Jan felt older and no wiser after his third interrogation of the day by his former colleagues in the antiterrorist division, whose team leader had graduated in the same academy class, though there was no camaraderie between the former colleagues. The bastard did not believe him that he had not known Marek was living under an assumed identity. The ex-cop wondered how the routine investigation into a car theft had gotten bumped up to national security threat? He could only tell them facts. The confession that Marek was really Alex Rider, who was was running scared of his 'owner' Gregorovich, was from a private conversation and he could not prove any of it.
Round and round went the questioning. Jan found it easy to stick to the known, not the assumed or the damning accusations. Why would he doubt Marek when his Czech papers had been genuine, issued last April in Prague. The paperwork had been checked out and validated before Ria had employed the masseuse. His position throughout was that he had no idea who Alexander John Rider was, but he could understand why he would run. For the millionth time he confirmed that Marek was his lover.
More of a mystery was this Rider had been described as a hero by James Sprintz, not the terrorist or a killer described by the antiterrorist police. The hard truth revealed that his lover had been a serial runaway at fifteen, placed on the Interpol Missing Persons Register by his foster family who were still looking for him after nearly six years. He looked at the photo of fifteen year old Alex. The runaway who had become the young associate of Marco Spinelli. The truth of rent boy, stripper and then escort sold to Yassen Gregorovich. That sleaze had stated Gregorvich had only not killed then, because Alex had intervened. The photo of Alexander Schmidt, AKA fifteen year old Alex Rider, stuck him to the core, seeing the visage of a fifteen year old with grim countenance and dead eyes, so different to gentle, caring and beautiful Marek. He knew in his heart of hearts, he had been shown the soul of this abused kid; who was so frightened by cages; both real and imagined.
…..
Dieter Sprintz was stoically sat with his son, as their two lawyers arguing with the anti-terrorist officers that their continued detention was illegal. Their full statement had been taken ten hours ago by a young uniformed officer at the Hotel in Wassenaar. The suits were correct that they had nothing to add. They were not going to be charged, they had cooperated fully, so why prolong the inevitable release and resulting bad publicity. Truth was the authorities had no real proof Marek was Alex, only that the young man with Czech papers had stolen a car. None of the statements taken included details of private conversations. That would be a contravention their right to privacy. Just facts how events had played out.
The financier spoke softly, sick of the deadlock "Off the record, whether Marek is Alexander or not is irrelevant. Alexander does not deserve arrest or interrogation. He is not the cold and calculating professional you have insinuated. All we know for sure is that he was a broken child, repeatedly raped, brutally assaulted and brainwashed by a monster." Truth was the billionaire owed Jan van Vliet a quarter of a million euro reward for finding, protecting and helping Alex have a home, employment and a sense of belonging for these past few months. A young man who was never an illegal immigrant, born and raised in the western Europe. Abuse and misfortune had lead to his enslavement. He was never a willing associate of that Russian killer. "So, this Marek stole a car. Not exactly the actions of a criminal but a desperate, emotionally unstable young man." Dieter would fight any arrest with the best legal and medical team in the world looking out for this son's saviour, all paid for by Mr. Roscoe, Mr. Vries and himself. "Add this to your statement. I have paid thousands to follow all leads concerning my son's dear friend Alexander and I would be glad to employ the best lawyers to protect Mr. Rider and make you all seem like the abusers of law and justice you appear to be acting like at the moment."
The young police detective, playing the role of good cop, was frustrated by the complete lack of trust in her department, "Sir, we have genuine reasons to talk to Alexander John Rider. We can offer him protection. Please if your security team find him again, we have to be informed."
Dieter smiled and wondered what the police knew about their quarry, a boy who would risk all to keep those he loved safe. "Maybe you should to Alex's foster father or read the full, non redacted operations file from MI6, not the fairy tale you have been told by the British Police. The CIA or FSB might be more truthful as they view Alexander John Rider as a child psychologically damaged by trauma, not an asset nor a liability."
…..
The Dutch businessman stared at the floor, while listening to his mother as she dressed down his interrogators, quoting articles of law and constitutional rights. He wanted to go back to Amsterdam and hope Marek; no, that Alex was there waiting for him.
As they left the building, she hailed a taxi giving a commentary of her fun filled morning. "Your boy has not returned to Amsterdam. Ria has informed me, both your and his apartments have been thoroughly searched. I have filed a full complaint on your and Marek's behalf. I have also decided to run with his Czech identity paper's, as they are legal until proved otherwise. Not that it matters, at the moment the police only have hearsay to say Marek is that English runaway. Wisely you kept your story to the facts as did the young Mr. Sprintz. Car theft, as a first offence, is a misdemeanour, he was emotionally distraught at the time and running in fear, so not even that. He has lived in a climate of extreme hostility. Any defence could lead with slavery, false imprisonment, PTSD and Stockholm syndrome, but thats far in the future. Legally those searches were uncalled for. The circuit judge who authorised them will be sacked by the end of the week as there are no grounds for them under a national security basis, none whatsoever. "
He could see his mother's enthusiasm for the underdog shining in her countenance, she always had bigger fish to fry. Maybe he could now understand her motivations more. "I'm grateful for your time and understanding, but Marek has gone. His argument for running was so expertly given and completely justified. He's so used to being abused, he can't trust anyone." He rubbed his eyes, tired, drained and depressed. "Fuck it all, mum. I should have asked him to marry me last week, now I'll never get the chance. He was.. is the one. He would have the full protection of the law as a Dutch National if we'd married. We have a true balance. I was so blasé when he admitted he was running from his past. I would run too considering its Gregorivich we are talking about. He murdered that whole family in Delft ten years ago. Shot the protection detail. Tortured the mother, father and two sons to death. I still have nightmares about it. We got the bastard who paid Gregorovich, but that devil owned Marek as his plaything for years."
The taxi stopped, his mother hugged her son and opened the door, stating firmly "My office can handle everything concerning Marek. Ria can manage without you in Amsterdam. We are going to my home to strategise. Our first priority is to join forces with Marek's other friends, so we do not make the same mistakes when we catch up with him." The woman could only reflect that what a team they would be financed by three billionaires. Her impending retirement from the international court did not sound so crushing anymore, not if she went back into chambers full time.
…..
Light years ago, a young and still gullible Alex Rider had pretended to be a mute refuge from Afghanistan in Bangkok, as set dressing for the ASIS operation against the triads. That past subterfuge had taken a master artist, industrial dye, spray tan and a dental plate. Here and now, he was more than happy living with the throng of young dispossessed migrants and refugees living in this unofficial camp site in Calais. Dirt hid his features better than make-up and his mucky dark blonde hair with dodgy self hacked haircut was not unusual given his supposed origins within the former Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Even his made up legend of Yusef from Chechnya was mostly superfluous, no one here gave a crap about him or his lack of papers, as everyone was in the same boat. He was pretending to be an orphan escaping the bloody war for independence. Today, he was bringing gifts to his friend, Bashir from Sudan; who was ill with diarrhoea and vomiting. Only an innocent kid really, about nineteen and an outcast at home for demonic possession. The pair were better off than most as they both spoke french to break the barrier of distrust with most locals. Alex had worked on a few farms for cash, his shopping today was paid for not shoplifted. Two bags containing tins of consommé, packets of crackers, four bottles of still mineral water, two bottles of isotonic drink, stomach tablets and painkillers forming the most basic of medical help as they had no money for a proper doctor. At the tent, his friend was dozing. The fever looked like it had passed.
The enclosed space smelt musty, in need of a good airing, but the weather had turned cold. Alex counted his euros, enough to clean his friend's rank bedding and soiled clothes, before he laid down in his own sleeping bag, fully clothed, to listen to his wind up radio. The dial set for Radio 4, a taste of home, which was normally Bashir's favourite, as he used it to practice his English in preparation for passage across to Dover, to become a productive member of western society. Alex knew his friend's chances were slim to none, as you needed thousands of euros to pay a smuggler and most lorry drivers were vigilant preventing stowaways to avoid huge fines.
At 4AM, Alex was woken by the shouts of their neighbours. Police were raiding the camp. Arresting those stupid enough to resist or slow enough to get caught. Regular raids destroying the tents and possessions of people who had next to nothing to begin with. A hard shake and Alex hissed "Allez, Bash" as a warning to his companion to get up and out. Without looking back, he grabbed his own rucksack and sleeping bag, stumbling into his boots by the flap of the tent with no regrets, knowing it was every man for himself and the fact he could not be arrested. He ran like a gazelle to the copse of trees behind their tent: keeping low until behind their cover. He knew his way in the pitch dark, to the nearest farm to hide among the bales until first light.
…..
Cold, thirsty and bone tired, the young migrant lay hidden between the pile of bales and the barn wall, musing on another approach to his situation, now enough time had passed that the heat was off, not just here but back in Amsterdam too. He had kept up to date on the fallout in the Dutch press and courts over the misuse of search warrants, the illegal interrogation of three prominent businessmen and the blatant overzealous anti-terrorist response to a car theft at a private party by a Czech young man, not proven to be a missing British young man, who may or may not be connected to a terrorist. It all sounded like a farce not a tragedy. Alex missed Jan, but Jan had no reason to miss the serial liar he had professed to love.
The young man pulled out his phone: a battered stolen Nokia: practically indestructible, with an unregistered Pay as you go card and untraceable if he kept the call short enough. He had made a decision, he was going to stop running. There was a small chance of reconnecting with Jan, friends and family, but that chance of happiness and a real life was better than this.
A very grumpy Sabina Pleasure snatched up her phone, irritated at the early wake up call. She had been out clubbing last night in search of Mr. Right and only finding Mr. Obnoxious and his close friend Mr. Misogynist were available. She snapped at the unknown number
"For fucks sake, this better be an emergency?"
The tired voice on the end of the phone stated "No, its not life or death. In fact this call is almost six years late. I miss you loads, Sab. I want to come home, but my life has turned into a bad remake of that Julia Robert's film "Sleeping with the enemy", only I'm running from a psycho serial killer and MI6. I should have said goodbye to you back then, but I was pushed into a corner by Crawley."
She sat bolt upright and looked for a pen and paper to take notes, "Where are you, Alex? Are you near Amsterdam? Do you need anything?"
He could not suppress a smile that news of his exploits had made it back to her. "No, in a field, cold and alone, wishing I had never left my lovely room there. I'm eternally sorry it did not work out with you sis. Love you, Ed and Liz. Caio."
The dead tone spurred Sabina Pleasure into action as she returned the call to the last number, not surprised when their was no connection. Now she rang her parents. Alex was free, but running sacred. He needed them more than ever. How could they track and expert in running? Dad would know. He had to. This was the best news they'd had in years.