Chapter VII: To Whom It Will Concern- I'm Running on Adrenaline and the Devil's Luck, So Kindly F* Off into the Sunset
AN: Thank you all so much for enjoying this story! I was honestly very surprised by the delight you guys are getting out of this! It made my day when I read the comments!
So, because of the startlingly positive response to this story, I have been led to do some actual plotting! As in, rather than just improv-ing my way through the chapters with only a vague idea of where I want it to go, I've actually sat down and typed out the general plot! Surprise! And wish me luck, a better attention span, and the ability to not get interrupted every five minutes!
PS: My laptop died and I had to wait to get another, and then find a replacement for my old MS Word, so sorry for the delay!
Yulian Kozlovof the Ministry of Economic Development of the Russian Federationstared in genuine disbelief. Ignoring the child for the moment, he stood from behind his desk, carefully stepping around the heavy piece of furniture, to stand before the rather emaciated young man whom he could only think to call "Yassen".
"Truly, is that you, Gregorovich?" he asked, the Russian words spoken softly and in wonderment.
Piercing blue eyes regarded Kozlov in a pensive silence that stretched near awkwardness before rounding into something heavier.
"Should I list our shared history and your business dealings for the last ten years?" Yassen spoke, replying in Russian as well and arching a sardonic brow.
Kozlov blinked, a smile spreading across his features before letting out a loud laugh.
"Yes, you are indeed Yassen. No one else speaks as you do to me, and you look identical to the young man I hired so many years ago!"
Yassen inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement before glancing down at Alex, who'd been staring at Kozlov in brief puzzlement followed by dawning understanding. His expression shuttered upon noticing Yassen's sharp gaze, brown eyes flicking away in an effort to not let Yassen read them.
Following Yassen's gaze, Kozlov looked down at the small, wan-faced boy wrapped and restrained in what appeared to be hospital gowns. The beginnings of a large, ruler-straight bruise crept across the bridge of the boy's nose and cheekbones, like some strange version of war-paint. Something in the child's guarded brown eyes spoke of trouble, and despite the distinct lack of expression on the boy's face, mulishness and determination radiated from his body language.
Kozlov looked between the two younger males for a moment before returning his attention to the child, steeling himself in order to ignore the small case he'd seen in Yassen's grasp and the hope it evoked.
"So, you are Kingsley's son, yes?" he said, accent soft and suddenly businesslike as he regarded the child standing in his private study. Kozlov paused until the boy gave a reluctant nod before continuing, "Your…fatherhas gotten himself into a spot of trouble. Trouble that I'm afraid will keep him uncomfortable for the duration of his stay. That trouble extends to you, in addition to your own newfound troubles with my formerly missing head of security," said Kozlov, composed and unruffled despite the oddness of the entire situation.
Alex bit the inside of his cheek, reminding himself of his cover, though he suspected everyone in the room knew it to be a farce. It'd be nice, he reflected, if just once his cover wasn't so easily discovered. But he'd maintain it so long as no one directly challenged it; insinuations weren't concrete knowledge, regardless of what those in the intelligence community thought.
"Is my father alright?" Alex finally asked, looking up at Kozlov and channeling all the worry and anxiety he could into his eyes and voice, "Has he been hurt?"
"He is in good condition, more or less, although he is not comfortable. He's been asking after you every chance he can," responded the man, faint amusement crinkling the corner of his eyes at Alex's continued charade, "You shall join him in a moment, and both your worries will be eased."
"That doesn't sound ominous at all," muttered Alex, shifting back slightly while frowning at Kozlov who had turned towards his desk, pulling a cellphone from his trouser pocket.
Yassen, hearing Alex's nearly inaudible comment and sensing the boy's movement, reached out in an almost casual move to grip the back of Alex's neck. The spy immediately froze; shooting a nervous glare at Yassen, Alex silently lamented having released his uncle's killer, shifting uncomfortably. Yassen squeezed in response, a silent reminder for the boy to behave. Alex winced and suppressed a shudder, the firm grip borderline painful and completely unsettling, but he didn't dare move or try to shrug the grip away.
Silence, aside from Kozlov's quiet speech in Russian, stretched before the man hung up and leaned casually against his desk. A few minutes later, a polite rap on the door heralded a pair of security guards dressed in black suits. Kozlov spoke to them quickly in more Russian, much to Alex's annoyance, and the two men turned their attention to the restrained child. Yassen pushed Alex in their direction.
The child tripped briefly before managing to catch himself, the push unexpected. Alex glowered at Yassen and spat out one of the few words in Russian he'd learned while goofing off with Tom a few years ago:
"Трахни тебя!1"
Kozlov choked on a surprised laugh, turning away to get control of himself. Yassen gave him an unimpressed look.
"Your pronunciation is not bad, but it needs work," he said dryly.
Alex increased his glare and spat out additional profanities in five other languages and a few more in Russian that made one of the security guards yelp.
Kozlov's shoulders shook with suppressed mirth for a moment before he got control of himself and ordered the guards to take him to join his "father". Yassen added a quiet command in Russian that caused the guards to hesitate, glancing to Kozlov for confirmation. He nodded his consent, green-hazel eyes glinting with humor.
Alex didn't have time to question the look or Yassen's order as he quite suddenly found himself lifted into the air and thrown over a suit-clad shoulder. He struggled briefly, spitting more invective and struggling ineffectually as he was hauled out of the room, the door closing on a rather inventive curse aimed at Yassen and Russia as a whole.
The moment the door clicked shut, Kozlov let loose, a surprisingly infectious laugh that lasted about thirty seconds. He took a seat as he wiped amused tears from his eyes, dropping into the comfortable leather chair behind his desk and gesturing for Yassen to have a seat in the small armchair on the opposite side of the desk. Yassen sank into it gratefully, though it didn't show on his face. His body ached in a way that it hadn't since the time Cray shot him on Air Force One. As much as he desired to go make himself feel human again, business came first.
He placed the case atop the desk before Kozlov, whose eyes immediately locked onto it, eyes glimmering.
"Is this it? Is it complete?" he asked quietly, earlier joviality gone to be replaced with cautious desperation.
"Yes, though I recommend having it examined and tested to assure of its safety."
"Of course, I will not risk his well-being unnecessarily," Kozlov said softly, "Thank you, Yassen. Now, can you tell me what has happened to you?"
Yassen inclined his head in a nod, "A clean-up crew for the labs is necessary."
Kozlov eyed Yassen for a moment before nodding in understanding and making another quick call. That done, the older man turned his full attention to Yassen and waited.
"Roswell finished the project weeks ago, but hid the fact in order to continue using the labs and your funding for his own… project," Yassen explained, an undercurrent of anger inflecting his normally empty tone. Chills ran up Kozlov's back; he hadn't heard genuine anger in Yassen's voice for many years. "I have taken care of all those in the labs, though Roswell was not among them. And I destroyed all traces of his extra research," the assassin continued.
Kozlov's eyes hardened, his voice going glacially cold as he replied, "Good. He does not deserve a quick death, nor will he be given one."
Yassen nodded, having had many days to contemplate on Roswell's ultimate fate; he looked forward to delivering it.
"I take it Roswell's side project has something to do with your… current state?" Kozlov asked, sharp eyes again taking in Yassen's new age and rough appearance.
"Yes," he replied simply.
"Then I shall leave Roswell to you, after you've had some sleep and some food. Do you require medical attention?"
Yassen responded negatively before posing a question of his own:
"What is your plan for Kingsley and the boy?"
"My priority currently is this," responded Kozlov, placing a gentle hand on the closed case, "Is it too much to have you handle them?"
"Not at all. The man I know how to deal with, I've dealt with them before. As for the boy, it should be simple, but it is best not to underestimate the trouble he can bring," stated Yassen, standing slowly and carefully.
"Know him well, do you?" grinned Kozlov, eyebrow raised.
"The son of an old acquaintance," replied the assassin vaguely, turning away and walking to the door.
"I didn't think you hadacquaintances."
Yassen didn't reply, slipping silently out the door and closing it behind him. Kozlov shook his head, deciding to pry another day.
He had more important things to deal with, after all. He reached out to the case and opened it almost reverently.
"Yes. Much more important,"he thought.
Alex couldn't decide which pissed him off more: being manhandled and carried out the door like the child he appeared to be, or the fact that it was his own damn fault for releasing Yassen in the first place. Though if he wanted to be honest with himself, he knew he couldn'thave left Yassen like that… His conscience (which always sounded distinctly like Jack) wouldn't allow it.
He heaved a sigh and tried to shift, tensing the aching muscles of his stomach. The guard's shoulder pressed uncomfortably into his abdomen and his lower ribs were beginning to ache; he couldn't support himself, still trapped in his pseudo-straightjacket.
The guard felt him straining and jostled him, allowing his shoulder to slam into Alex's stomach. Air left Alex's lungs in an uncomfortable rush and he coughed. Struggling to get his air back, Alex kept his complaints silent, but made sure he remembered the guard's face.
Alex turned his attention to his surroundings, trying to mentally map out the way they were walking; if he and Kingsley managed to escape, knowing the route would be of great help, especially since he didn't know Kingsley's current condition.
They continued down the hall, taking turn after turn. Alex made note of each one, every different hallway, and each set of stairs, always headed down. Unsure of exactly how, Alex slowly became aware that they were underground, likely on the same or similar level as the labs.
According to Alex's estimate, it had taken roughly ten minutes to reach the dim hallway they now stood in. A set of three doors on one side of the hallway and two on the other made an off-balance frame for the single heavy door at the end of the hall opposite.
The guard holding Alex carried him closer to the end of the hall, towards the heavy door Alex could just barely see by craning his neck. A meter or so from the door, the guard unceremoniously dropped him. Alex landed hard with a pained shout, barely managing to turn and protect his neck and head. The guard smirked down at him while the other worked on unlocking the heavy, reinforced door.
Alex turned his head, eyeing the door. It appeared to require a code, some kind of card with a magnetic strip, and the guard's thumbprint.
"Isn't that overkill, having a three-step verification?" Alex commented dryly.
"Our head of security recommended it," intoned the guard standing above Alex, watching the child with sharp eyes.
A light beep followed by a heavy thunk heralded the door finally unlocking. The guard opened the door and light spilled into the room beyond. Alex heard a faint rustling sound before he was grabbed and hefted onto his feet.
"Alright," said the other guard, "Toss him in."
"Wait," a cool voice commanded; it echoed down the hallway, eerie in its familiarity.
"Who—?" Alex's guard turned towards the voice, confused for a moment before recognition lit his features, "Sir!"
"Sir?"wondered Alex, stomach dropping as the voice he'd heard truly registered, "Yassen?"
And it was. Having showered and dressed into his own clothes, he didn't seem terribly different from when Alex had first run into him at the airport. Not at a distance anyway. Alex wondered what Yassen planned on doing with his much younger appearance in the long run.
"Untie him and search him thoroughly. Remove everything and put him in these," ordered Yassen, tossing a bag at their feet.
Alex's heart sank and he bit the inside of his cheek, hard. He held still as the guard quickly and efficiently cut away the dressing gowns, tossing them to the side. His suit jacket, tie, and button up shirt were removed as were his shoes and socks, leaving him shivering in his thin undershirt and slacks. He folded his arms, attempting to conceal the watch. The guard missed it initially, more focused on giving his legs a pat down. Alex glanced up, struggling to conceal the flinch when his eyes landed on Yassen.
"Remove the watch, Alex," stated Yassen, blue eyes narrowing at the boy.
"It's just a watch," said Alex quietly, "Jack got it for me. Really, it's not a gadget or anything! Please, can't I—?"
"No."
The guard, having finished the pat down and been listening to the exchange, quickly wrenched Alex's arms apart. He spotted the watch quickly and removed it roughly, leaving a welting scratch on Alex's wrist. Alex glared as the man carelessly threw the watch atop the pile of Alex's other belongings.
The guard picked up the bag Yassen had tossed to them earlier and shoved it into Alex's arms.
"Change your clothes or we will change them for you," stated the guard, standing to his full height and glaring down at Alex in a show of intimidation that made Alex want to roll his eyes.
Alex looked down the hall at Yassen and sighed internally. Changing clothes would happen whether he wanted it to or not, he was sure.
"I guess I'll save myself the bruises,"he thought resignedly, "Do I get any privacy, at least?" he asked aloud.
Unsurprisingly, the answer was "no" and he got his head smacked for the trouble. Muttering under his breath, Alex opened the bag and pulled out a thin, dark grey t-shirt and a pair of flannel pajama pants that thankfully (and disturbingly) weren't too loose.
Gritting his teeth, Alex carefully shucked off his undershirt and tugged on the t-shirt before sitting down and removing his slacks. He shivered badly when the cold crept upwards from the tiled floor, and tried to ignore the three pairs of eyes watching him struggle to pull on the pajama pants.
He managed to get them on and stood carefully, fully redressed in the slightly ill-fitting clothes and looking simultaneously old and young. He looked challengingly in Yassen's direction, lifting his chin, but unable to help wrapping his arms around himself due to the cold and an instinctual need to comfort himself.
"Lock him up," Yassen commanded, "And collect his belongings."
Then Yassen was gone, swiftly and silently. The guards shoved Alex into the cell, the door locking automatically behind him, leaving Alex standing alone in the dark.
"Alex? Is that you?"
Kingsley's voice, tired and hoarse and accompanied by the small clink of metal chain, echoed slightly in the quiet.
"Yeah. Where are you, are you alright?" asked Alex softly, cautiously stepping forward as his eyes slowly adjusted to the near dark; he could just make out a shape some steps away from him.
"I'm at the back wall, about ten steps from the door," the man replied, "I'm alright, just a bit roughed up and—" his words were broken by a wet sounding cough that Alex didn't like the sound of.
"That doesn't sound good," Alex commented, mentally tallying his steps as he approached the silhouette ahead of him, "What all have they done since they caught you?"
Upon reaching eleven steps, Alex nearly tripped over a pair of bare feet. Kingsley gave a grunt of pain and reached up with a quiet jingle of metal to steady Alex from where he was leaned slumped against the wall. Alex could feel the dampness on Kingsley's skin and sleeve, and hoped that the man had simply been sweating. Memories of Australia had him reflexively gripping the man's arm more tightly.
"I'm fine, Alex. No need to worry about me."
In the near-dark, Alex leaned into the man's face and speared him with a look he'd picked up from Jack and refined from Sabina's mother.
"Did they beat you hard enough to puncture a lung, or did they use water on you?" he asked, his young voice hard and implacable in a way that Kingsley hadn't heard before.
"Alex…" Kingsley warned, using the tone most adults use when trying to warn off a child.
"Dad…" Alex mimicked, impatience thick in his voice, "I need to know, so I know what to do for you and can maybebeg some treatment if necessary. Also, in terms of potential escape, I need to know if you're able should the opportunity arise. Don't be a damn arse!" he stated fiercely, having had it with adults, Russia, MI6, and damn assassins that don't stay dead and out of his life, "I'm here regardless of your thoughts on the matter and I'm the only support you've got at the moment. Trying to shelter me now out of some ambiguous sense of morality will get both of us killed or worse! So, shove off and give me a damn SitRep of your condition and what the fuck happened in the span of time you left the ballroom to when you called me!" Alex's voice stayed steady and clear despite the inferno of rage and frustration simmering in his throat that ached to be released in a violent yell.
Kingsley blinked, surprised at both the amount of vitriol in Alex's voice and the amount of words Alex spoke; he'd never heard the boy speak so much, let alone all at once. And then he thought over the words themselves and heaved a sigh that sent a coughing fit racking through his chest.
"You're right, Alex," he replied, his voice crackling and slightly breathless, "Trying to— to shelter you isn't going to do either of us… any good at this point."
"Nice to see some of you can be reasonable, though it seems to take capture and apparently some kind of torture for that to happen," said Alex crossly, shifting himself to sit next to the man, reasoning that Kingsley probably felt the chill worse than he did at the moment.
"We tend to be a stubborn lot," agreed Kingsley, glad despite himself for the boy's company and warmth.
Alex didn't reply and waited, noticing how the agent shifted minutely closer. He wasn't quite soaked, but he'd obviously been doused with water somehow at some point.
The silence stretched, and still, Alex waited. Eventually, Kingsley spoke, as Alex knew he would.
"I met up with an… acquaintance. We chatted briefly and shook hands," he said, pointedly glancing down at Alex to see if the boy understood. He received a nod and then continued, taking care not to rush as his breathing wasn't steady like it should be, "We were saying our goodbyes when he just… keeled over, a small hole in his forehead. I hurried away and tried to call the authorities."
"Meaning MI6," thought Alex.
"I got through to them after some time, but by then, Kozlov's security found the body and spotted me. I ran away so I could call and warn you. I got caught shortly after and they dragged me down here to play Twenty Questions," he finished humorlessly, tiredness sapping his ability to stay upright without assistance.
"I'm assuming they weren't particularly gentle?" asked Alex, shifting himself in order to support the man while glancing at Kingsley's slumping form, unable to distinguish any physical damage aside from the dampness and the breathless coughing.
"Mhm. They alternated between electrocution and waterboarding. They seemed to think I'm an enemy agent of some , too, though I don't know what kind."
"That explains the dampness and the breathing troubles…"thought Alex, "Any electrical burns?" he asked aloud, turning to try to get a better look at Kingsley and wishing he had a light source better than the light that shone from the crack under the door.
"Internally is likely, and there's probably a few on my chest and arms," Kingsley mumbled.
"Get some sleep for now. Is there any kind of blanket or cot in here? Pillow?" asked Alex, not particularly hopeful.
Kingsley shook his head with effort, the conversation and relief at knowing Alex was fine sapping the final reserves of his energy. Alex helped the man lie down and get as comfortable as he could. As Alex drew back, Kingsley reached out, catching Alex's arm in a tight grip and tugging him down, closer to his face.
"What is it, Dad?" he asked, resisting the urge to struggle away.
"In the pocket of my coat at the apartment. If you're let go, bring it home and invest it with the Bank. Please, you have to…" he murmured, staring into Alex's brown eyes with intent and desperation.
"Yeah, you got it. I'll do what you want, Dad, just… get some sleep," said Alex quietly, carefully pulling his arm out of Kingsley's grip.
Alex moved to Kingsley's other side and sat down tiredly, slumping against the cold wall. He shivered before drawing his legs up and wrapping his arms around them in an attempt to keep his core warm. The room, while not being freezing, seemed to hover in the 14 to 15 degree Celsius range, and the cement floor with brick walls did nothing to alleviate the chill.
"I guess they want us uncomfortable enough to have trouble sleeping, but not enough to make us fall seriously ill,"thought the child-teen, lowering his head to rest on his knees, "I should try to rest regardless, then figure out how to get us out of here…"
Alex mulled over their predicament, anxious and worried and unable to truly rest due to the cold and inability to get comfortable. Kingsley didn't seem to have that particular trouble, having already passed out minutes ago, his quiet snores interspersed with wheezing breaths. But then, Alex reflected, torture could exhaust anyone enough to pass out in near any situation.
Thinking about Kingsley brought forth a different concern, and Alex wondered exactly what he could do. He had no gadgets, no accessible back-up, and no shoes(again).
"And then there's the fact that Yassen knows me, and won't allow the guards here to underestimate me… Apparently, he's chief of bloody security here,"he thought with irritation, shifting uncomfortably. "How did Roswell even catch him?"he wondered abruptly, "There aren't many situations where that guy could get caught off guard… I bet he got tranqed. Probably with a hefty dose, too..."
Alex's thoughts continued to meander. Ideas, both radical and improbable, continued to circulate until he eventually drifted into a shallow doze, Kingsley's continued breathing an odd sort of comfort and white noise.
Yassen studied his reflection, disconcerted despite himself at what he saw. The young, too-thin face staring back at him brought up old memories he'd rather not dwell on. The days of little-to-no food, combined with everything Roswell had done, caused Yassen a good deal of weight loss. Roswell had simply given him an IV and the occasional energy bar that he could eat one-handed. Most of his captivity had been spent strapped to the table Alex found him on.
The assassin considered his face and body for a long moment, imagining it filled out after food and rest. Muscle mass had been lost; he would need to up his usual exercise regimen in order to fill out again. And his current youthful face could pose a problem, as the security he'd been working with prior to his capture knew how his face should look.
"Minimal contact, then" he murmured to himself, "Maintain some distance and keep my face obscured for now. My height and voice remain unchanged, so communication via remote methods should be fine. Most everything is already in place and the job should be concluding soon."
Yassen nodded to himself and turned away from the mirror, reorganizing his plans and forming contingencies. Most of the job requests he received came through the dark web or via secure contacts. He rarely interacted directly with his clients except through secured calls and emails. As for doing the jobs… Well, he was always picky about what contracts he accepted anyway.
Five Days Later
Yulian Kozlov watched apprehensively as the long awaited cure was injected into his exhausted, sleeping son. The doctor gave him a nod once it was done and immediately began recording and checking the eleven year old's vitals.
"We will be monitoring and checking his condition around the clock," the doctor reassured, "And, as you know, we've done extensive testing on Roswell's creation to ensure it's safety and purpose. Daniil should show signs of improvement in as soon as 24 hours."
"Thank you, Doctor," Kozlov replied quietly, remaining in his seat beside his son, unmoving from holding his son's limp hand and eyes unwavering from his child's thin face.
The doctor quietly left, feeling cautiously optimistic for the father and son. He turned after closing the door, nearly running into a man he recognized belatedly as Kozlov's head of security, despite the black pseudo-surgical mask covering the lower half of his face.
Yassen glanced a question and the doctor promptly answered, referring to his clipboard automatically:
"The medicine has been administered, and Daniil's vitals are quite good. There should be further improvements in around twenty-four hours," the doctor reported, keeping his gaze on the clipboard in his hand and resisting the urge to gulp nervously.
Yassen removed his attention from the doctor, who promptly walked away, murmuring a need to compile his notes and readings on Daniil's condition. The assassin shook his head before turning to the door, giving a soft knock as warning before opening the door and slipping quietly inside.
Kozlov didn't look up, but he flashed Yassen a slight grin.
"The doctor's prognosis seems good. We'll know more by tomorrow."
"That is good," responded Yassen, voice soft as he unhooked the mask from around his ears.
Kozlov finally dragged his attention away from his son to regard the now youthful assassin, internally marveling at Yassen's rejuvenated form before reminding himself of business.
"So, the child and his "father"… Who do they work for?" he asked, leaning back in the chair and folding his hands in his lap, "I assume England, but one never knows for certain when these things happen."
"MI6."
There was a pregnant pause before Kozlov spoke again.
"Are they in the habit of using such a young child?" Kozlov asked, eyes skeptical as he waited for Yassen to elaborate.
"Not typically. Have you heard the name Alex Rider?" said Yassen simply.
"Of course. I've heard whispers, but the boy was a teenager. He should be a young adult by now…"
Yassen stared at Kozlov for a moment before raising an eyebrow. Kozlov blinked, confused for a moment before he was once again reminded of Yassen's situation and made the connection.
"You don't mean—"
"Yes. He got dosed before I did, which is what gave Roswell the urge to… Experiment."
"And now, rather than a teenager, he is a child?" exclaimed Kozlov, keeping his voice hushed, "How extraordinary… He has worse luck than you," he chuckled.
Yassen made a non-committal shrug, neither acknowledging nor denying it; Rider luck tended to be very good or very bad, rarely was it in between.
"The people I sent out to track Roswell have found some leads. I will be dividing my time between finding him and gaining more information about our guests and their purpose here."
"Good. I will have to pass on our "guests" to the appropriate authorities, at some point,"responded Kozlov, looking pensive, "It will be good to have certain answers for them…"
Yassen dipped his head in a nod; he'd worked with those "authorities" before, and the more information they could give, the better. The assassin turned, hooking the half-mask back onto his face, about to leave and get to work when Kozlov spoke again.
"I intend to use the boy, at least for a few days, once Daniil is on his feet. My son will be undergoing physical therapy to build his strength up once more. I believe Alex will make a good companion," said Kozlov, cutting a glance in Yassen's direction, "And teen though he might be inside, his body is not. I don't intend for him to fall ill in captivity."
Yassen glanced back at Kozlov, nodding after a moment.
"Don't tell Kingsley your intentions. Just drag the boy out and I will question Kingsley a day or so after," Yassen paused a moment, "The boy will likely escape," he warned.
Kozlov laughed, "Quite probably. But that would be better, I think. I don't like the idea of giving such a physically young child to the FSB."
Yassen shrugged. The boy would be too valuable as leverage against MI6 for the FSB to truly harm him, but they would also find his new age of interest and want to study him or use him.
Either way, Alex would find himself deeply regretting going along with MI6 this time.
End Chapter VII
Трахни тебя (Poshyol ty): F*ck you
Apologies if I didn't get it quite right!
Author's Notes-
-The "Ministry of Economic Development of the Russian Federation" is a real thing, but it's something I've only done a little research into. Politics/government are hard enough for me to grasp in my own country, let alone another's lol. So, just take it as Yulian Kozlov (completely made up and based on no one) works within that branch of the government, a former businessman who naturally gravitated into the Ministry (who, of course, "naturally" has a hand in many things which include certain necessary criminal ties).
-The FSB, from what I can gather, are a branch in Russia that typically handles foreign spies found within their homeland. For some reason [insert sarcasm here], it's a bit difficult to get a grasp on foreign intelligence agencies and how they operate with just using G*gle _
-If I've got things terribly wrong and out of context, I do apologize. I'd planned not to be too specific, since I don't hold much, if any, knowledge in these areas, but I felt some clarity on Kozlov's job and monetary assets would be necessary.
