Ria Schelling was sat reading the Alex Rider Conspiracy Blog run by Joe Canterbury, with its thrilling article links by the Pulitzer Prize winning journalist Edward Pleasure. To think Marek was such a dark horse. She could not help but think of him as Marek as he had obviously buried everything about being Alex, quite rightly so when making his new start. Like Jan had insisted, they knew the real person, not the kid crippled by hurt, loss, abuse and betrayal those friends were clinging to. The links to articles on that Yassen Gregorovich were truly chilling. There were photos of the stolen car in Rotterdam, where trail went cold. As she finished her coffee there was a new post. She exclaimed "Oh my goodness!" out loud. Alex had been in contact with his foster sister. He was alive and wanted to come home. She had no doubt that meant here, with them, with Jan. She picked up her phone to call her friend to break the good news and lift him from his deep depression. There was hope for them to be together once again.

…

Alex sat in the library in Kelmis, using the free internet access. The only user at 9:30 on a cold, wet Tuesday morning. He did not mind he was under close scrutiny, as the suspicious librarian was watching him closely. He knew he looked and smelt like a vagrant, completely filthy from top to toe and wearing several layers of clothes, little better than rags after the ten days it had taken him to complete the 320km walk from Calais. He thought it funny that people sneered, avoided, and stared, but in such a state they did not see the person, just the deprivation.

The homeless wanderer pulled out his notebook to make lists to help inform making final decisions on moving forward, either north into Holland or east into Germany. He had been an avid reader of Joe's blog over the years, which was a truly amazing bit of detective work, started to keep a group of friends in contact, but now with followers across the world. 'Finding Alex' had numerous posts across the globe over the last four years, none had been actually him, except that confrontation in the Hague. He wondered who had been taking photos, he had not noticed in his heightened emotional state. Snaps which caught him distraught and then running. Here was proof he had friends, something Alex found quite strange as his entire childhood had been on the move, making friends then leaving them behind, as Ian thought writing or keeping in touch was stupid. His uncle had planned to make him into sociopath and it had only been the constant of Jack and her putting her foot down about secondary school that had saved him. He shook himself from such unpleasant thoughts about his mountain of issues and continued his research.

Reading the news feeds, the unwelcome visitor shifted in his seat, wanting nothing more than bath, clean clothes, central heating, good food and a comfortable bed. His goal was to achieve that; but with no more looking over his shoulder. He was sure his physical state, in anticipation of his grand reveal to his pursuers, would aid his image as victim not eager accomplice. The overall plan helped by his lack of appetite, poor sleeping due to the cold, exertion walking for hours and the lack of grooming meant he was a half starved and nearly exhausted street rat once more. Perfect image of lost, mentally ill and with no one to trust. He scratched his beard, thinking how much he hated it. Simpler at fifteen, when he was not bothered by such annoying practicalities. Life in Amsterdam had been so much more him, with his careful grooming and weekly pampering visits to the beautician. He had kept his hair brutally short, more in fear of lice than anything else. He had a bit of a phobia about parasites.

By mid afternoon, the researcher had read all the articles he could find on both Dieter Sprintz, Paul Roscoe and Rudi Vries on the internet. He had quickly realised it had been James' dad who was the driving force behind the plan to find and to help him. Hugo's dad and Paul only there as moral support and with open cheque books. The alumni from Point Blanc seemed to think they owed him and were blessed with more money than sense.

….

Alex had arrived in Dusseldorf and was camping on wasteland behind a disused factory. His small tent was very inadequate as the weather turned icy. The library was a warm hideout, but he had taken over an hour to regain sensation in his hands and feet. Working his way through the archived magazine and local paper articles, it was well known that Dieter Sprintz loved his home town. The Der Spiegel article stated was no place better than Dusseldorf in the financier's opinion and living and working there was worth his hefty tax bills. Why would he move to Monaco or Switzerland, away from his few true friends . Truth in life was you chose your friends and with wealth you could choose who you worked with as well. There was true steel in that man's past, as at seventeen, Dieter had been orphaned, his uncle took over the family business and the young man learned to excel from that betrayal. He had made millions and married a model by the age of thirty five without a penny from his grandfathers firm or family trust. The Sprintz works still made tools. Dieter was worth over a thousand times more trading currency, commodities and bonds and had not spoken to his father's brother since the reading of his father's will. His mother had left him her savings account and her life insurance of 15,000 Deutsche marks, money he had used to gamble on the markets while living in a squat, having had to forgo finishing school or going to university. Marta Klein had been his only friend in that commune, after running from her abusive husband. A woman who was his closest friend and had been his personal secretary since his first success and setting up his own trading firm. The man with the Midas touch rewarded his friends and was brutally cold to those who slighted him.

…..

Frau Klein watched the young man approached from the stairs, having avoided the lift, even though he was carrying a bulky rucksack. He came through the glass door and she noted he had avoided security on the ground floor as his arrival had not been announced and the fact he wore no identity tag as a visitor. She was about to ring for assistance when she made a startling connection. Tall, thin, blond hair and reddish blond beard with brown eyes; this scruffy young man was James' missing school friend, Alexander.

"Hi, err… Ms. Klein. I'm here to drop off this card for James, only I couldn't find his phone number or home address or anything.."

"Where are you staying, Alexander?" She asked, as she pressed the intercom, making their conversation live into Dieter's office.

"Here and there. I've a tent. Then you don't need papers or such. Its been very cold though. This morning, I swear I was blue from head to toe."

The grey haired smartly dressed woman smiled at that. "Yes I remember those types of mornings myself. Chipping ice from a bucket containing your drinking water to make coffee on a primus stove. Can I get you a coffee or tea to warm you up? I also have hot chocolate, the instant kind, I'm afraid. Home made is so much better."

Alex could remember thick cups of hot chocolate, made with real chocolate not powder, in Berlin at the age of 10 with Jack: hers always the deluxe variety with cream on top. "Hot chocolate would be amazing. I don't think I've had a cup of that since I left Chelsea."

The kettle was on in a small alcove kitchen. She watched as Alex put his rucksack on the floor by her desk and he sat on the floor, but only after putting down his filthy coat as a cushion. She poured out two coffees and brought though the drinks. As Dieter's interns left and the man himself came out to look at the escape artist. Shocked by the state of him, looking like a POW or camp internee.

"Good Afternoon, Alex. You may give your card to James yourself. I called him and he is on the way over. Alone. No one else knows you are here, I promise; and my interns know better than to disobey my personal request. Please enjoy the merger refreshments. I need this coffee, myself."

Alex salivated at the offered drink and plate of simple shop bought sugar cookies. He was kind of humbled that Jamie's dad may be as rich as the Queen, but he ate normal treats with his cup of java. After gulping down the hot chocolate and wolfing through most of a packet, Alex's stomach rebelled as he knew it would. Luckily, he made it to barf in the small kitchen sink. He was rinsing his mouth as he collapsed on to the linoleum. He came around to overheard Dieter phoning for paramedics. Maybe he was more worse for wear than he had planned as he did not have the energy to stand.

….

The hospital receptionist knew Mr. Rider's full details and had been made aware that the patients health and welfare was Dieter Sprintz's responsibility. The two Sprints's waited for news like any other concerned friend or family member. Helped by the fact, Alex had already signed legal documents giving Dieter parental control while he was in North Rhine-Westphalia. After waiting for ages in the family room, Dr. Stein introduced himself and gave a briefing on Alex's extreme malnutrition, possibly caused by an eating disorder as when undressed the patient had enough money in his pockets to pay for meals for several days.

The doctor queried "Does he have a history of mental illness to explain this self harm?"

"We have only seen him once since he was fifteen, a few months ago and he ran off, terrified." Dieter wondered about how that perfectly presented, even etherial young man had faired in the meantime to fall so ill, so quickly. "Alex has not had an easy road. He was severely abused as a teenager. From what we have pieced together; systematic

physical, emotional abuse, blackmail and sexual abuse. He was trafficked and sold to an awful man, then kept as a virtual slave. He escaped last year. From his friends in Amsterdam, we know he was very underweight when they first met him this spring. Always careful with food, small portion sizes, nothing unhealthy. He gratefully excepted hot chocolate and biscuits today before he started vomiting and then fainting this afternoon."

"So, Alex is quite poorly, but stable. We will keep him in, to closely monitor him and assess his overall health. He's had a tranquilliser, is on a drip and on antibiotics as a precaution. Now, we'll ensure he starts to eat small portions of bland food at frequent intervals, then building up to proper meals over the week. I would suggest at least a two week stay for his physical condition to stabilise and to make sure there are no underlying problems. Tomorrow, he'll be assessed by a colleague from the psychiatric unit."

….

James pondered the facts stated in black and white on the doctor's notes as Alex slept. They'd had to tranquillise their patient to wash and shave him. Fear of washing in public evident by his filthy state, being touched and loss off control. All small pieces of a puzzle that made up Alex Rider. Jan had said he like his own space when reticent about cohabiting. That bastard Russian had made his friend a basket case. He had witnessed Alex sob with genuine heartbreak when he knew he'd lost his safe haven in Amsterdam. Those fears justified by their own interrogation by the cops over a brief meeting. MI6 were obviously pulling strings, wanted compete control over their misplaced asset. His father was meeting with his legal team to secure complete protection for Alex. Those bastards were not going to spirit him away. James looked at the two hospital security guards by the door, for once his father not being overprotective of his son, but a relative stranger. The repaying of a life debt. The young German did not care if Alex never spoke to him again, all he truly wanted was him to be whole, healthy and happy.

His phone vibrated and he sneakily read the message, Edward and Liz Pleasure were coming to visit tomorrow as were Jan and his mother. Alex Rider's friends and family were assembling. James wondered who else would crawl out of the woodwork.