Chapter Text
“Have you heard of a rumour going around about General Sarov recently?”
“No.”
Smudged pigment on lips curling into a smile smudged further against the filter of a cigarette held between delicate fingers.
“Aren’t you the least bit curious?”
“No.”
Laughter bubbled from her throat, the kind that could be grating to some, patronising to most. To him, he could hear it for what it is.
“Do not taunt me. A schoolyard taunt like that is pedestrian, at best.”
“But the promise of a mysterious rumour is not?” She asked, taking a deep drag of her cigarette. “Yassen, have you truly seen enough of the world to not even be intrigued by the mere notion of the world’s most powerful man’s secrets?”
“He pays well. That is all I care about.”
“Mm. I like you; I’ll tell you about it anyway while you get dressed.” Another drag of a cigarette, tar and tobacco in the air through an indulgent exhale past smiling lips. “It is said that somewhere in General Alexei Sarov’s presidential palace, there is a treasure. One that he holds close to himself, closer than anything else in the world.”
The man across her, slipping on a pair of trousers, snorted derisively. “All men have something like that.”
“Except you.”
“I am not like most men, Maria.”
Maria tipped her head in agreement, and continued: “It is said that this treasure—whatever it is—is the linchpin to General Sarov’s entire empire. Without it, he will crumble.”
“Sounds valuable.” The man’s words were clipped, disinterested, and Maria snorted softly.
“My employers would like to know what it is.” She said, and finally, a knowing smirk crossed his lips. “You’re so difficult sometimes, I can’t get why people put up with you.”
“I am good with ending lives.” He said.
“Yassen Gregorovich, the world’s most dangerous man.” Maria sighed dramatically, putting a little smirk on the man’s lips. “I hardly recognise you these days with that reputation of yours. No longer the little boy whored out alongside me in SCORPIA honeypots. All grown up.”
“You know what they say about time.”
“What?”
“Its progression cannot be stopped.”
“Like you, I assume?”
That pulled a little laugh from Yassen’s lips, making Maria laugh.
“For how much?” He asked. “Assuming that all you will ask of me is to find out what the treasure is. I am no thief—my skills belong elsewhere.”
“I’ve told them that, yes.” She said, “They insisted.”
“Why?”
“Aren’t you on the way there anyway?”
In an instant, a knife embedded itself into the headboard where Maria rested. She remained unperturbed, not even flinching despite a thin red line appearing on her fine, high cheekbone. She snorted, rolling her eyes as she took another drag of her cigarette.
“Come, now, you know at this point that my employers will have eyes on key figures in the underground, including you.” Maria tutted like she was scolding a child on a schoolyard, and once upon a time, she had. Now, however, the man she was facing was decidedly not the same boy she knew all those years ago.
Still, she clung on.
“It will be an in and out sort of thing. Send me a little text. Throw in a cute little face like the children do these days.” Maria shrugged, “No need to put yourself in danger; you don’t even have to verify the correct information. I don't have enough love for my handler to make sure the information is accurate.”
“Why bother asking then? Send a message and be done with it.”
“They have wired me with a bribe—ah, incentive—for you.” She said, “$100,000 for the down payment. The balance, they said, was up to you. I’m doing this properly because I like you. You need employment, Yassen, otherwise you would not be moonlighting freelance gigs alongside your actual job, yeah?”
“Could I not just find my employers a bore?” Yassen felt the corners of his lips turning up into a smirk.
“You’re already considering it.” Maria’s lips mirrored his, despite the thin red line now dripping down her cheek.
“One text. You will receive it when I send it.” Yassen replied.
“America thanks you.” Maria said, in perfect, Midwest accented English, making Yassen bark out a laugh.
“I’ve never heard you speak anything aside from Russian. That was a surprise.” He said.
“You’re not the only one with worldly experience.” Maria scoffed, switching back to Russian. “So, is that it? Will you get out of my room now?”
“Yes, Masha.” An echo of a time when they were younger, orphans, finding comfort in each other. Maria’s lips curled again.
“Someone’s nostalgic.”
“I will see you in a while.” Dismissive, curt.
“No, I don’t think so.” Maria’s eyes were wistful as she looked out of the window, at the softly falling snow outside. “I will be out of the country soon enough. I hope you don’t mind international charges on your texts?”
“I’ll take it out of your balance.”
Maria let out a bark of laughter, lying back down in bed with a happy sigh, pulling the duvet up her naked body not out of any sort of modesty, but to snuggle up in bedclothes for comfort.
“Though you need it the least, Yassen, good luck.” She said, snuffing out her cigarette on an ashtray on the nightstand as Yassen finished dressing himself. “I hope the discovery is worth it.”
“So do I.” He replied, “Take care, Maria.”
“Live, Yassen.” Maria intoned, already shutting her eyes, and she could only hear the door shutting as she settled down to sleep.
As of two years ago, General Alexei Sarov is the most powerful man in the world.
Yassen had simply been in the right place at the right time when the world as he once knew it ended. Two years ago, he had been en route from Ulaanbaatar to meet with a contact in Almaty when he saw it—the nuclear explosion was visible from where he was seated in a plane over 30,000 feet in the sky. The news spread through the world quickly after that—of the accident in Murmansk, of the exploding nuclear rods in the graveyard of ships, and the quick fall of Boris Kiriyenko and that journalistic exposé of the man’s incompetence in the face of the accident.
Yassen knew better than to think it was an accident, as much of the world had. General Sarov’s rapid rise to power was more than enough evidence for him that something was amiss, but he stayed out of that business.
It did not matter to him, not really—though hundreds and thousands had died initially, and millions more in the aftermath, there was no use crying over spilled milk. In the end, Russia became a superpower across the world, and communism was on the rise again. He had little care for governments or how things had settled, really—all Yassen’s life revolved around death, the smell of gunpowder and smoke, blood, and money.
SCORPIA was kept busy in the months after Sarov’s takeover. Clients from all sides of multiple conflicts—from hasty little startups vying for a vain attempt at a takeover from the power vacuum left by the loss of Kiriyenko, to cartels and mobs taking advantage of a world in turmoil—were up to something or other, and large, upcoming plans with other SCORPIA clients like Damian Cray had to be set aside. Yassen found himself moonlighting for all sorts of sordid folk in the meantime, as he watched the western world collapse under nuclear fallout.
America was luckily mostly unscathed—hurricanes battering the entire eastern seaboard caused by the winds that carried the Murmansk Disaster’s nuclear clouds from Russia to the rest of Europe prevented any further penetration of radiation into the country. Even now, however, America struggled to keep hold of its power over most of the world. Crippled from the loss of numerous allies, with the biggest loss of the United Kingdom, Yassen knew it would not take long for America’s capitalism to crumble under Sarov’s communism.
Even now, the United Kingdom is burning. Its borders closed; its people left to die slow, painful deaths. There have been many protests in the streets, even in Russia, for humanitarian aid to the people of the United Kingdom, but cries were left unheard. Though Yassen cared not to claim to know Sarov’s intentions of letting such protests happen, he could venture a guess that it was a show of power to America—a show of empathy, a kind, caring totalitarian regime against the lawless recklessness of America’s loose, careless government.
Oxymoronic as it was, anyway.
In the underworld, Yassen learned of the collapse of MI6. By now, he was sure that the power structure of the United Kingdom was still very much alive and well, though holed up in bunkers left inaccessible for two years. The isolation, the cold standoff between America’s attempts to aid and rescue and Russia’s public outcry over the preferential attention of America to the United Kingdom’s bunkered elite, keeping the British government powerless and unable to move.
With MI6 rendered useless, Yassen sometimes found himself thinking of John Rider’s son. He didn’t know where he would have been when the Murmansk Disaster happened—there was no news of young Alex Rider, and he supposed there would never be. At best, Yassen hoped that young Alex would be dead from radiation poisoning so he would never have to be used by MI6 again.
At worst… well. He wished that only peace came to John Rider’s son, mostly out of lingering affection for the man and his family.
Especially young Alex. It was a strange feeling, realising that the last time he saw the boy was from a rooftop in London, which was now a ghost city haunted by melting, burning flesh.
The poor thing was barely through a quarter of his life. A shame, really.
Landing in Moscow felt unfamiliar. The last time Yassen was in Moscow was before Sarov.
Two years felt like a lifetime, thinking of things that way—before and after General Alexei Sarov. The end of an era and the start of a new one. Moscow’s unfamiliarity reflected the change in the world that Yassen could see elsewhere, and soon he found himself approached by burly men in military uniform at the airport, a polite little whiteboard placard that simply read in neat, bold Cyrillic, Mr. Ivanov.
Of course that was not Yassen’s name, but the dossier on his task in Moscow said that that was his name, and that Mr. Viktor Ivanov was a welcome guest into General Alexei Sarov’s home for the next few weeks.
Diplomacy was never Yassen’s strongest suit. Frankly, he wondered why he was even there in the first place, but he supposed Julia Rothman would never pass up an opportunity to wave Yassen around like fine silverware to the guests. SCORPIA was also trying to sink its fangs into Sarov’s good graces, and one such way was to extend an offering.
An offering of the most dangerous man in the world, right at Sarov’s fingertips.
As if the man himself was not dangerous.
“Good evening,” Yassen said plainly to the men in military uniform. “I believe I’m expected?”
“Yes, Mr. Ivanov.” The most generic name in the world, if Yassen had any say about it. “Please.”
The soldier standing next to the soldier holding the sign gestured for Yassen to follow them, and, surrounded by a circle of guards that Yassen could dispatch himself with little else than a switchblade, Yassen was escorted to a heavily tinted limousine bearing Russian flags.
A diplomat’s entourage, Yassen thought. Someone had an odd sense of humour.
Still, he got into the car when the door was opened for him with a polite nod at the valet, allowing the door to be closed on him as he settled down, and sat back to watch Moscow, reborn, fly by as he was brought to the Presidential Palace.
Sarov’s presidential palace was less like a palace and more like a fortress, with a grand complex of buildings surrounded by a nigh impenetrable wall. Upon arrival, Yassen passed no less than two checkpoints—thoroughly patted down every time. His luggage was no doubt given the same treatment, but no alarms were raised.
SCORPIA, after all, had sent their most dangerous weapon with his teeth filed down and his nails clipped.
A show of goodwill, the Board had said. A willingness to cooperate, and Yassen was not fond of being left unarmed because of it.
By all means, he was no less dangerous than ever, but he would prefer to be armed should blood be spilled.
Theoretically, there would be none—Yassen’s stay was one of diplomacy and negotiation, after all. Any exchange would be done through words and contracts, not gunfire and fists.
A testament to the good General’s manners, however, was the fact that General Sarov himself was waiting for him at the door—standing proud and tall in full military uniform, the man looked far younger than the age on his file, with a lean, toned body and a proud gait that, though not tall or imposingly large, still demanded the attention and respect of all those around him. His hair was really the only indicator of the man’s age—a platinum white at 65, proof that even General Sarov himself could not turn back time, though Yassen was nearly sure that the man could figure it out, somehow.
The man’s ice blue eyes were alert and watchful, moving in time with the diplomat’s entourage as they rolled into the driveway, and Yassen patiently waited for the door to be opened for him before he even moved out of his seat.
Overhead, it had begun to snow, and umbrellas automatically came up to keep the snowfall away.
“Mr. Gregorovich, welcome to my home.” Sarov’s greeting was in perfect, crisp Russian, his voice firm but polite, pleasant enough to be mildly casual. “I’ve heard many great things about you.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.” Yassen intoned as he approached Sarov with a little nod, and the man laughed—though it did not sound truly genuine. The wariness in the man’s deceptively relaxed shoulders grew clearer as Yassen approached him, but Yassen knew that the man in front of him, though shorter than he was, still held the upper hand.
“General, please. Do come in.”
Yassen nodded as Sarov led him into the palace, striking up idle conversation about Yassen’s flight, his entourage as he arrived. They walked through the Presidential Palace and up to the second floor, where Yassen was led to a door in the west wing that was already ajar.
“I know SCORPIA is eager to talk business, but I’d prefer a conversation partner that is well rested—I am not a poor host.” Sarov said, gesturing at the door. “We can talk tomorrow, after breakfast, yes?”
“Duly noted, General.” It was best for Yassen to remain polite, and the curl of the man’s mouth told him it was to his favour. “Thank you for the accommodation.”
“But of course.” Sarov replied generously. “Good night, Mr. Gregorovich.”
And just like that, Yassen was left alone in a beautiful dark wood suite. It had the amenities of many a hotel suite, with its own ensuite bathroom and even a sitting-room area in the foyer. The walls were a beautiful red, bordered with cornices of gorgeous mahogany bearing floral carvings all throughout. It didn’t take long for Yassen’s luggage to arrive, too, and soon he was left to his own devices, the palace settling down for the night.
He stood at the window, watching the snowfall, and thought of Maria.
More specifically, her words—
Now that he was actually here, his curiosity was piqued. From what he could tell, the Presidential Palace didn’t seem to host any suspicious buildings in the complex—each was clearly visibly for a particular purpose—but that didn’t mean that Sarov’s base of operations would be completely innocent.
Perhaps a bunker was beneath the palace, an ironic parallel to his enemies in the West, trapped beneath the earth.
Scoffing slightly to himself, he began his ablutions for bed with all the intentions of reading the dossier SCORPIA gave him on Sarov once again.
After all, it pays to be careful, and Yassen’s time here in the heart of Sarov’s empire was going to be paid for handsomely.
One of Sarov’s secrets to his deceptive youthfulness seemed to be a healthy lifestyle. After being fetched from his bedroom at 9 in the morning by a politely uniformed maid, Yassen found himself led to a beautiful, tastefully lavish dining hall, where Sarov, in a tracksuit, was seated at the head of a relatively long table, reading something hidden in a white folder.
“Good morning, General.” Yassen said politely, noting a visibly empty, yet seemingly occupiable spot, at Sarov’s right hand. The man looked up from his reports with a polite smile.
“Mr. Gregorovich.” There was a pleasantness to the man’s voice that felt far too clinical. Not that Yassen particularly cared. “I trust your accommodations have been to your liking?”
“The room is wonderful.” Flattery got no one anywhere, but he was telling the truth, of sorts. It was certainly far more comfortable than most of the places he has stayed in. “Thank you.”
“Good, good.” The older man nodded. “You must excuse my current clothing of choice, comrade, I have a habit of going for a morning run before breakfast. Coffee, or tea?”
Even in the snowfall? The man was hardy, indeed.
“Coffee.” It pays to be alert. “And no, I don’t mind.” Yassen nodded slightly at a maid that poured him a steaming mug of coffee, and then began to serve him a bowl of cut fruit and yoghurt. He glanced at the spot next to Sarov conspicuously, and the other man huffed, shaking his head. “Are we expecting another guest?”
“Not a guest,” Sarov said. “A resident. My son, Aleksandr.”
Ah, the son. Yassen remembered the dossier’s mention of a son—Aleksandr Sarov, at 16 years old. A highly elusive boy, according to most, he was someone hardly anyone ever saw. Not even high-ranking military and government personnel ever saw General Sarov’s son (nor even knew he existed), but his existence was very much real, palpable in the obviously occupiable, yet empty spot next to Sarov’s seat.
The secrecy surrounding the young Aleksandr was not too suspicious, at least to Yassen’s line of reasoning—General Sarov had already lost a son many years prior. Security would no doubt be tight around the only family the good General decided to keep—so tight that perhaps the world was not privy to the single shred of proof that General Alexei Sarov has a heart.
Perhaps this new gift was one to be treasured.
Treasure. Hm.
“I see.” Yassen said impassively, and their conversation turned to other things—mostly Sarov recounting to Yassen things he already learned from his encrypted dossier on the man. It didn’t take long before a new presence made itself known to them, quiet footsteps accompanied by a clumsy lumbering gait, and Sarov was the first to look away from the conversation between himself and Yassen, rising to his feet at the arrival of their new guest.
“My Sasha. Did you sleep well?”
Yassen was not a man easily surprised, but the sudden change in Sarov’s voice from the clinical, polished politeness he offered Yassen to a warm, incredibly loving tone was stark like walking out into the snow from the warmth inside the palace was one worthy of at least the lifting of a fine eyebrow.
The man was met with silence, though Yassen, interest piqued at the mention of this highly elusive boy, turned away from politely poking at his jam to look at the newcomer, locking gazes with a corpse from days long past.
Alex Rider stared back at him with dull eyes vacant of any form of recognition, and Yassen didn’t know why his heart dropped to his gut.
The last time he had seen him, Alex was just a boy—he was just a boy right now, too, but the Alex from the rooftop in London had been younger. Smaller, frightened. A tiny wet kitten of a child that would tug on the heartstrings of men more empathetic than Yassen Gregorovich.
This Alex, having since disappeared from the world for two years, was different. He was older, yes, that was to be expected, but now more than ever, Yassen felt like he was looking into Hunter’s eyes—John Rider’s eyes—when Alex looked back at him. It felt like a combat knife to the solar plexus, twisting and slicing his guts to ribbons, watching John stare back at him with such dead eyes, but although Alex reminded Yassen of the ghost behind his eyelids, there were some parts of him left unfamiliar. No matter how alike Alex was to his father, there were some parts of his mother in him too—whispers of softness, of darling, precious beauty reflected in Alex’s youthful features, his porcelain skin, his head of gold.
Alex, a perfect mix of John and Helen Rider, had grown into a beautiful—and strikingly so—young man. A treasure of his own right, if Yassen could allow himself to think of such salacious things, and he found himself clearing his throat awkwardly despite not having said anything.
Alex’s reply to Sarov had apparently been a nod, and that was satisfactory enough to his adoptive father, who smiled warmly as he gestured for Alex to sit down, right across from Yassen, like a cruel joke unintentionally played by fate and the man who held half the world in his palm. Alex’s shadow was a large man in a well-tailored suit despite his Frankenstein’s monster-like appearance, and this man was someone Yassen was more familiar with.
“Conrad,” Sarov said, confirming Yassen’s suspicions, “You are not needed for now. I’ll see you later before lunch.”
Conrad grunted out something incomprehensible, possibly unwilling to speak in front of Yassen, or, more likely, angry at being made to play babysitter to a boy he likely did not want to be there and stalked away. Sarov, slowly sitting down, watched him leave with a bit more openly fond exasperation as staff moved in to serve Alex his breakfast, too, and Sarov turned back to Yassen with a smile that was a little more genuinely pleased than before.
“This is a great sign of trust, my comrade,” Sarov said, “Not a lot of people are treated to my son’s company.”
An exchange of precious people—Yassen, Julia Rothman’s unwilling favourite, and Alex Rider, Alexei Sarov’s own (likely unwilling) favourite.
Somehow, this felt like a hostage situation. It might as well be one, considering Yassen was largely unarmed, and Alex seemed to be under similar duress.
“I can imagine.” Yassen said neutrally, still observing Alex’s motions, watching him quietly stirring in milk and sugar into his tea, and he held back a smile from forming on his lips. Even though he had—inexplicably—been in the company of the most Russian man Yassen had ever known, Alex seemed to cling to his British roots even until now.
The relief in his chest was not unwelcome. Alex Rider, though blank and quiet, subservient and prettily silent, was not broken.
“Sasha,” Sarov had turned to his son, pulling Yassen’s attention back to him to watch Sarov look at Alex like he was the man’s whole world. “I’ve been looking forward to introducing you to this man—his name precedes him in the circles he is involved with, you know.”
Alex nodded quietly again, eyes flicking from his tea to Yassen’s face, now searching, yet still carefully blank, and that was when Yassen realised that Alex had recognised him from the beginning.
What happened, he wondered, in those two years where Alex went from an open book to this closed off nymphlike prodigy of deception?
“This man is Yassen Gregorovich. He represents a group of individuals that will hopefully be helpful to us.”
“Since when have you needed help?”
It was the first thing Alex had said this whole conversation, and Yassen was impressed at how clean his Russian was. No awkward cadence, no strange accent—Alex spoke it like he grew up speaking the language. Perhaps that was one of the things occupying his time in the two years he was with Sarov, and a picture was forming clearer and clearer in Yassen’s head.
Two years ago, Alex’s people sent him to try and stop Sarov. Clearly, he failed.
“My, my.” Sarov chuckled, shaking his head. “Sasha, no man is an island.”
A rueful little smile crossed Alex’s lips. “You’re right.”
During the course of Alex’s excursion to stop Sarov, who had been in Cuba at the time, something must have happened to make Sarov want to keep the boy by his side. Now, they were here, in the flickering embers of the old world, as a new one emerged from its ashes.
Alex Rider, now Aleksandr Sarov. The reclusive, tightly guarded son of the most powerful man in the world, and Yassen was beginning to wonder if the treasure existed at all.
Sarov turned back to Yassen with a pleased little grin. “Mr. Gregorovich, my son, Aleksandr. Adopted, of course. I have no wife, but that does not mean I cannot have a son.”
“Of course.” Yassen replied, taking a prim sip of coffee. “It’s an honour to meet you.”
“Likewise.” Alex’s reply was clipped, but polite, and that was the last thing he said during the meal as Sarov took over the conversation again, turning his attention back to Yassen as they continued exactly where they left off.
And then some, as Yassen sat across from Sarov, looking down at a folder of papers while the man poured Yassen a shot of vodka, kept in a beautiful crystal bottle in a cabinet off to the side of his desk in his office. For a man who did not drink, he kept one on hand, for some reason, most likely for guests, or potential business partners like Yassen and SCORPIA.
After breakfast, Alex was picked up not by Conrad but by a young woman—blonde, tall, with a pretty, heart-shaped face and an hourglass figure complimented by her well-tailored suit and pencil skirt. Alex seemed relieved to see her in place of Conrad, but he didn’t say anything when she gave him a smile, gesturing for him to follow her out of the dining hall. Sarov seemed dismissive of the interaction, leaving Yassen to wonder who the woman was, and why Alex seemed a bit fonder of her than Sarov.
“SCORPIA’s cooperation, after all, will be crucial. Any movement from our side spotted in America will blow the operation wide open, and it will be difficult to convince people of the lack of conspiracy should things become more overt.”
“Of course.” Yassen replied neutrally, flipping a page to scan a list of targets. “The CIA will likely offer resistance.”
“I’m sure SCORPIA’s agents will be capable.” Sarov tipped his head, “They produced you, after all.”
A little wry smirk crept up onto Yassen’s lips.
“Thank you.” He said, shutting the file. “I will contact my people and the Board will settle their terms of agreement. Contracts will still need to be drafted, of course, which will mean that more trips like mine will happen. We prefer to keep things off the digital world as much as possible.”
“But of course.” Sarov tipped his head. “SCORPIA, in due time—”
Sarov stopped at a knock on the door, and Yassen looked up from the papers to see the door swing open, revealing Conrad standing in the doorway.
“Ah, Conrad. Has our next guest arrived?”
Conrad nodded, and Sarov hummed.
“Early.”
Yassen raised an eyebrow at Sarov as the man turned back to him with a friendly, intentionally disarming smile.
“Comrade, I’m afraid I will need to cut this conversation short for the time being.” Sarov said, “Do feel free to relax in your suite, or perhaps explore the palace some more. We may speak again later this evening.”
“Thank you.” Yassen tipped his head at Sarov, getting up when it became clear that the General would not leave if Yassen did not. There went the prospect of exploring the man’s office, but then again, Yassen’s interest in finding out what the Sarov treasure was did not warrant such dangerous shenanigans. Packing up his papers quickly, Yassen ducked his head in a polite greeting at Sarov and Conrad as he strode out of Sarov’s office to see Conrad walking into the man’s office, shutting the door behind him. Shrugging to himself and glad for the lack of escorts, Yassen made his way back to his room to pack away SCORPIA’s paperwork, feeling oddly bereft of the danger and tension he was used to for most missions.
Still, he at least pretended to relax, leisurely changing into something more comfortable than the suit he was in for the business meeting, favouring a black fleece turtleneck and trousers that would allow as much movement as fine bespoke tailoring, but without the price tag.
He considered the provided silverware in the cabinet by the window, which held paraphernalia like saucers, teacups, and even an electric kettle to allow the guest to make themselves a cup of tea or coffee. Yassen inspected the provided utensils—teaspoons, mostly, but there was a single straight fork in there, possibly incorrectly left behind by staff.
Smiling wryly, he slipped the fork into his sleeve—just in case. With a sure little huff, Yassen headed back out of his suite to begin wandering the palace.
Perhaps now was the best time to go exploring for the treasure, he supposed.
For dear old Masha’s sake, not for the Americans.
Yassen made a lap around the top floor of the palace to find more suites, mostly empty, some with open doors to show staff cleaning up the room as part of maintenance. The next few floors had offices, occupied with both civilian and military employees, and soon, Yassen was back on the ground floor, gravitating towards an in-house library that was as beautifully furnished as the rest of the palace, and he stopped when he could hear giggling behind a few bookshelves.
Cocking his head, he quietly crept closer to the bookshelves, hiding behind them. He looked around for a reflective surface, and found one conveniently pointing at the space behind the bookshelves.
Yassen knew he had to get out of the way—the reflection would give him away, but he found himself uncaring if he was spotted. The library, after all, was a free space for anyone to be in, he would not be in trouble, and perhaps he was searching for the proof of life from John Rider’s son, a spy by blood and birthright.
“Katya, stop giggling!” English, much to Yassen’s surprise, with an accent that had heartrendingly never faded. “If you don’t, we will get heard!”
The laughter that rattled the pretty voice was so full of youth and joy, much unlike the boy that Yassen saw that morning, the owner of the voice. Alex’s giggles mixed with a woman’s, despite his words, and he heard thumping—a hand smacking Alex’s shoulder, and Yassen spotted the pretty blonde woman who had picked him up from the dining hall stifling her own giggles behind a well-manicured hand.
“Oh, but look at you, Shurochka!” She replied cheekily, also in English, though with a Russian accent. She was not fluent in it yet, it seemed—perhaps they were conversing in English both for her sake and Alex’s. “Perking right back to life after breakfast! Was it something to do with the handsome man at the table?”
“Oh, shut up.” Alex huffed, and Katya pinched his cheek with a coo. “Katya!”
“It’s been a while since I saw you acting your age,” Katya sighed wistfully, shaking her head as she stroked his hair, and a pang of fondness sparked in even Yassen’s heart at her voice. “The last time…”
“Let’s not.” Alex sighed. Katya smiled at him fondly, nodding as she sat back down next to him. “Besides, I’d rather not have an audience, isn’t that right, Mr. Gregorovich?”
Yassen bit back the laugh that threatened to escape his throat, though the evidence of his amusement was still in the curl of his lips as he walked out from behind the bookshelf, raising his hands defensively. Katya looked surprised at Yassen’s presence, her eyes going wide as Alex moved his body protectively between hers and Yassen’s, a cool gaze fixed on Yassen as the man came to a stop in front of the couch he and Katya sat on.
The instinct to protect, the ready stance—oh, Alex had yet to lose his claws.
John’s memory—his burning spirit of defiance—lived on in his son, still unbroken.
“Good morning, young Aleksandr.” He greeted, also in English, making Katya relax. “So you’ve spotted me—how, if I may ask?”
They both knew how—the mirror that let Yassen see Alex worked both ways, after all. There was a knowing glint in Alex’s eyes, the spy Yassen knew peeking through the sheltered military son and demanding his attention.
“I don’t reveal my secrets, sir.” Alex replied, gesturing at the seat across himself and Katya, and Yassen sat down politely. “But I think that you’re not invited to my daily lessons?”
“It hadn’t occurred to me that you were at a lesson.” Yassen tipped his head at Katya. “The giggling was indicative of a more casual activity than studies.”
“Oh, um.” Katya blushed. “I apologise.” She spoke once again in Russian. “Please… don’t get me in trouble, sir.”
“I won’t let him.” Alex said soothingly, also in Russian. “Mr. Gregorovich, this is my tutor, Yekaterina Andreyeva.”
Yassen filed her name in the back of his head for a background check later.
“Miss Andreyeva.” He noted the lack of a ring—of any jewellery—on the young woman’s person. “A pleasure.”
“Nice to meet you too.” Katya said awkwardly. “I tutor Master Aleksandr on numerous subjects, per General Sarov’s approval.”
No doubt she taught him Russian, too. Yassen nodded anyway, and Katya relaxed visibly.
“Don’t let me interrupt you,” Yassen said, “I’m curious as to what kinds of ideas young Aleksandr Sarov is exposed to. I’m sure he is quite the enterprising young man, and it would be thanks to you, Miss Andreyeva.”
“Oh, not at all.” Katya seemed unaware of Sarov’s machinations, at least, if her idealistic smile was of any indication. “The bulk of Master Aleksandr’s philosophical education is still from General Sarov himself. I take care of menial things, like literature, maths, and sciences.”
Menial things, she says, yet somehow, she seemed far more welcome to Alex than Sarov was.
“I see.” Yassen nodded. “And what are you talking about right now?”
“History.” Alex replied smoothly, though Yassen could tell that the two were more likely simply gossiping and giggling around together than actually learning, judging by Katya’s barely concealed look of surprise—the blonde was clearly not a spy, not like Alex or Yassen. A civilian, then. “Miss Andreyeva was telling me about the USSR.”
“Interesting time in history.” Yassen intoned, and an idea crossed his mind. “Tell me, Miss Andreyeva, are you updated on more recent events? I’ve been out of the country for far too long.”
“Oh, yes.” Katya nodded. “I have a phone and everything, too. Is there something you’d like to ask?”
“Have you heard of a rumour going around about General Sarov recently?”
Echoing Maria’s words to Katya only made the young woman look confused, while Alex’s gaze on him turned stormy. Perhaps this was a story reserved for those who lived in the shadows of society, and not the glittering false safety of normalcy that civilians like Yekaterina Andreyeva enjoyed.
“Ah, I know this one.” Alex said, and Yassen turned his attention to him. “To put things bluntly, Mr. Gregorovich, it doesn’t exist.”
“Oh, does it?” Yassen raised an eyebrow at him as Katya looked at her young charge in confusion.
“It’s a rumour I heard the guards talking about sometimes,” Alex explained to her dismissively, “Reportedly there is a priceless treasure here in the Presidential Palace. No one knows what it is or where it is placed, and that is because it doesn’t exist.”
“Oh, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of this.” Katya said, peering at Yassen worriedly. “The Sarov treasure… how have you heard of it, Mr. Gregorovich?”
“Same as Aleksandr.” He tipped his head, “Soldiers are very imaginative when bored.” Maria’s intel was incorrect.
“Yes.” Alex nodded. “They are. The General is not someone who trifles with worldly possessions—he calls them fleeting, and replaceable. Even the most obscure object was made in duplicate somewhere, he says, but to survive a monumental loss is the surest show of power any man could ever do.”
Surviving a monumental loss, Yassen thought. Like watching his home burn and living here, for Alex.
What does that say of a man who clung onto Alex like his own when he lost his child, then?
“He’s very wise.” Katya smiled pleasantly, unaware of the tumult in Alex’s eyes, in Yassen’s head. “Very admirable.”
“Yes.” Yassen said, for lack of a better—more honest—response.
“Miss Andreyeva,” Alex didn’t take his eyes off Yassen as he spoke. “I changed my mind about today’s lesson. Do you think I could take a walk with Mr. Gregorovich for a while?”
“Won’t General Sarov protest?” She asked, but Yassen shook his head.
“We’ve been introduced by the man himself.” He explained, “I doubt he will be unwelcoming to us spending time together.”
If Sarov wanted Alex to replace him, after all, Alex should be aware of SCORPIA. Of Yassen.
“If he is, I won’t let you get into trouble.” Alex said. “I’ll bring Boris, if it makes you feel better.”
“Oh, well.” Katya blinked, smiling awkwardly. “I suppose. I could use a break.”
“By all means.” Yassen gestured at her. “You look a bit tired.”
“I’m sorry,” Katya laughed sheepishly, “Juggling a doctorate degree and my favourite student in the world can get exhausting sometimes.”
“The degree is more annoying than I am,” Alex said, the first hint of boyish cheekiness Yassen had ever seen in years, and it was endlessly endearing, the way he spoke like that to reassure Katya that she would not be in trouble. The tension drained from the young woman’s shoulders in an instant, and the way she smiled at Alex reminded Yassen of Maria, so long ago. “Right, Katya?”
“I dunno, at least my degree doesn’t sass me.” Katya giggled, and Alex laughed with her as she gave his cheek another pinch. “But it isn’t as cute as you!”
“Okay, get out of here,” Alex huffed, shoving at her hand, and the blonde laughed as he grinned at her. “I’ll see you later.”
“See you.” Katya cooed, and she gave Yassen a polite smile and a nod, before striding away, her neat kitten heels clacking over hardwood flooring. Yassen stayed quiet as Alex sighed deeply, settling down in his seat, watching her leave, too. They remained in silence for a long moment, before Alex huffed.
“I’m not bringing Boris.” He said, in English, getting up from his seat. “Come on, follow me.”
“Am I right to assume Boris is a guard of some kind?” Yassen asked, also in English, but he got up, too, following Alex out of the library and towards a door leading outside. Alex nodded, walking out of the door without waiting for Yassen, but the older man followed him easily enough, their footsteps crunching over delicate snow that had settled in the courtyard they walked into.
The inner courtyard was gorgeously covered in a blanket of white, pretty and sparkling in the late morning sunlight. It was generously large, with plenty of space to walk around in, and so Yassen was content on walking alongside Alex as they slowly began to pace around the perimeter of the courtyard.
It took a long moment of silence between them before someone spoke, and it was not Yassen.
“MI6 is gone, isn’t it?” Alex asked, and though Yassen was surprised that was the first thing he asked, he didn’t let the boy see it.
“Yes.” Yassen replied, and he could see Alex’s sigh of relief.
“Good riddance.”
A smile crossed Yassen’s lips without his consent, but he could see the same little smirk on Alex’s lips. In a way, he was glad MI6 was gone—with the agency powerless and weakened, they would no longer have any influence over Alex.
Especially now that Alex Rider, presumed dead, was now General Alexei Sarov’s son.
“Though with Sarov initially in Cuba, I’m surprised that you got involved in his operation before Murmansk.”
Alex snorted derisively. “How about the CIA?”
A deflection, if Yassen had ever heard one, but a more pressing concern reared its ugly head—why was Sarov keeping him in the dark about things like these? Was he not supposed to take over after Sarov dies?
“Active.” Yassen tipped his head. “Expecting a text from me.”
“About what?”
“The treasure that doesn’t exist.”
“I didn’t know you worked for them now.” Alex hummed, and Yassen shrugged.
“An old acquaintance pulled in a favour.” A favour of fondness and nostalgia. “I have my incentives, as well.”
“And you think they’ll pay you for a negative report?” Alex asked, making Yassen shrug again. “Disappointing. Why are you here?”
“Does your father not tell you anything?”
A sardonic smile curled Alex’s lips, and it was a strange look on the boy, young as he was.
“Would he ever tell me anything, do you think?” Alex asked, and Yassen could see shimmering wetness in his pretty brown eyes, a chained, screaming anger roiling deep in his tired gaze. “The man has his eyes on me for two whole years, but I can’t see a damn thing. Anywhere. There’s a reason he’s keeping me in the dark, and it’s got something to do with keeping me here.”
The vitriol burned like the cloying, iridescent oil spill around a decaying oil rig. A spark in Alex’s temper, and his eyes lit up in a bonfire blaze that was breathtakingly beautiful.
Alex had grown wonderfully, hardened and refined like diamonds under the pressure of Sarov’s oppressive affection.
“He’s been keeping you prisoner?”
“Alexei Sarov wants a son, not a successor.” Alex smirked, and confusion clouded Yassen’s features as Alex tore his gaze away from him. “How’s the world out there?”
“I’ll only give you an answer if you tell me how your world is in here.” Yassen said, and Alex scoffed.
“Why do you care?”
“Because John Rider made me care.”
Alex stopped, his eyes widening as he whirled around to look at Yassen in shock.
“You know my father.”
“Yes.” Yassen paused, “The real one.”
“I only have one father, Yassen.” Alex whispered, almost inaudible in the cold wind around them, and Yassen could hear the words left unspoken— Sarov is not my father.
“I understand.” Yassen murmured. “Now tell me what happened to you.”
“I…” Alex bit his lip, his eyes glazing over as he looked into his past. “I was… loaned by MI6 to the CIA for an operation in Skeleton Key.”
“Sarov’s old base of operations.”
Alex nodded.
“I was paired up with two CIA agents, and we posed as a family to get into Skeleton Key. I got dragged into their investigation, and… well, here we are.”
“You’re skipping over quite a few details.” Yassen commented, and Alex winced, looking away from him. The older man sighed, shaking his head as he took Alex’s chin to turn his face, forcing him to meet his gaze again. “How did you become his Sasha, little Alex?”
Alex swallowed thickly.
“Turner and Troy—the CIA agents posing as my mum and dad—were killed trying to infiltrate Sarov’s base. I… got in. Got caught. Sarov took an interest in me—told me I was a dead ringer for his son, and then simply… kept me, after that.” Alex mumbled, and Yassen sighed tiredly, letting him go.
“You didn’t try to escape?”
“Multiple times.” Alex sighed, “Since the beginning. To the point that Sarov had me knocked out and tied down when we had to refuel in Edinburgh on our way to Murmansk.”
“People would have seen.” Yassen said, but Alex shook his head.
“We were flying in Boris Kiriyenko’s private plane. There were already rumours of distasteful preferences in pretty young things, so airport staff knew to avert their gaze from anything suspicious on board.” Alex sighed. “Including unconscious teenagers handcuffed to a chair.”
Yassen fell quiet, nodding solemnly. He knew more than a few men in power who were like that, as well.
“And then… the shipyard.”
“So it is true—Sarov detonated a bomb in the shipyard.”
“I did.”
Yassen stopped at that, staring at Alex as the blond slowed down to a stop next to him, keeping his gaze away from him as he wrapped his arms around himself.
“He made me hold the activation card. We activated it together.” Alex mumbled, looking away from Yassen as the man blinked at him. “It’s… I did that. It’s my fault London is burning.”
“Alex,” Yassen began, but Alex shook his head.
“Do not tell me it’s not my fault. I could’ve done something. I could’ve stopped him. Instead, I’m here. Reaping the benefits.”
“Are you?” Yassen asked, and Alex pursed his lips. “I see an obedient child beaten into submission, not a son who loves his father.”
“I kept trying to escape.” Alex admitted. “Even afterwards. Trying to make amends.”
He reached up to his shirt collar under his parka, and undid the top button of his shirt to show Yassen part of a large scar running over his otherwise smooth collarbone.
“Every time, though, I don’t make it.” He said, “One of these days, Sarov will probably have a bunker under the palace made to lock me up.”
Make a bunker, Yassen thought. So the palace is strictly an above ground structure.
“I thought he wanted a son.” He said instead.
Alex’s smile was wry.
“A son is not a successor.”
They fell quiet, the cold wind passing them, and Alex sighed, buttoning up his shirt again, hiding the sliver of skin that was oddly distracting in the corner of Yassen’s sight.
“Tell me about my dad.” Alex murmured.
“John?” Yassen asked, and Alex nodded. “There is… there is a lot to tell you.”
“I’m willing to listen.” Alex shrugged, “You heard me out, after all. Bollocks as it is, I think you’re the only person who will ever understand the complete story. Aside from Sarov, that is.”
Yassen grinned a little at that, but his smile quickly fell off his face when Alex suddenly tensed up, the boy’s eyes widening as his hand shot out to grab Yassen by his elbow, and then—
“Shurochka!” Katya’s scream came from somewhere in the distance, and Yassen moved faster than he could think, grabbing Alex roughly to squeeze him against his chest, his large hand on the boy’s head to hold him to his heartbeat as he dragged Alex backward under the awning of the roofing bordering the courtyard just in time to hear a bullet ricochet off the brickwork of pathways around the courtyard.
“Yassen—” Alex began, his voice muffled by Yassen’s shirt, but the man ignored him as he easily hoisted the boy over his shoulder in a fireman carry, bolting for the open doorway where Katya was standing, her eyes wide and her hair wild and messy with how she must have run towards the door. With a grunt, Yassen dumped Alex into her arms, not hearing her protest as he unsheathed the fork he kept in his sleeve, scanning the courtyard again for where the shooter came from.
“2 o’clock!” Alex barked, and Yassen moved lighting fast, flicking his wrist with deadly precision—
And a man fell from the roof, the fork embedded in his eye. He was screaming as he let go of his sniper rifle, but Yassen wasted no time, already running towards him to grab his gun. With quick precision, Yassen cocked the rifle as the man looked up at him in horror—just as Yassen put a bullet between the man’s eyes without a moment’s hesitation.
He was barely panting as he stood there, staring down at the way deep red blood pooled out from the perfect hole between vacant eyes, and he stepped back nonchalantly as the man slumped down, bleeding out into the pure white snow.
Yassen inspected the shooter—he wasn’t wearing goggles. His Kevlar only covered his torso, but there was not much armour on his arms and legs. His helmet was small and ill-fitting, and Yassen frowned.
Oddly convenient, for a target to be so easily neutralised with a single fork.
(Like it was left there on purpose.)
“Mr. Gregorovich!” Sarov called, and Yassen turned, looking over his shoulder to see General Sarov standing with Alex in the doorway, a knowing smirk on the old man’s lips as Alex looked back at Yassen with what looked like pity in his eyes, standing between Sarov and Katya, protective of the young woman, even if she was older than him. “Comrade, have you neutralised the threat?”
“I believe so.” Yassen said simply, speaking again in Russian as he spotted something moving above Sarov’s head. “Wait.”
He frowned, cocking the sniper rifle easily, and he didn’t really even need to use the scope as another shot fired through the air—
Katya screamed as another corpse fell from the roofing, and Alex held her close, covering her face by hugging her head close to his chest as Sarov continued to look at Yassen like a cat that got the cream.
“Now the threat is gone.” Yassen frowned. “Is this a test, General?”
Sarov’s smile widened. Yassen’s gut turned uncomfortably.
“General.”
“Julia Rothman’s words do not ring hollow, it seems.” Sarov said, “Come, Mr. Gregorovich, I’d like a word with you over a private lunch.”
Yassen looked at Alex, who tore his gaze away from him with his lip caught between his teeth, busying himself with comforting Katya instead of meeting Yassen’s gaze outright.
Somehow, Yassen got the sinking feeling that Alex had a hand in this.
He would have to talk to the boy later. Properly.