12.02 pm, Wednesday, 9th March
MI6 Training Centre, Wales
Alex groaned and opened his eyes, beyond irritated that he'd be tranquillised twice in twenty-four hours.
He was lying on a bed in a large, comfortable room, but that only made him more annoyed. The bed was modern, but the room was old with beams running across the ceiling, a stone fireplace, and narrow windows in an ornate wooden frame. He had seen rooms like this in books when he was studying Shakespeare. He would have said the building was Elizabethan. It had to be somewhere in the country. There was no sound of traffic. Outside he could see trees.
"I guess I'm no longer in London then" he muttered, slowly standing up.
Someone had undressed him. His school uniform was gone. Instead, he was wearing loose pyjamas, silk from the feel of them. From the light outside he would have guessed it was midmorning. He found his watch lying on the table beside the bed and he reached out for it. The time was twelve o'clock
He had lost yet another day.
There was a bathroom leading off from the bedroom - bright white tiles and a huge shower behind a cylinder of glass and chrome. Alex stripped off the pyjamas and stood for five minutes under a jet of steaming water. He felt a bit better after that.
He went back into the bedroom and opened the closet. Whoever had taken off his uniform - which, just, ugh! - had clearly gotten his size from it too, because inside the wardrobe was a whole bunch of clothes that would fit him, neatly hung up.
What the hell sort of kidnapper provided Gap combat trousers and Nike sneakers?!
Alex reluctantly, angrily, got dressed, then sat on the bed and waited.
12.24 pm, Wednesday, 9th March
MI6 Training Centre, Wales
About fifteen minutes later there was a knock and the door opened. A young Asian woman in a nurse's uniform came in, beaming.
"Oh, you're awake. And dressed. How are you feeling? Not too groggy, I hope. Please come this way. Mr Blunt is expecting you for lunch".
Mr Blunt? Alex frowned, following her out of the room silently. He didn't know any Blunt, and he didn't remember Ian ever mentioning someone by that name either.
The woman led him along a corridor and down a flight of stairs, which in turn led into a tall galleried room that had a long, polished wooden table set for three. There were two people there already sitting down. A man - Mr Blunt, he presumed - with a grey suit, grey hair, grey lips, and grey eyes, and a dark, rather masculine woman.
"Alex". The man smiled briefly as if it was something he didn't enjoy doing. "It's good of you to join us".
The boy sat down. "You didn't give me a lot of choice".
"Yes. I don't quite know what Crawley was thinking of, having you shot like that, but I suppose it was the easiest way… My name is Alan Blunt, and this is my colleague, Mrs Jones".
The woman nodded at Alex. Her eyes seemed to examine him minutely, but she said nothing.
"Who are you?" Alex asked, "What do you want with me?"
"I'm sure you have a great many questions. But first, let's eat..."
Blunt must have pressed a hidden button or else he was being overheard, for at that precise moment a door opened and a waiter - in a white jacket and black trousers - appeared carrying three plates.
"I hope you like meat" Blunt continued, "Today it's carre'd'agneu".
"You mean roast lamb".
"The chef is French".
Alex waited until the food had been served. Blunt and Mrs Jones drank red wine. He stuck to water.
Finally, Blunt began.
"As I'm sure you've gathered" he said, "This was no ordinary retrieval-"
"You mean kidnapping".
The corner of his mouth twitched in annoyance and Alex internally cheered.
"... Quite" Blunt finally replied, "Nevertheless, after I've explained the reason behind your retrieval, I'm sure you'll agree with me that it had to be done-"
"Is this one of those villains-always-think-they're-doing-the-right-thing types of situations?" Alex interrupted yet again, "Cause I gotta say, you're really not very good at it".
The man's hand tightened around his fork and the boy added yet another point to his Kidnappers: zero, Alex: one card.
"I'm the chairman of the Royal and General Bank, located in Liverpool Street" he continued, ignoring the remark, "Perhaps you've heard of us?"
"Nope". He popped the 'p' and cut a neat slice of lamb.
"... Yes, well, the Royal and General is actually not a bank. In fact, it doesn't exist - It's nothing more than a cover. And it follows, of course, that your uncle had nothing to do with banking. He worked for me".
Now, Alex frowned. Ian hadn't worked for as long as he could remember. He'd always said that his parents were wealthy, and after they had passed away, and after Alex's own parents had passed away, he'd been left everything. They weren't rich, as such, but they were certainly well-off enough that, aside from careful manipulation of the stock markets from time to time, they could afford to live comfortably.
"My uncle is unemployed" he replied slowly, "And he most certainly hasn't ever worked for a bank or- or a not-bank or whatever the hell you are while I was around".
"This was before you were born" the woman suddenly spoke up, "Ian Rider gave us his notice not long after your parents died so that he could raise you, instead".
She said his uncle's name with a surprisingly fond tone and Alex didn't miss the subtle yet vicious scowl that Blunt gave her in response.
"... Alright. So he used to work for a not-bank over fourteen years ago. What about it?"
"As I said, the bank is nothing more than a cover" Blunt said, "And I am not quite a chairman. I am the chief executive of the Special Operations Division of MI6. And your uncle was, for want of a better word, a spy".
Alex couldn't help but smile in disbelief.
"You mean… like James Bond?"
"Similar, although we don't go in for numbers. Double-0 and all the rest of it. Your uncle was a field agent, highly trained and very courageous. He successfully completed assignments in Iran, Washington, Hong Kong, and Havana… to name but a few. I imagine this must come as a bit of a shock for you".
Alex thought about what he knew of Ian Rider. He had always been a very careful man, not paranoid as such, but definitely suspicious. He kept himself in perfect physical shape and was proficient in Thai boxing and karate. He spoke five languages fluently, three of which he taught Alex - French, Spanish, and German - and two others that he had recently started teaching him the basics of too - Italian and Japanese. He didn't smoke, didn't have any friends, didn't have any lovers or partners, didn't eat anything fried, and didn't wear anything that wasn't elegant and expensive. He was an extremely private man, who liked good wine, classical music, and books.
He showed Alex how to pick locks as well as pockets. How to scuba dive and kayak and abseil. How to surf and do mountain climbing and snowboarding.
How to shoot.
He'd always wondered, when he was little, why they moved so often - most times without any warning, too. Alex had been homeschooled for primary school, with Ian teaching him how to read, write, and do basic arithmetic. He learned about geography and history as they toured Europe; living in Italy for one year, Denmark for another, Spain for one, Germany for two years, France as well, Austria for one, Italy again, Greece for another-
Now, it all made sense.
"... I'm not shocked" he finally replied, thoughts still racing.
Ian had told him he'd served a few years in the army, after all, but the army couldn't have taught him everything.
"Good". Blunt carefully, lifelessly, ate a sliver of meat. "In that case, we have a proposition we'd like to make. We want you to work for us".
12.39 pm, Wednesday, 9th March
MI6 Training Centre, Wales
"You're not being serious?" he exclaimed.
"Actually, it's not my habit to make jokes".
Clearly.
"You're making one now!" Alex snapped, "I don't want to be a spy. In case you haven't noticed, I'm still at school!"
Mr Blunt sighed. "What a great shame. Your uncle would be very disappointed".
"What?!"
"Letting him down like that. But then, I suppose... young people-"
"How can you say that? He wouldn't want me here. He doesn't want me here! He spent his life making sure I never knew anything about it!"
"Really? Then how do you explain everything you've learned?" Blunt shot back, "First-rate martial arts moves. Perfectly executed. Who trained you?"
"Nobody trained me-"
"You're a first-grade dan. A black belt in karate. Who paid for the lessons?"
"It was my choice!"
"No!" he snapped, "All your life Ian Rider was preparing you. You speak French, German and Spanish. You've been scuba-diving, mountain climbing, abseiling-"
"They were my hobbies!"
"-white-water rafting, rifle shooting, martial arts. He was training you!"
"That's not how it was!"
"That's exactly how it was!"
Alex briefly considered stabbing his fork through the man's lifeless eyes and he took a deep breath in an effort to calm himself down.
Ian didn't train him for this - he wouldn't have, couldn't have! He refused to believe it. Sure, it made sense that Ian was an ex-spy or whatever, but the man loved him, Alex knew that his uncle loved him, and he wouldn't have spent his entire childhood trying to set him up like this.
"We have been surveilling you for quite a number of years now" Blunt continued, a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes, "Ian Rider was training you, Alex, to take his place. He taught you multiple languages, different martial arts, and numerous skills that other children your age don't typically have - your little stunt with the flagpole proved that mucch. He wanted you to help us".
Alex shook his head and glared at him fiercely.
"Oh yeah? Well if he wanted me to join MI6 so bad then why did he quit?"
Blunt opened his mouth but then closed it wordlessly, and Alex knew that he had won.
"I'll sign the Official Secrets Act or whatever it is you want me to do, but then I'd like to go home. This is all crazy, anyway. And I've had enough. I'm out of here".
Blunt coughed quietly. "It's not quite as easy as that".
"Why not?"
"It's true that what you know and what I'm about to tell you must go no further. But the fact of the matter is, Alex - we need your help".
"My help?"
"Yes. Ian was training you, regardless of whether you believe that or not. And we're going to make use of that training, regardless of if you want to help us or not".
He swallowed thickly as the full extent of his situation started to sink in.
"What are you?" His voice trembled noticeably. "What kind of people are you?"
Blunt smiled, but there was nothing happy about it.
"Ones that normally get their way".
10.14 am, Thursday, 10th March
Kensington Police Station
Ian sat anxiously in the interview room, his mind consumed with worry and anticipation. It had been three agonising days since Alex had been kidnapped, and despite the efforts of the local police, there had been no significant breakthroughs. Now, the mandatory seventy-two-hour mark had passed, and he knew enough about police procedure to know that the NCA was now legally required to get involved.
Detective Inspector Thompson and Sergeant Patel entered the room, the latter carrying a stack of files and the former wearing a determined, if somewhat weary, expression.
Ian's heart raced, despite knowing that the likelihood of them giving him any update was slim to none.
"Mr Rider" Thompson greeted with a nod, "Thank you for agreeing to meet us. I wanted to inform you that we have contacted the UK Missing Persons Unit, and they are now joining the investigation into Alex's disappearance. They will work closely with us to ensure all efforts are made to locate him".
Knowing that a specialised team was stepping in to aid the search was a relief - but he felt his anxiety kick up a notch too, since if MPU was getting involved, then that meant that they were expanding the search to outside of London.
"The MPU has access to resources and expertise beyond what local forces can provide" Sergeant Patel explained, "They have extensive databases of missing and found individuals throughout the UK, which will help in matching people up if Alex is found outside the jurisdiction of this police force. They also manage the, uh… forensic databases of DNA profiles and fingerprints for missing people investigations, which can be instrumental in identifying individuals".
In other words - the MPU could identify his nephew's body quicker than the local cops could.
He said as much, and the edges of Thomspon's mouth tightened.
"I won't lie to you, Mr Rider - if it comes to that, then yes, the MPU will have a greater chance in successfully identifying Alex's remains. But we're not searching for a body, we're searching for your nephew; alive, and hopefully well".
"The MPU has a vast network and a dedicated team of experts who specialise in missing persons cases" Patel continued, "They will employ all available means, including advanced technology and collaboration with other law enforcement agencies, to bring Alex home safely".
It sounded good - it sounded great, even - but it was all just background noise to Ian. He knew the statistics. The chances of finding his nephew alive after seventy-two hours were less than ten per cent. The MPU may have access to forensic databases and conduct nationwide searches and provide specialist advice and support and everything else that the officers had gone on about-
But all of that meant nothing if Alex was already dead.
12.21 pm, Thursday, 10th March
MI6 Training Centre, Wales
Some one-hundred and fifty miles away, Alex was once again being led to the Elizabethan dining room, its long polished table, and the two psychopaths sitting behind it.
Okay.
Maybe that was a little bit too harsh.
To the two sociopaths sitting behind it.
After finishing his carre'd'agneu the day before - not that he'd been able to stomach much of it after the ridiculous tranquillisers he'd been shot with - Mrs Jones had informed him that he was in one of their training centres, and would remain there until today when they wished to speak to him again.
Apparently, some sort of doctor or nurse had looked him over while he'd been unconscious, and they had given her strict instructions not to "upset him" too much at once while his body was still trying to process the drugs.
Personally, Alex thought Blunt just wanted to see if Stockholm Syndrome would kick in already and make him agree to whatever crazy scheme MI6 had cooked up that they were no doubt going to tell him about today.
"Alex. Take a seat".
He reluctantly did as told, and glanced down at the plate that had already been placed in front of him.
"Today's meal is boeuf bourguignon".
Beef stew.
Picking up his knife and fork, Blunt continued. "Tell me, Alex, have you ever heard of a man called Herod Sayle?"
He thought for a moment. "I've seen his name in the newspapers. He's something to do with computers. And he owns racehorses. Doesn't he come from somewhere in Egypt?"
"Yes. From Cairo". Blunt took a sip of wine. "Let me tell you his story, Alex. I'm sure you'll find it of interest-"
"I'm sure I won't" he interrupted, "Can we just skip to the part where you explain why you kidnapped me and then I can no?"
His grip on the wine glass tightened briefly, and Mrs Jones quickly raised a napkin to dab daintily at her mouth - but not before Alex caught sight of her smirk.
Interesting.
"... Allow me to summarise, then" Blunt finally replied, "Herod Sayle was born in complete poverty to a large family in the backstreets of Cairo. One day, by pure chance, he saved the lives of a wealthy English couple, who decided to more or less adopt him out of gratitude. He attended school here - at the same time as our current prime minister, in fact. After school, Sayle went to Cambridge, where he got a degree in economics. He then set out on a career that went from success to success. His own radio station, computer software... and, yes, he even found time to buy a string of racehorses, although I believe they seldom win. But what drew him to our attention was his most recent invention. A quite revolutionary computer that he calls the Stormbreaker".
Stormbreaker. Alex remembered the file he had found in the not-bank's office. Things were beginning to come together.
"The Stormbreaker is being manufactured by Sayle Enterprises" Mrs Jones continued, "There's been a lot of talk about the design. It has a black keyboard and black casing".
"It doesn't only look different" Blunt cut in, "It's based on a completely new technology. It uses something called the round processor. I don't suppose that will mean anything to you-"
"It's an integrated circuit on a sphere of silicon about one millimetre in diameter" Alex said, "It's ninety per cent cheaper to produce than an ordinary chip because the whole thing is sealed in so you don't need clean rooms for production".
"Oh. Yes". Blunt coughed. "I'm surprised you know so much about it".
"It must be my age".
"Well" Blunt continued, with a somewhat irritated look, "the point is, later today, Sayle Enterprises are going to make a quite remarkable announcement. They are planning to give away tens of thousands of these computers. In fact, it is their intention to ensure that every secondary school in England gets its own Stormbreaker. It's an unparalleled act of generosity, Sayle's way of thanking the country that gave him a home".
"So the man's a hero".
"So it would seem. He wrote to Downing Street a few months ago: 'My dear Prime Minister. You may remember me from our school days together-'"
"With all due respect" Alex interrupted - which was none, "I don't give a single damn what the letter said. Whatever you're asking me to do, whatever problem you're having with this Sayle guy - I don't care. I just want to go home".
Blunt took another, measured, sip of wine.
"Sayle is planning to donate one of these Stormbreaker computers to every school in England, with the prime minister pressing the button in a special ceremony at the Science Museum in London on April first. The fact of the matter is, we think that this is too good to be true".
"The government's too keen to get their hands on these computers to listen to us" Mrs Jones said, "That was why we decided to send our own man down to the plant. Supposedly to check on security. But, in fact, his job was to keep an eye on Herod Sayle. He was there for three weeks and- Well. In the end, he said that he'd discovered something. That the Stormbreakers mustn't leave the plant and that he was coming up to London at once. He left Port Tallon at four o'clock. He never even got to the freeway. He was ambushed in a quiet country lane. The local police found the car".
Well, at least that explained where they got the killed-in-a-car-crash idea for Ian.
12.33 pm, Thursday, 10th March
MI6 Training Centre, Wales
"Why are you telling me all this?" Alex asked.
"It proves what we were saying" Blunt replied, "We have our doubts about Sayle so we send a man down. Our best man. He finds out something and he ends up dead. We don't know what Sayle has to hide, but we do know that we need to find out the truth soon before these computers leave the plant".
"They're being shipped out on March thirty-first" Jones added, "Only three weeks from now. That's why it's essential for us to send someone else to Port Tallon. Someone to continue where our agent left off".
Alex started to get a sinking feeling in his stomach, even as his brain rejected the possibility of what they were suggesting completely.
"We can't just send in another agent. The enemy has shown his hand. He's killed one already. He'll be expecting a replacement. Somehow we have to trick him".
"We have to send someone in who won't be noticed" Blunt continued. "Someone who can look around and report back without being seen; and a few months ago, an opportunity presented itself. I won't bore you with the details-"
Alex snorted in disbelief but the man continued, unperturbed.
"-but the long and short of it is Sayle ran a competition in one of these computer magazines, with the first prize being a chance to use the Stormbreaker before anyone else, but, more importantly, meet Herod Sayle himself… You've already shown yourself to be extraordinarily brave and resourceful. Our surveillance over the years proved that much. And then there was that little test we arranged for you at the bank. Any boy who would climb out of a fifteenth-floor window just to satisfy his own curiosity has to be rather special, and it seems to me that you are very special indeed".
"Wait a minute-"
"What we're suggesting is that you come and work for us" Mrs Jones finished, "We have enough time to give you some basic training and we can equip you with a few items that may help you with what we have in mind. Then we'll arrange for you to take the place of the real winner of the competition, and you'll go to Sayle Enterprises on March twenty-ninth and stay there until April first, which is the day of the ceremony. The timing couldn't be better. You'll be able to meet Herod Sayle, keep an eye on him, and tell us what you think. Perhaps you'll also find out what it was that our agent discovered and why he had to die for it. You shouldn't be in any danger. After all, who would suspect a fourteen-year-old boy of being a spy?"
This was ridiculous. This was- This was beyond ridiculous!
"All we're asking you to do is to report back to us" Blunt said, "April first is just three weeks from now. That's all we're asking. Three weeks of your time. A chance to make sure these computers are everything they're cracked up to be. A chance to serve your country".
"I don't want to serve my country!" Alex exploded, "I'm fourteen years old for god's sake! This is- This is insane! You kidnapped me to- to what? Act like a good little soldier and spy on some random millionaire just because you have a bad feeling about him? No! I won't do it - I just want to go home!"
Blunt had finished his lunch. His plate was completely clean as if there had never been any food on it at all. He put down his knife and fork, laying them precisely side by side and gave Alex a… look.
"Yes. I thought you might act like this. Perhaps you need some time to think-"
"I don't need time to-"
"We'll return once more tomorrow" Blunt cut him off, standing, "Remember, Alex - your uncle trained you for this. He would be very disappointed to hear that you turned down the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to protect England".
"Oh yeah?" he asked viciously, "Then why didn't you go to him first?! Ask me directly? You wouldn't have kidnapped me if you thought there was any chance of Ian telling you to go fuck yourself!"
His eyes darkened, his hands tightened into fists by his side, and for a split second, Alex wondered if he was seriously going to hit him. But then Jones stood up also and subtly placed her hand on his arm, and the moment passed.
"You will agree to do this, Alex" Blunt said, voice taut with barely restrained anger, "One way or another… Enjoy the rest of your stew".
He glanced at the pieces of cold beef on his plate.
Dead meat.
Suddenly he knew how it felt.