezing the life out of him. He got in his Jaguar and was going straight to Paul's house in the Hamptons. If he'd been Howie, he'd have played nice, become fast friends and then moved up a league to network with billionaires, son of the former Premier of the Russian Federation and practically favoured younger (only) brother to the current President's son in law.

….

It was late when the gate opened to the very secure extensive plot of beach front real estate owned by Paul Roscoe, who hated Manhattan and liked his seclusion. The neighbouring houses contained his security. Full facial and voice recognition meant Sasha was admitted without fuss. Security tight around the CEO and owner of a multinational conglomerate that had doubled in size since he took the reigns five years ago.

Alex entered the large open plan office, knowing Paul would stop working now he had company. In his best Received Pronunciation "Dr Roscoe, I presume?"

The billionaire eyes scanning his screens as he saved and closed his tasks, finishing by adding to his every growing to-do list. "So, Lexie-baby you finally told the State Department to stick their entry level job where the sun don't shine." He turned to look at one of his true friends. "Being Division Director will come with an excellent benefits package, based on French working hours and holidays, and in addition to two PAs. One male and one female as I know you appreciate fluidity in all things. Stop being a mere office boy and use that brilliant mind." The screens went blank and the mobile phone was left on the desk. From CEO to concerned friend as he turned to face his fellow Point Blanc survivor. "We have both been working too hard. My hot tub awaits. The housekeeper has left supper and breakfast. All I need do is open some beers or would you prefer wine or something stronger?"

As if of the same mind, Alex pulled out a hip flask of his sister's winter grade vodka. "To celebrate new ventures. I came to tell you in person, I finally gave Edward the OK to publish his book about everyone's favourite corpse, Alex. No mention of the CIA though. Don't want to burn bridges so I can't come back stateside, considering everything is based off Alex Gardiner's very dodgy passport. I know he's already gotten everyone's permission about the school from hell. The earlier proof did not include the final chapter." The blond haired ex-spy then cleared his throat. He then read the chapter written by Sabina detailing Wimbledon, the triads and then the holiday where her fellow ball boy failed to arrive. Then her detective work to find out he had disappeared and his uncle's former housekeeper refusing to answer any questions. The rabbit hole of the links to Metropolitan Police Operation Yewtree. The 'family' friend starting the investigation into inconsistencies at tennis championship was not connected with the Wimbledon Committee and the Case Worker who left Kensington and Chelsea Council after sitting on the child at risk's files, who had bogus references and a borrowed identity, was untraceable.

Edward ended the chapter that's where the trail went cold. A school boy at a local comprehensive now with no official records, no links to witness protection, with no paper trail in any police nor Home Office records, either trafficked abroad fate unknown, or killed by the triads.

With ice cold glasses retrieved from the kitchen, the shots of pure alcohol consumed. Then the two tall friends stripped of their clothes on the deck to climb into the hot tub. The billionaire then turned on his sound system to play classic jazz. No more words as they relaxed.