Becoming Agent Rider

Playing Consultant Around The World

Passport and phones? Check. New MI6 laptop that would only be used for tutoring sessions? Check. Briefcase? Check. Smithers-designed yoyo, pen, and his standard field kit of gadgets? Check. The watch was already on his wrist too, having almost never left from the moment he had received it. Since the assignment was administrative and partially diplomatic in nature, he wasn't allowed to bring real weapons - like a gun - so he wanted as many of Smithers' stuff as he could fit into his luggage.

Money? The host countries were supposed to provide for all of his living expenses during his stay in their territory but he brought enough to get himself out of trouble anyways. And then some to set up other accounts, if there was an opportunity.

A week's worth of bulletproof clothes? Yup. Suits and ties for meetings. Casual clothes for flights, sleeping, and exercise. In addition, he was wearing a new trench coat for the ten-degree Celsius weather but had wool coats for winter weather and t-shirts and shorts for summer weather as well. The hidden pockets in all of these would be used to hold anything he didn't want anyone to get their hands on so they were on his person at all times. His different passports and phones, for example. Although, he also had a case lined with lead for the phones to go in during his meetings with the foreign intelligence agencies so that no one could hack into them and eavesdrop on conversations. That would end in disaster if the other agencies ever found they were being recorded in a supposedly secure meeting. He hadn't forgotten the liberties that MI6 had taken with turning his phone into a listening device.

Toiletries? Definitely. They were stuffed in the smallest section of his luggage. Schoolwork and aviation books? Too many for him to possibly get through in a week. Not with the schedule that he was on. He brought all of it anyways. That was everything he would need. Crawley had already notified Brooklands about his absence. Good. He was ready to go. Just one more thing to do. He took out his phone and texted Tom.

Going to be gone for about a week. Abdominal hernia, if anyone asks.

Satisfied that his friend had a heads up, Alex put the phone away and waited for Crawley and the MI6 driver. Tom wouldn't be answering. Besides knowing better than to contact him while he was on "business trips", it would be another four hours before his friend even woke up to get ready for school. He wished he could get that much sleep. But like Crawley had said, his first flight was at 0400 hours so, after another day of training with MI6 and Yassen, he had gotten just under two hours of sleep. He would need to do deep meditation to have a hope of getting any more rest before being thrust into another session of analysis and decisions for the intelligence agencies. Good thing Crawley had booked him in a business class seat again.

Three hours later, Alex landed in Madrid, feeling a little more rested since the deep meditations actually ended up facilitating his descent into sleep on the flight. He was greeted by the same two CNI agents as the week before. The agents grinned and poked fun at him for being back so soon, comfortable around him from the conversation that he had encouraged last time. They even introduced themselves. Álvaro and Emilia. But once they got to their headquarters, which wasn't too far from the airport, both agents retreated into professional aloofness before handing him off to their director, Javier Cortez.

"Hola, Director Cortez," Alex greeted, shaking the man's hand even as he pulled his luggage along to a stop beside him. (Hello, Director Cortez.)

"Buenos días, Agente Rider," Cortez returned politely as he led Alex to one of the top floors. "Muchas gracias por venir hoy." (Good morning, Agent Rider. Thank you very much for coming today.)

Alex merely nodded.

"Mis agentes dicen que usted habla muy bien español. ¿Tu tío?" (My agents say that you speak very good Spanish. Your uncle?)

"Sí, Director, mi tío me enseñó," Alex replied. (Yes, Director, my uncle taught me.)

Cortez nodded and said in a slight accent, "Agente Martinez y Agente Moreno are usually quite good at following orders. But seems you have a way of getting people to talk. Your uncle's teaching as well, I assume?"

"... I don't think that had anything to do with my training."

"No?" Cortez questioned as he waved the teen into a conference room, where an assistant was putting a stack of folders next to the toast and jam. "Perhaps your natural charisma then. Breakfast?"

"Yes, thank you," Alex replied, putting his luggage in a corner near the door.

Cortez smiled. "Yes, I thought you might be hungry. It is an early flight. Perhaps some coffee or tea while we work?"

"Tea, please."

Cortez snapped out instructions in rapid Spanish to his assistant, who hurried off to get some tea. And just like that, Alex signed the promised non-disclosure agreement while scarfing down the toast and the two of them got to work.

Over the next four hours, they went through a similar process to the one he'd had with Crawley in debating which agents to pull out and what the next steps for the remaining agents should be. There were just a few differences. The first was that they alternated between speaking in English and Spanish. The second was that, instead of being the main decision maker like MI6 had him do, he was just a consultant here. He gave his insights and opinions, but the final decision rested with Cortez. Sometimes, Alex wasn't even told what the decisions were. And lastly, Alex was on a much tighter schedule so they had to rush through everything. Each intelligence agency would only get about half a day to spend on this situation with him. As a result, the session was like sprinting through a relay race, passing information or bouncing ideas off of each other as quickly as possible to reach the end goal. He doubted the sessions with the other countries would go much differently.

As soon as Cortez finished making decisions based on the teen's information, Alex was given a number to contact - just in case he thought of anything else that might be relevant - before being hustled off to the airport again. This time, it was a two-hour flight to Paris to meet with the DGSE. He swept his section of the plane for bugs as a precaution, then spent the flight in a video call tutoring session with Smithers and Redwing, taking notes and doing worksheets.

Upon arrival, like the Spanish, the DGSE had sent the same agents as last week to receive him from the airport. However, like last week, these agents were more reserved and all the interactions were purely professional. Other than that, everything else was more or less the same, including an offer of food - for lunch this time - at the start of the session.

After Director Pierre Dewatre had made his decisions, there was an unexpected hour left until he had to be at the airport. With a lack of things to do at the French intelligence agency, Alex asked to visit Sacré-Cœur. The director raised an eyebrow but approved it, under the condition that the two agents accompanied him the whole time until he was on the next plane. Alex agreed easily. There was nothing about the visit that the DGSE couldn't know about. After all, it wasn't like they could read his thoughts on why he was visiting the cathedral.

Fifteen minutes later, Alex was staring up at the grand basilica, with the silent agents on each side of him and luggage by his feet. He looked around, trying to picture where Yassen might have stood witness to his parents' secret rendezvous. In his mind, he could almost see his father's swift strides up to the top of the stairs, anticipation of seeing the love of his life making him careless enough to fail detecting Yassen's continued presence. And his mother, pregnant and alone, waiting anxiously for her husband to show up. To see for herself that he was alright. Himself, unborn and unaware of the three important people nearby, but still very much present. It was the most tangible thing he'd ever had in memory of his parents. Alex burned the image into his mind, jaw tightening involuntarily as he tried to control his emotions, and left with only a brief backward glance. The silent agents followed along, exchanging confused looks.

On his next flight, three hours to Berlin this time, Alex swept the business class seats for bugs before having a bland dinner while doing another video call tutoring session with Smithers and Redwing. More lectures and note taking, worksheets, and verbal pop quizzes. So, by the time he got off the plane to be met with a couple of BND agents who were no friendlier than the French, he had a crick in his neck and was itching for a workout. Shivering in the light snowfall, a bit of a change from the last three countries, only made the desire more prominent. Luckily for him, the car wasn't too far away and the Germans had put him in a penthouse suite at a hotel for the night, leaving instructions to be ready at 0800 hours tomorrow morning. Perfect. He had the night to himself.

The first thing he did when he stepped into the luxurious suite was to sweep the place for bugs. Manually first, for practice, which he couldn't do on the planes. Then, he did it again with Smithers' bug detector app in his phone. Between the two methods, he found seven listening devices, including one in the ensuite bathroom, and three hidden cameras. There was a tracker on his luggage too. He left almost all of them in place, only getting rid of the bug in the bathroom by "accidentally" slipping and getting water everywhere which just so happened to short-circuit the device. Alex let out a slow breath. The surveillance was going to be hard to ignore. He had to leave it in place though. Otherwise, the Germans would be suspicious. Rubbing a hand over his face, he decided that spending as little time as possible in this room was the way to go if he wanted to get a chance to relax.

Leaving his luggage in the suite, Alex changed into a t-shirt, sweatpants, and a thin puffer jacket. Then, he took his phones, passport, and a wad of cash with him before going out. Once he was on the street, he began jogging in a random direction and immediately spotted two tails. He groaned inwardly and sighed, but kept his pace while avoiding some icy patches. Fifteen minutes and a few turns later, ducking into an alleyway to come out at one of the other exits, he lost his tails and promptly disappeared from view of the city's security cameras too. He was free.

Now that the Germans couldn't track him, Alex went east, towards the Kreuzberg district which was in the opposite direction that he had been running. It was time to pay a visit to his family's Berlin property that his great-grandparents had bought. Unfortunately, the Frankfurt one would have to wait.

Arriving at the old property, Alex saw that it was an average €369,000, one bedroom apartment near major roads, about sixty meters from the Spree and a park only a couple blocks away. A bus stop was practically on the doorstep of the complex and a train was just on the other side of the river. Hotels, restaurants, and shopping centers were nearby. An elementary school as well. Not too far from the East Side Gallery and about twenty minutes from the centre of the city. Overall, it was a fairly good location.

Inside the extremely dusty, second floor apartment unit was a simple layout. Foyer, kitchen, and bathroom in the middle section. Open plan living and dining room on the right. A huge bedroom on the left. A total of six, bulletproof windows. Plenty of weapons and different currencies hidden. A fully stocked first aid kit that could rival Snake's medic bag. A safehouse. The financial upkeep was done by, yet another, property management company.

Besides the disturbed dust that he couldn't do anything about right now, Alex made sure everything else looked untouched and left the premises. He had a couple of other things to do before returning to his hotel. One of these was to see Vadim Ivanov, the first person to teach him Russian. The man's home was only a few streets away from his newfound safehouse. He hoped the veteran didn't mind such a late-night visit.

"Здравствуйте, господин Иванов (Hello, Mr. Ivanov)," Alex greeted when the man opened the door.

"Томас! Где ты была? (Thomas! Where have you been?)" Ivanov exclaimed. He paused. "У тебя какие-нибудь проблемы? (Are you in any trouble?)"

Alex smiled. "Нет, господин Иванов. Нет проблемы. Просто хотел посмотреть, как дела. Прости, что не смог попрощаться в прошлый раз." (No, Mr. Ivanov. No trouble. Just wanted to see how you are. I'm sorry I couldn't say goodbye last time.)

"Не беспокойся об этом. Входи, входи! Ваш русский улучшился." (Do not worry about it. Come in, come in! Your Russian has improved.)

Alex nodded and stepped into the familiar house, explaining that an emergency came up last time which made him leave the city suddenly but that he had been building on the foundations of the Russian language that the man had taught him. They sat down with tea and talked a little longer, in a mix of German, Russian, and English, before Alex said he had to go and apologized for the late-night visit, letting his former teacher know that he would be leaving the city soon again. The man waved it off, glad to have someone visit and surprised that the teen had made the effort, considering how short of a time they had known each other. They exchanged phone numbers to keep in touch, both knowing the other didn't have very many people in their lives, if any at all. Alex used this as an opportunity to ask the man if there were any contacts to get secure phones, high quality fake identities, and weapons. Considering the teen for a long moment, a sad look of understanding entered the man's eyes. The war veteran may not know the truth of Alex's situation, didn't even know that Thomas wasn't his real name, but he knew and guessed enough to get the gist of why the teen was asking for these things. Ivanov nodded resolutely and grabbed some paper and a pencil, writing down everything he knew about the city's underground suppliers in this line of business, noting some that were possibly quite out of date.

Alex thanked the man and left with the list of contacts. More than he had hoped for when he asked for the information. He had been reading and asking questions as the man wrote, so he already knew where his next stop was. Jogging to the outskirts of the city centre, he found the adult toy shop on the list and pushed open the door. The sight of handcuffs and whips greeted him, along with vibrators and lubricant of every flavor under the sun. Costumes too, for roleplay, among a wide variety of other things. Blushing, he took all of this in curiously while marking out potential threats, escape routes, and makeshift weapons.

Upon his entry, the employees had immediately clocked him as someone who wasn't old enough to be there and they tried to get him to leave, threatening to call the police. Following the instructions that Ivanov had given him, Alex spoke the codeword and watched in amusement as the employees froze and eyed him warily, reassessing their opinions on his identity and threat level.

Eventually, as if someone had given them the green light, one of the employees grudgingly led him to the back of the shop and opened a door. He was waved through, where he noted that something built into the doorway scanned him for weapons, and was further led down the long staircase to the basement. Once there, the employee left and he was met by a woman who introduced herself as Verkäufer, the owner of the shop. Everything else went smoothly after that, even if it was a little annoying that he had to deflect most of the questions that the curious woman dropped every few minutes. But what mattered was that he got the secure phone that he was looking for, without the intelligence agencies any wiser, and hinted at continued business to keep this source open to his identity as Thomas. Just Thomas. No surnames or ID cards needed. As a bonus, he even bought a Swiss Army knife disguised as a pen for Tom's souvenir.

Content with the success in acquiring a secure phone, Alex left the toy shop and found a place to burn Ivanov's list after committing it to memory. Then, he made his way back to the hotel while still avoiding all the cameras. When he finally arrived at his penthouse suite, it was 0400 hours which meant he would be getting very little sleep again. Alex looked at his books, then the bed, and back again. He sighed. The books would have to wait. He put the numbers that the French and Spanish had given him into his new phone, had a hot shower, and got ready for bed, falling asleep in seconds.

The next morning, a very irate pair of agents greeted him. The reason was made clear when the president of the BND, Ernst Schindler, confronted him about ditching his tails last night, demanding to know where he'd gone. He guessed that the tails he lost were the two agents escorting him.

"Ich habe den ganzen Tag in Büros und Flugzeugen gesessen. (I've been sitting down all day in offices and planes.)," Alex explained, as if it was obvious what he had been doing. All he got were blank expressions so he elaborated. "Also bin ich joggen gegangen. (So I went for a run.)"

"Trotzdem hättest du nicht alleine gehen sollen." (Even so, you should not have gone on your own."

"Mir war nicht bewusst, dass ich derzeit als Feind angesehen werde (I wasn't aware that I was currently considered the enemy)," Alex answered with a tilt of his head, rolling his luggage over to a corner.

Instantly, the room's temperature dropped significantly, in proportion to the sudden increase in tension. Schindler responded in a measured voice, "You are not the enemy. But you are not one of ours either. Higher security to ensure no diplomatic incident, yes?"

"Then, perhaps you should have communicated the security measures," Alex replied coolly. Jones was so going to punish him for this. "Listening devices, cameras, trackers, and tails. How was I supposed to know if these were coming from an ally like yourself or an old enemy of mine?"

The man paused. "Perhaps a little communication from yourself in checking with us would help as well."

"And who is to say that my phone wasn't bugged as well?"

Nodding, Schindler let the matter rest and moved on to the real purpose of the visit. Four hours later, the decisions were made and the man accompanied him to the airport. Just before boarding the plane, he was given a phone number, like the other two agencies had done. Alex plucked the tracker off his luggage and placed it in the director's hand in exchange for the piece of paper, making the man laugh.

"You are a good agent, Rider," the BND president said in parting. "A good man. I hope we will be able to work together again."

The man walked away and Alex turned to the gates with a smile, knowing that they were on good terms and the incident this morning had been forgiven. Perhaps Jones wouldn't punish him after all. He hurried through the gates and found his seat on the plane, sweeping for bugs and ordering lunch as soon as they had taken off. While he waited for the food, he put the BND president's number into his new phone. But as he typed it in, Alex was struck by the briefly hysterical realization that he had four secure phones now. The one he was currently holding in his hands was his foreign agency phone. Then, there was his MI6 phone, Yassen phone, and non-government agency phone. All satellite devices, instead of the usual cellphones that most people used and he still kept as his unsecured phone. He pinched the bridge of his nose and decided to move on before he could think too deeply on the bizarre situation.

For the next seven hours, Alex was kept extremely busy. No one else in his section was anywhere near as occupied. At least, they had some time to eat leisurely and watch a movie in between their work periods. Or get a few hours of sleep, if they wanted. Not him though. He could feel the disbelieving eyes on him from the other people in business class, especially after he changed out of his suit. But after a threat assessment, he decided to ignore them. If he wasn't in tutoring sessions with Smithers and Redwing while he was scarfing down a meal, then he was answering emails from Crawley on his phone, working on files that Crawley sent him, or reading up on active files like the Nightshade or Japan ones that he had access to and cross-referencing the information with news articles that he searched up on the laptop. One of those emails alerted him to the fact that there had been developments in the Nightshade investigation and he was going to be sent out on a mission within a month of getting back to London from his current trip. What those developments were, Crawley didn't say due to security concerns while he was abroad. But he got the general idea from the reading he did. One of the organization's child operatives had been caught and, from the examinations that MI6 had done, they suspected implants of some kind controlling the children. He guessed that his mission would be infiltrating the ranks of the child assassins to take down their operations from the inside. That wasn't going to be fun. For an entirely different set of reasons than the usual. Because kids were involved as the criminals and victims this time. But that was a worry for another time. He was busy enough right now as it was. Besides tutoring and analyst work, there were assignments from Brooklands that he had to complete so they could be handed in as soon as he got back. And the aviation books that Yassen expected him to read, probably to be done as fast as possible. By the six-hour mark, Alex was exhausted but nowhere near finished. Regardless, he forced himself to stop working, in favor of changing back into his suit, already grimacing at the discomfort of wearing it in the warm Egyptian weather, before doing deep meditation for the remaining hour.

As soon as he got off the plane, Alex knew the deep meditation had paid off in a way he hadn't anticipated. Of course, the meditation had helped him feel more rested. But what he had been too busy to even think about accounting for was the trauma that returning to Egypt elicited. The layout of the airport, the sunny skies and heat, the noisy people milling about as they shouted to each other in a mix of Arabic and English. All of this brought back his last memories of Jack in full force and he moved through the crowds rigidly, going through combat breathing exercises to tamp down on his emotions. Seeing the head of the Jihaz Amn al Daoula, Colonel Ali Manzour, waiting for him in the same white striped suit as their last meeting didn't do his mental state any favors either. But he headed towards the brightly dressed, overweight man all the same. Manzour examined him, searching for something, and nodded once before breezing through passport control, wordlessly leading them to a black Jaguar XJ40.

"Alex Rider," the Colonel said when the car's door closed shut, cutting off sound from the outside world. "You are a popular boy."

Alex shrugged nonchalantly, having gotten his memories under control. "Better than dragging more children into this line of work."

"Stupidly selfless!" Manzour snapped. "You throw yourself into danger for a thankless job! Just as well that you possess a commendable strength and moral character. Otherwise, as young as you are, I would put you on a watch list for potential terrorists."

"That would be inconvenient," Alex replied, playing along. A twinkle in the man's eyes had belied the abrasive tone and hard-set mouth.

"Indeed, it would. I am glad to see you again, Alex Rider. You seem different than the last time we met. A good different, I think. I only wish that we could meet under more pleasant circumstances for once."

"Preferably ones not SCORPIA related," Alex said dryly, watching the long lines of traffic, filled with the sound of horns blaring and exhaust fumes polluting the air. Just the amount of activity on the streets was enough to raise the environment's temperature.

Manzour barked out a laugh. "Yes, that does seem to be the trend where you are concerned. But enough of this! It is late and you have had a long flight. I have arranged for your stay at the Four Seasons hotel in the Garden City district. It is Cairo's most expensive neighborhood. Our offices are fortunate enough to be in that area, along with the British and American embassies. Some of our wealthiest citizens are there as well. You will be safe at the hotel. Rest for tonight! And tomorrow, we will begin work at dawn."

"Thank you for the arrangements," Alex said, already planning out his night. He had about ten hours before their meeting tomorrow morning and he wanted to make good use of that time.

The long lines of traffic abruptly gave way to a quiet maze of narrow, twisting streets once they crossed the Nile. And instead of an aesthetically unattractive medley of shops and offices, there were beautiful European-style villas and well-kept lawns behind gated, metal fences. In comparison to the rest of the city, this part screamed wealth.

Soon, they arrived at the Four Seasons and Alex settled into a large room that contained a king-sized bed and a sofa bed. It really was too much for one person. He wasn't going to complain though. And after taking it all in, he repeated the same checks as he had in the Berlin hotel, raising an eyebrow when he only found two listening devices. One by the door and the other by the window. From the placements, he guessed that they were there to alert Manzour's people of any intruders, rather than to spy on him. He left them in place.

With ten hours on his own, Alex decided that he deserved a break. Room service brought him food not too long after he finished his checks, apparently pre-ordered for him by the Colonel already. So, he ate dinner first. Then, he spent an hour at the gym. Half an hour doing laps in the swimming pool and another half an hour relaxing in the hot tub. He went up to shower and was feeling much more refreshed by the time he booted up his laptop for another tutoring session. To finish off the night, he read some more of the aviation books before going to sleep.

Five hours later, Alex checked out of the hotel and was welcomed into a seemingly abandoned, four-storey building that was mostly hidden behind trees and shrubs. Everything looked normal. But he knew better than to take things at face value. Further in, Colonel Manzour slid a wood panel back to access a touchpad and glass fingerprint reader. Bypassing the security, he was led up a modern staircase to the man's office. There, Alex signed the NDA and they began the familiar process of deciding each agent's course of action. Except, this time, he had more of an input into the decisions. It was like a halfway point between the way that MI6 treated him in this case and the way the other agencies had so far. He couldn't help but notice that the two agencies that trusted him with more responsibilities were ones that had personally seen him on an operation before. And because he had greater input, there was more ground to cover and the session felt extra rushed. By the end of it, they were both thirsty and out of breath.

"SCORPIA and Gladius," Manzour muttered. "Headaches, the lot of them! You have done an excellent job. This has been very helpful."

Alex shrugged, finally taking a sip from the teacup that had been present throughout the meeting. "I actually didn't realize I had picked up on this much useful information on my missions until these sessions."

The Colonel nodded thoughtfully, lighting a cigar. "Yes, that is always the case. In the thick of the action, there is no time to fully process every detail and their significance. It is only when you sit down to think about it, talk about it with others to get a different perspective, that everything becomes clear."

"Or get an expert opinion on the more specialized areas," Alex murmured, thinking about his lack of knowledge in what the cold chain meant in the Invisible Sword operation.

"That too," Manzour agreed. "No one can do it all on their own. Your involvement, I take it that means you will continue in this business?"

"Yes."

"I thought so," the Colonel sighed. "Your flight is at 1630 hours which gives you five hours before you have to leave for the airport again. Have you thought about what you would like to do in that time? Tourism? See the Great Pyramids? I can arrange to have them closed for you."

"That's very kind of you," Alex said, diplomatically for once even though he had a few choice words for those who took pleasure in flaunting their wealth and power that way. "But I think schoolwork would be more useful for me, Colonel. I keep missing classes for intelligence work."

"Ah yes, of course," Manzour nodded, examining the teen. "I have a proposal for you."

"I'm not going on a mission."

"I am not sending you on a mission," Manzour replied, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "As I said, no one can do it all on their own. I propose that you have lunch and allow us to use the remaining time to provide a little training for you."

"Yes." He didn't even have to think about it. And he didn't care if it went against what Jones wanted or considered appropriate. "What training do you have in mind?"

"Technology and Arabic. I think it would be interesting to see your combat skills as well."

Arabic was an obvious yes. Technology, he was already learning from Smithers and Redwing. But each person had their own specialties and distinct styles so it would be a good opportunity to learn something a little different. The combat skills, he didn't know if it was a genuine curiosity or if there were ill intentions behind the proposal. It wouldn't be wise to accept. Then again, would it offend the Egyptians if he refused? Based on his impression of Manzour, it could be a fifty-fifty chance. Politics were a real pain. Inwardly sighing, he said, "Yes, to everything."

Manzour clapped his hands together. "Good! I will have it arranged. You are free to go wherever you like for the lunch hour. Here is some money to pay for your meal. I will meet you back at the front doors at noon."

Knowing that he was dismissed, Alex took the ninety Egyptian pounds with thanks and left the office with his luggage in tow, finding a nice falafel place to enjoy his lunch outdoors in the sunshine. He watched the citizens and tourists going about their lives as he ate, just generally relaxing. If he disregarded the suit he was wearing, it almost felt like a holiday. But the illusion was broken when the alarm on his watch vibrated to let him know it was time to grab a change of clothes and head back to the Egyptian intelligence agency.

Just as Manzour had promised, the man was waiting for him at the front doors of Jihaz Amn al Daoula. Once more, Alex was led inside. However, instead of going up, they took a lift down to the basement this time. When the doors opened, he saw scientists in the laboratories and workshops, bent over computer screens or their current experiments. This was the agency's technical section, similar to MI6's Q and research and development sections. As far as he could see, this basement floor extended past the building's boundaries which meant that it must be running underneath the other properties. Perhaps underneath the entire Garden City.

An armed soldier he recognized as a part of Unit Triple Seven, Egypt's counter terrorism and special operations unit that he had worked with last time, marched past them. The soldier's eyes widened at the sight of him but professionalism won out over the apparent curiosity. A salute for Manzour, a brief smile of acknowledgement for Alex, and the soldier was gone. Before he could ask any questions, they had arrived at an office that the Colonel walked into without knocking. A slim, young woman in her twenties was frowning at her computer screen while fidgeting with her headscarf but she looked up at their entrance.

"This is Shadia, head of our technical section," Manzour introduced uncomfortably. "She will be teaching you technology and Arabic."

Shadia smiled, making her gentle features seem even softer. "So you're Alex Rider. It's good to finally meet you."

"It's nice to meet you too," Alex returned politely.

Shadia grinned. "I've heard a lot about you. There are many rumors in the intelligence community. Of course, our own people who worked with you last year talk too." She looked at Manzour mischievously. "And my father, here, has not stopped talking about you at home for a few days now. He likes you very much."

Alex blinked and took a second look at the two, still not seeing the family resemblance, while Manzour groaned and passed a hand over his face, reprimanding, "Do not tell tales, Shadia. I have other business to attend to. Make sure he is at the combat training center in three hours."

The Colonel left in a bit of a huff, but the woman paid him no mind. "Come sit," Shadia said, waving the teen over. "Don't let my father's grumbling fool you. I have three sisters. As much as he loves us, my father is always complaining that he has no sons. But the way he talks about you, one could almost mistake you for his child!" She paused. "Don't tell him I said that though. He never tells anyone about our relationship unless absolutely necessary. Maybe because he is embarrassed to have his daughter work for him. But if you think he's annoyed with my teasing now, it will be nothing compared to his embarrassment at having me compare you to being his son."

"I've never known my father. What do fathers say to other people about their children?" Alex asked, a little stunned that someone could like him that much after only two meetings. And not in the way that Sarov, Drevin, or Sicherheit had.

Shadia laughed. "Usually about how well their children are doing in school and sports. It's different with you though. He's been going on about your intelligence and quick thinking, your wit, how mentally strong you are. Your calm and level-headed way of carrying yourself. The work you've done for the world. Your moral compass and lack of care for politics. And of course, your performance in last year's Siwa operation that our people have reported on."

"He's talked about all of that?" Alex asked in amazement. Their two meetings could not have possibly generated that much information to talk about so some of it must have come from the rumors. Or possibly Byrne talking to Manzour about him like a couple of gossiping schoolgirls. Even with the Germans' reaction to hearing his name in the Sicherheit operation, he didn't realize the stories about him were so rampant that his reputation preceded him wherever he went.

"And more," Shadia nodded in amusement. "Like I said, he has not stopped talking about you. He likes you very much indeed. But enough! We should get on with the lessons before you have to go. Or my father will not be very happy."

The next hour was spent on hacking, cybersecurity, and an introduction to the dark web. Smithers had already taught him some of the former two, not that he said anything that would reveal details of his training, so Shadia built on the knowledge further and showed him methods that she preferred using. He had been right. She had a different style than Smithers. And certainly different from Gordon Ross' technical approaches to problems. He wondered if he'd be able to identify their works by their styles alone, if he ever came across them without knowing who the creator was beforehand. It would be an interesting exercise to test out. As for the dark web, either Smithers had just not gotten around to it yet or Jones didn't want him learning anything about it. Either way, Shadia had to explain from the most basic concept, like the difference between the dark web and the deep web, and work her way up from there. That took up the majority of the hour but, by the end of the session, he was able to safely access the dark web on his own for simple information searches. Other activity on the dark web would have to be covered another time.

After the technology training, they spent two hours on Arabic. An hour on the writing system, which was somewhat familiar from his brief Dari and Pashto lessons since they all used the same alphabet while being completely different languages. And another hour on pronunciation, grammar, and basic conversational phrases. By the end of the session, he could read, write, and speak a few phrases. Hello, good morning, and how are you, being the ones he had the best grasp on. In truth, he was a little surprised that Jones hadn't tried to teach him the language yet, given that Arabic studies was her minor in university, but he supposed having a native speaker as his teacher was even better. And assuming that Manzour didn't relay the message back to MI6, there was no need to even let Jones know that he wanted to learn Arabic because Shadia exchanged email addresses with him so they could continue some of today's tech and language lessons if he wanted.

After exchanging emails, she led him further into the bowels of the basement floor to a training hall, where Manzour and Unit 777 were waiting for him. From this journey, Alex was positive that the basement floor extended throughout Garden City. Once he stepped into the hall, Shadia said goodbye, left for her office, and his combat training session began, with Manzour sitting in a folding chair on the sidelines to supervise and referee. As he sparred with the soldiers, Alex found that the Egyptians used a mix of Krav Maga and the lesser known but deadlier version of the martial arts style that they introduced as KAPAP. It was a Hebrew acronym for Krav Panim el Panim, which literally translated to face-to-face combat, and specifically used in elite militaries. The system incorporated boxing, judo, jujitsu, karate, and combat using knives and sticks. While he did not know KAPAP, his other martial arts skills helped him to quickly pick up the moves as they exchanged lessons, both parties teaching as much as they were learning. It was refreshingly enjoyable to be able to spar with so many people and had the advantage of gaining more experience in dealing with different personal fighting styles. It was something he'd missed from his pre-MI6 days in his karate club's dojo. And for the most part, everyone - including himself - was surprised to find that he kept up fairly well in their sparring matches. He supposed that he had the SAS, Tomohiro, and Yassen to thank for that. The only problems were his size disadvantage that Yassen had already pointed him in the direction of counteracting and his lack of knife combat experience. So, he asked for an extra focus in knife fighting and Manzour had the soldiers deliver. By the end of the hour, he and the soldiers were grinning at one another even though they all had cuts everywhere and felt like they had each gone ten rounds with a falcon.

After showering with the men and treating each other's wounds, Manzour had them say their farewells and led Alex to the Jaguar. As the driver took them to the airport, the Colonel gave a number to reach him at like all the other agencies, which he put into his foreign agency phone immediately, but also handed him a Great Pyramid pendant necklace with a thick chain.

"A souvenir," Manzour said solemnly. "But also, it contains our agents' standard issue distress beacon and a communication device. Just in case you ever need help but MI6 is too far away. Twist the top of the pyramid at ninety degrees clockwise three times and the distress signal will be activated. Twist the sphinx head to its right and you will be able to talk to Shadia. Twist it to the left and Shadia will see whatever you want her to see through the sphinx eyes. Unfortunately, verbal and visual communication cannot be used at the same time. Only use this in an emergency. And I trust that you will not let your MI6 get their hands on this."

Alex stared at the gift, reached out, and carefully put the necklace in his pocket. "شكرا لك (Thank you.)," Alex said sincerely, almost fumbling the pronunciation in his attempt at the unfamiliar language. "I will not forget this kindness."

Manzour smiled as the car came to a stop outside the airport. "Unit 777 looks forward to working with you in the future. As do I. Take care of yourself, Alex Rider. And I hope we will meet again."

"Until next time, Colonel," Alex returned with a smile. Getting out of the car and grabbing his luggage, he gave the man a salute and entered the airport.

The next six hours on the plane offered Alex no rest after checking for bugs and, even though this wasn't the shortest flight, he was just glad that it hadn't been an eleven-hour flight, the longest one that existed for traveling from Cairo to Moscow. Once again, he was in tutoring sessions with Smithers and Redwing, eating dinner halfway through even as he wrote notes. Three hours of tutoring later, he spent another two doing homework for both Brooklands and his two tutors. One hour was left for reading the aviation books, texting Yassen questions for things he didn't understand, and digging out a coat from his carry-on luggage for below zero weather. And when he landed in Russia at 2330 hours Moscow time, he got off the plane to be met by a SVR agent for the country's foreign intelligence representative and a GRU agent for the military intelligence representative, both leading him to a vehicle with expressions as cold as the thick blanket of snow around them. The two agencies often worked together on operations. Even so, he was a little surprised that each of them had sent an agent to receive him but followed along silently after failing to get a response to his "hello". They reached his hotel at midnight, the agents leaving him with instructions to be ready to go at 0730 hours tomorrow morning. It was the only thing they had said to him since they met.

With the Russian agents' attitudes, Alex decided to forgo cramming a couple extra hours of study so that he could get more sleep instead. It looked like he would need as much energy as he could spare if he wanted his mind to be sharp enough to navigate the politics and avoid offending anyone. Russia wasn't a place that he could afford to offend, either for himself personally, MI6, or the UK. And even if he didn't mind having Russia as an outright enemy, Jones would certainly kill him for single-handedly destroying the two countries' relationship. So, Alex only checked his room for bugs, left all thirty-two of them in place, took a shower, and went to bed.

His relatively early night gave him five and a half hours of sleep. Still less than he would have liked for treading through politics, but better than the two to four hours he'd been constantly getting lately. And when the agents led him to an office in the Yasenevo district, where the SVR headquarters was located, he had to suppress a groan as he thanked his lucky stars that he had decided to get to sleep as early as he did. Because, not only was he meeting with the two intelligence directors but, President Kiriyenko was in attendance as well.

"Alex Rider!" Kiriyenko exclaimed in a heavy accent upon seeing the teen. "Come in! It is good to see you."

"Hello, Mr. President," Alex said, shaking hands with each of the three men before towing his luggage to settle beside the only available chair. "Sirs."

Kiriyenko smiled. Pointing to his heavily muscled companion, he introduced, "This is Igor Korabelnikov, director of GRU."

Alex nodded at Korabelnikov.

"And this is Mikhail Primakov, director of SVR," the president continued, indicating the slim man with heavy set facial features on his other side.

"It is a pleasure to meet all of you," Alex said politely. "I look forward to working together."

"Tell me," Primakov said shrewdly in a lighter accent. "What reason do the British have in helping us?"

And so the games begin, Alex thought. Every move might be a trap and he would have to be careful in how he answered, how he presented himself. Deciding to test the waters, Alex replied neutrally, "As I understand it, you requested this meeting. Was I supposed to refuse?"

"You will have to forgive the directors," Kiriyenko said apologetically, offering him some vodka after pouring some for each of his directors.

As he recalled from Crawley's lessons, the Russians liked to drink, especially when they talked business. If you didn't get drunk with them, they wouldn't trust you. It wasn't as prolific in the younger generation anymore but with these men, it would be true. He still remembered how Kiriyenko had pushed for him to accept a drink at Sarov's compound. But he also had no experience with drinking. He didn't know his limits and, in foreign territory, that would be a problem. What did Sun Tzu say about knowing yourself and the enemy again? Certainly nothing about knowing the enemy but not yourself. That wasn't supposed to happen. It was supposed to be the other way around at most. He really did find himself in the most unusual situations. Well, there was nothing for it but to throw caution to the wind. At least he had eaten breakfast, which should slow down the effects of the alcohol so he wouldn't get drunk as fast. Carefully, Alex took a sip from the shot glass to test the flavor first. And promptly coughed at the burning sensation of the alcohol sliding down his throat.

The president shrugged, waves of amusement rolling off all three men. Offering him some cheese cubes and shrimp cocktail to go with the vodka, Kiriyenko continued speaking. "I made request but they do not approve. They think it is foolish of me."

Ah, that would explain the cold reception even though they were the ones to invite him. He had the president's trust from the Sarov debacle but not the intelligence directors'. That was something he would need to work on, to build a rapport, if they were to get through this smoothly. But how? While he thought about it, Alex commented, "A healthy level of caution for their positions."

Korabelnikov turned a sharp gaze on him. "The West has never been our ally before so, I hope you understand if we are... less than welcoming."

The GRU director's words gave Alex an idea. A risky one, but the potential payoff would be worth it. The principle of his idea was to speak as plainly as possible and make it personal. Jones was not going to be happy though. Then again, if it got the job done, what went on here doesn't necessarily have to reach MI6's ears. He decided to go for it. "True, the West has always had a rocky relationship with Russia. However, I have no such history. Other than preventing the nuclear disaster in Murmansk - thank you for the medal by the way - we have a blank slate between us."

"And I suppose you want us to believe that your government lets you do whatever you want?" Primakov asked derisively.

"No," Alex replied firmly, looking the SVR director straight in the eyes. "But, unless you are planning an attack on civilians or other government agencies, what they do not know will not hurt them. This goes for anyone I extend my services to. However, I do not believe you are so careless as to reveal such a plot to me anyways so that should not be an issue. Even without non-disclosure agreements, I fully intend on keeping the information I learn in this week's visits to myself. I cannot speak for what MI6 wants out of this situation. But I will tell you right now, that the only goal I have ever cared about in this line of work is keeping people safe. That includes keeping foreign government agents out of a criminal organization's grasp, politics be damned."

Silence followed his words as the Russians assessed him. Kiriyenko looked at him with new, appreciative eyes even while they waited for the two directors to give their verdict. Finally, Korabelnikov commented, "Pretty words. But how do we know that your MI6 will not find a way to get the information out of you, willing or not? Perhaps you will not even be aware of their attempts in getting the information."

"Я изучаю ваш язык несколько месяцев, а они до сих пор не знают. Я бы предпочел оставить это так," Alex offered. (I have been learning your language for months and they still do not know. I would prefer to keep it that way.)

The shock on their faces at hearing him speak Russian almost made him laugh. Instead, he settled for a smirk.

As they eyed him warily, Kiriyenko asked, "Вы не говорили этого в прошлый раз, когда мы встречались. Когда ты начал учиться?" (You did not speak it last time we met. When did you start learning?)

"После того, как я вышел на пенсию. (After I came out of retirement.)" Alex decided to preemptively answer their next question too. "Я вырос, ничего не зная о моей семье. Для меня это было важно по личным причинам, связанным с поиском собственной личности." (I grew up knowing nothing about who my family were. It was important to me for personal reasons related to finding my own identity.)

They silently considered him some more, weighing the truth of his words. Approval was evident in the president's eyes and posture, but the man sat back to let his people make their own judgements. With a glance at each other, the two directors seemed to come to a conclusion. Primakov spoke for both of them. "Very well. Perhaps this will work out after all. Let us begin."

The next three and a half hours were spent, in a mix of English and Russian, exchanging information and debating different courses of action for each undercover agent's file. The Russian directors were skeptical of his contributions at first. But as the meeting went on and his intel made the full picture clearer, they slowly warmed up to his ideas, giving his plans serious consideration. Sometimes they took his advice, sometimes they didn't. And when they didn't, Alex could tell it was because they had other information that changed the picture and made his suggestions infeasible. They didn't tell him what those pieces of information were though. And he didn't push. He assumed it had something to do with their other operations. Still, it was nice to know that they were able to leave aside their political differences and paranoia to cooperate with him.

However, he did come across one problem. One of their agents had been put in the "stay in the field" category. And while Alex agreed that was where the agent belonged, he didn't agree with the next moves intended for that position. This was because he knew it would clash with what Manzour currently had planned for one of the Egyptian agents. Since the agents would be two of many rivals fighting for the same spot, the clash would probably kill both of them off. And the worst part was that he couldn't let either side know anything about each other. How was he supposed to convince one of the agencies to change their plans if he couldn't give them a suitable reason? It was a situation that he had not expected and was wholly unprepared for. There was no one he could turn to for guidance on how to handle this. Not without leaking confidential information and that was the last thing he wanted to do.

As Alex thought about how to solve this problem, they moved on to another file and his mind worked overtime, trying to focus on the current agent they were discussing while coming up with a solution in the back of his mind for the previous one. Since he couldn't talk about the Egyptians to the Russians and vice versa, there were only three options left to him: lie, find a more valuable angle for one of the agents, or ask for blind trust. Lying was out. Besides just not wanting to lie to the agencies about this, he risked being found out and losing the little bit of trust he had managed to gain. He'd be burning bridges. As for the other options... Blind trust might work. But only if he asked Manzour. And even that was a very big if. It would have to be the absolute last resort. So that left finding a more valuable position. More valuable meant more power. Depending on what that position was, he might need to keep an eye on the agent's movements and any intel they brought to monitor for changes in the situation. Come to think of it, he was the only one with the fullest picture so he should probably monitor all the activity anyways. Great. More work. How was he supposed to get all the agencies on board with that? He felt a headache coming on. Could he trust the Russians to share that kind of information with him after this meeting was done? No, he couldn't. Which means his best bet was finding an alternative plan for the Egyptian agent. With that decided, he gave the current file his full attention.

Soon, they were done making decisions and Kiriyenko let out a sigh, throwing back the rest of the vodka that had been steadily dwindling as the meeting went on. The Russians were on their sixth or seventh shots while Alex was only on his third. The president looked at Alex wistfully and said, "I wish our people had your talent. The youth are not what they used to be."

Alex raised an eyebrow. He couldn't agree or disagree with the man. Either one would offend someone in the room. He hummed noncommittally, the pleasant buzz from the alcohol making his responses slightly slower. "Talent is not the only factor that matters."

"Perhaps not," Primakov agreed. "But it helps. You have a sharp mind. We could use someone like you."

"I am already working," Alex replied carefully.

Korabelnikov shrugged. "Yes, but you have given us hint that you - how did you say it? - Ah yes, 'extend your services' to those outside MI6. What is one more?"

"One more means less sleep, less school, and more hospital visits," Alex retorted without thinking.

Fortunately, the men didn't take offense and just laughed, with Kiriyenko saying, "Very well. But will you consider taking a job for our great country sometime?"

Alex considered the men. Outright refusing could put him in immediate danger. If he died because of this, Yassen would find some way to bring him back from the dead just to kill him again for taking that idiotic risk. But agreeing would be considered treasonous to his own country. Again, he needed to find a middle ground. A non-answer. Shrugging, he said, "Maybe under certain circumstances."

"And what would those circumstances be?" Primakov asked, staring at him intently.

Alex gave them a dry look. "Not already on a job at the time, no interfering with school, no manipulation, and no blackmail." He paused, thinking of how to cover all his bases without promising anything. "Any job that you propose to me would have to meet the criteria of being purely a domestic matter or solely to do with criminals. That means no politics. Nothing to do with other countries. And you better be coming to me for fieldwork help as a last resort. I have school. I cannot be running all over the world for jobs that can be done by someone else. If I accept, you would provide the gear, backup, and medical that is standard for your agents. And you would owe me a favor proportional to the job."

Kiriyenko chuckled. "That is a long list of requirements."

"I think you would be disappointed with anything less," Alex pointed out.

The directors seemed to communicate silently before nodding at each other. Again, Primakov spoke for both of them. "I think we can work with that. As long as you sign non-disclosure agreement for each assignment."

"The non-disclosure agreement goes both ways," Alex stated.

"Of course," Primakov agreed.

"I find it interesting that you did not require going through proper channels," Korabelnikov mused.

Alex stared at the GRU director and mentally did a facepalm. Why did he not think of that? Oh yeah, probably because none of the people he'd worked for in the past were good at doing things by official means when it came to him. Was it too late to add that in? Probably. He sighed inwardly and shrugged. "As I said, my goal is keeping people safe. Sometimes politics get in the way of that."

"Good man!" Kiriyenko said. "A hero of our great nation serving the country will increase morale in our forces. You can start training with some of our people today to get to know them. Familiarity makes working together easier. What do you think, my friend?"

The Russians were offering him training too? Why? What was the motive? The catch? Would it be dangerous to accept? Would he offend them if he refused? Alex didn't know the answer to any of these except the last one, which was an unequivocal yes. And he didn't even have an excuse to say no because his next flight wasn't until 1430 hours which gave him a full sixty minutes after lunch to train. It seemed that the further he was from London, the less Crawley had been able to book him a tight flight schedule. And the timing was too perfect for the Russians to not have taken advantage of this deliberately. With an inward sigh, Alex said with a polite smile, "That is very kind of you, Mr. Kiriyenko. What kind of training are you thinking?"

"Combat," Primakov answered. "Best way to know each other quickly."

He was still sore from the Egyptians' combat training. Groaning inwardly, Alex said, "Of course."

Kiriyenko smiled, a suspiciously wicked gleam in his eyes. "Excellent! Lunch, then we will see how well you fight."

And assessing his combat skills was exactly what they did. Unlike the Egyptians, who were friendly in their sparring matches, the Russian military and intelligence operatives were vicious. At one point, Alex really thought his opponent was aiming to kill him. Could they kill him and claim it as an accident? No matter how they dealt with the aftermath, it would sour the relationship between Russia and the western countries. But it was still possible. So, even if he wanted to, there was no faking his skills to be less than where his actual level was at. It was fight to the best of his ability or possibly die. And he would very much like to not die. Match after match of fighting for his life and thanking Yassen for never going easy on him continued for half an hour before Kiriyenko called for an end. He had lost to a lot of opponents but, even in his slightly tipsy state, he had won a few matches too. That was something he could be proud of.

"Not bad," Primakov said appraisingly. Everyone relaxed at the words, less cold towards Alex, like he had passed some sort of test. "Very good for your age. But still can improve."

Korabelnikov barked out an order to their people in Russian. They spaced themselves out and broke up into pairs, launching into matches of their own. Alex noticed that the two agents who had picked him up from the airport were paired together.

The GRU director called over the one person that was left without a partner and said, "This is Artyom Balakin. He is one of our best Spetsnaz operatives. Today, he will train you. You do not teach what you learn here to anyone else, understood?"

"Yes, I understand."

Korabelnikov went back to observe from the sidelines and Alex shook hands with Balakin, who immediately launched into an analysis of what Alex did wrong in the matches, clinically showing him different moves. When he asked what style the moves came from, an introduction to Systema was given. The style operated on the principles of simplicity, logical movement, fluidity, and ingenuity to deal with any situation at hand in the most efficient way. And they meant every situation, whether it was combat, mundane tasks of daily life, or simultaneously dealing with a combination of the two. What's more, the techniques used weren't set in stone. They depended on adapting to situations, but always coming back to the same principles. This meant that - big or small, strong or weak - the style could be used to win a fight against any opponent, no matter what advantages the other person possessed. Balakin even showed him some techniques he could use against someone bigger and stronger than himself. And then, they were sparring again, just as viciously as before. However, this time, Alex tried using the newly learned techniques and Balakin gave him pointers. By the end of the training session, he had a whole new set of bruises. But he also had at least three of the moves down solid. He would need to keep practicing on his own to make it instinctual though.

After changing into a suit again, Alex was presented with the phone number he had come to expect by now and hustled off to the airport. It would be a twenty-hour flight to Sydney and another hour on a different flight to Canberra. Much better than the sixty hours that would have come with a direct flight but even with his status expediting the process of getting through crowds and security, Alex was getting sick of seeing the insides of airports and planes. The only bright side to this was the familiarity making his readings on aviation more intuitive as he noticed things that the airline staff did.

When he got on the plane, the first thing he did was check for bugs again. He found one on his person and another stuck to his carry-on luggage. Destroying those, he set his alarm for six hours later and went to sleep. It might only be late afternoon going into early evening in Moscow but it was late night in Australian time so he needed to minimize the jet lag as much as possible. Once his alarm went off in the form of vibrating on his wrist, Alex blearily rubbed his eyes until he was awake. Flagging down a flight attendant to get plenty of water and an inflight meal, he checked his emails for anything urgent needing his attention and entered the number he'd received from the Russians into the appropriate phone. Then, he got started on work when his order arrived. For the next fourteen hours, he continued with the video call tutoring sessions, doing homework, figuring out how to change the Egyptian agent's position, and reading aviation books. There was a two-hour nap somewhere in between all of that, along with keeping hydrated, to further help with reducing jet lag. And by the time he had switched flights and landed in Canberra at 1800 hours Australian time on Friday, he felt a weird mix of exhaustion and wakefulness, with hunger sprinkled in since he'd tried to time his meals to match the new time zone as well. The exhaustion was from the frequent flights of the past week coupled with his body's circadian rhythm being thrown off and long hours of work. The wakefulness was from sleeping on the flight in an attempt to reduce his exhaustion. Overall, it wasn't the worst jet lag but he still felt uncomfortable. Plus, his legs were practically asleep from sitting for such a long time so there was a prickling sensation with every step he took. Even though he was still battered from the two combat training sessions in as many days, he needed a workout session badly.

Getting off the plane, his discomfort grew as he was hit with higher temperatures than he had in Egypt. He'd already left his winter coat in his luggage but he was still wearing a suit which left him warmer than he'd like in the twenty-five degree Celsius weather, especially when he had just come from snowy Russia. His mood dropped further when he saw Marc Damon, the Covert Action Division's deputy head for ASIS, had come to pick him up. In light of the results from the Snakehead mission making their manipulations of him clear, the sight of either of the heads was not a welcome one. But he was going to be working with them so Alex put on a polite smile and shook hands with the man, exchanging a few pleasantries.

Half an hour later, the car pulled up in front of a hotel and Damon told him, "Here's the key card to room 315. A team should be meeting you in the lobby in ten minutes to take you to dinner. I would advise changing into some casual summer clothes. And I will be here to pick you up tomorrow morning at 0730 hours."

Alex raised an eyebrow at that but accepted the card with a quiet 'thanks' and got out of the vehicle, bringing his luggage with him as he wondered why a whole team had been assigned to him. Five minutes later, he was in his hotel room and sweeping it for bugs. The results were the same as Egypt. He had just enough time left to change into a t-shirt and shorts and grab the important stuff that he didn't want anyone, including the intelligence agencies, getting into before going back down to the lobby.

When the lift doors opened on the ground floor, giving Alex a clear view of the modern reception area, he had just enough control and discipline to prevent his jaw from dropping at the surprise that awaited. The team that had been assigned to him consisted of, not only the four young Australian SAS soldiers from his last visit but also, Colonel Mike Abbott. Walking over to them in a slight haze of disbelief, Alex called out, "Colonel! It's good to see you again."

"Alex!" they all exclaimed with varying degrees of somewhat guilty faces.

"Scooter, X-Ray, Texas, Sparks," Alex greeted with a nod at each of them. "Good to see all of you too. How are your injuries, Sparks?"

"Fully recovered with no complications," Sparks replied with a grin. He had been shot on Dragon Nine and lost quite a bit of blood but was ultimately fine.

Alex nodded. "That's good to hear. Sorry about that, by the way. If it hadn't been for my inexperienced parachuting ruining the plan, you might not have been injured."

"Nah, don't blame yourself for that, mate," Scooter chipped in. "The odds were against us anyways. We knew the risks."

"So... you're all supposed to be taking me to dinner?" Alex asked with an uncertain lilt at the end, changing the subject.

"Yes," Colonel Abbott said. "We did not treat you very well last time." That was an understatement and he nearly winced at the teen's snort but continued on. "None of us liked it but we... had our orders. However, we would like to make amends. So, when the higher ups approached me about helping to host you this time, I thought we could make it up to you."

"We promised last time that we'd throw you a proper Aussie barbecue," Scooter said.

"And that's exactly what we're going to do for dinner," Texas added.

"Dulwa Beach is only a half hour drive from here," X-Ray told him. "It's a lake that people go to for fishing, kayaking, and barbecues. Not quite the same as the ocean and a bonfire but it's the closest we've got right now."

"Sounds great," Alex replied. "Just as long as there aren't any missiles, bombs, land mines, hand grenades, or bullets."

All five men winced at that, the Colonel saying, "Of course. I promise you won't be in any danger, staged or not."

"Good enough for now," Alex muttered.

There was an uncomfortable silence before Scooter took charge and walked off, calling over his shoulder, "Come on, let's go before the sun sets!"

Following the young soldier, they piled into a jeep and Scooter drove through the busy streets, the Colonel following in another car. They passed by government buildings and embassies at first. Then, it was hospitals, universities, restaurants, shopping centers, and houses. Soon, they reached a lake in the northwestern part of the city, near the University of Canberra. There were a couple of other groups clustered around barbecue grills, a few people fishing, and one person kayaking. Some kids were riding their bikes on the trails or bouncing a beach ball around, enjoying the start of the weekend. Definitely a safer environment, Alex thought. With civilians around, the soldiers wouldn't use any military weapons at least.

Finding a space to park, the soldiers hopped out and started unloading stuff from the back of the jeep. Like last time, there was a lot of meat. Burgers, steaks, lamb chops, sausages, spare ribs, and pork belly. But they had brought seafood this time too. Prawns, crayfish, squid, scallops, and mussels. All of this was marinated in different sauces already. In addition, there were mixed skewers of mushrooms, eggplants, onions, bell peppers, brussel sprouts, and bacon. And a side of potato salad, with a bag of buns to go with the meat. Plenty of coke and beer for drinks too. Alex helped carry some of the stuff to an unoccupied barbecue grill that they had chosen, far enough away from all the other people that they could talk freely without worrying too much about the OSA.

"Texas, you're cooking!" Scooter shouted.

"Again?!" Texas groaned.

Sparks grinned. "Obviously."

Sighing, Texas trudged over to the grill and called out, "Bring me some of that grog to drizzle over the meat!"

X-Ray tossed a few cans of beer in his friend's direction and offered Alex a coke. Since Sparks had brought his guitar like last time and had settled down to play it, they sat back with the Colonel to enjoy the drinks and music. Someone hummed a tune and the rest of them slowly joined in. It wasn't long before they were full out singing "The Lazy Song" by Bruno Mars, with Sparks strumming the chords. A couple of lines into it, Texas joined the singing as well, intermittently yelling out insults at his friends to go with the lyrics and grumbling about having to do all the work which made them laugh. Eventually, Texas announced that the meat was done cooking but just needed to be left to rest to keep the juiciness before they could eat it.

Scooter grinned, taking out a football. "Can't have a barbie without outdoor sports of some kind. Who's up for a game of footy?"

The young soldiers yelled out their enthusiasm while Alex and the Colonel just smiled. They divided into teams of three, with Alex and Texas on the same side as Scooter. Because they had so few people though, the keeper was the only position that was filled by specific people. In this case, they were the Colonel and Scooter. For the rest of the positions, it was a bit of a free for all which only made it all the more competitive. Since every one of them were trained soldiers, unlike the game on Alex's birthday, none of them felt the need to hold back and they ended up changing the rules a bit. This made the game rougher. But it was a fun way to practice their offense and defense skills while incorporating battle strategies into the sport. When they called for an end, the Colonel's team had won 3 to 2.

Starving and still laughing as they shoved each other, everyone piled food onto their styrofoam plates and dug in. Practically inhaling their food, the sounds of chewing and moaning contentedly were all that could be heard for the next few minutes. Alex sighed in satisfaction, finally getting to fill his stomach after the long flight.

"So what have you been up to since we last saw you, Alex?" Sparks asked.

Alex shrugged, peeling some shrimp to pop into his mouth. "The usual."

The soldiers exchanged glances and X-Ray said with a little laugh, "Your usual is pretty far off from most people's. Wanna elaborate?"

Looking at each of them, Alex considered what he could tell them. He wasn't sure how diplomatic he was supposed to be around these soldiers. "Not particularly. How about you take a guess?"

"... Been to space lately?" Texas asked, to which the others rolled their eyes at.

"Sure. It's a quiet place with nice views. I've been planning my dream house out there."

Everyone stared at him, trying to decide if he was serious. With everything they'd heard and seen of him, anything was possible. They wouldn't be surprised if what he just said was the truth. Eventually, Colonel Abbott decided that bluntly questioning the teen was the best way to go.

"Are you being sarcastic?"

Rolling his eyes, Alex countered, "Do you really think that a teenager with absolutely no astronaut training would be allowed up there? Buying real estate before anyone else too?"

"Well... you've already been up there once," Scooter said. All of them were fighting a smile.

"That was under extreme circumstances," Alex explained tiredly. "There were no other options."

That sobered them up fast and they ate silently for awhile until X-Ray hesitantly ventured, "Have you been... working all this time then?"

"Not much," Alex replied quietly. "After our last meeting, I went on two more missions before I retired. That - "

"Retired?! At your age?!" Texas squawked his indignation. "That's not fair!"

"Wait, if you're retired," Sparks said with a frown, "then why are you here on a diplomatic visit?"

"You boys didn't even let him finish talking," Colonel Abbott chastised.

Once they were quiet again, Alex continued with his story. "As I was saying, I retired. But that only lasted two months. I was pulled back into the field by a few different organizations. And after that mess, I've just been training. This is my first job since officially coming back."

"So, no field work for you?" Scooter asked.

"Not yet. I'm sure it will come up," Alex answered dryly. "The higher ups don't seem to be able to leave me out of the field for more than a few months at a time."

"The British use you that much?" Colonel Abbott questioned with a frown.

Alex laughed. "When I say higher ups, I don't just mean my official bosses. I mean everyone in the whole damn bloody world who holds those positions within their countries." He snorted. "You should know that already. You helped your own country secure my services last time."

There was an awkward lull in the conversation as they recalled their part in the manipulations for the fourth time that night. The silence was broken by X-Ray saying, "We really are sorry. None of us wanted to do it."

"Orders are orders," Colonel Abbott murmured like an oft-repeated mantra, the younger soldiers nodding along. In fact, Abbott had repeated that mantra to make himself feel better ever since following the order to leave the teen alone in the middle of a deadly training exercise. It didn't work.

"I know," Alex said simply. And he did know. Orders from an intelligence agency weren't something you could just refuse.

In a louder voice, the Colonel added, "But that doesn't make it right."

"Umm... no hard feelings, yeah?" Texas asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

"We'll do everything we can to make it up to you," Scooter promised.

"No hard feelings," Alex confirmed with a slight smile. "And you can start making it up to me by telling me what you lot have been up to."

The soldiers blinked and Sparks huffed out a laugh, exclaiming, "Wow, we really are terrible hosts! First, the missile training exercise. And now, we're just interrogating you!"

The rest of the soldiers groaned, Scooter running a hand over his face as the Colonel said, "Forgive us. We are complete idiots who have no manners. Shall we start over?"

"If you wish," Alex replied in amusement.

The Colonel nodded and held out a hand. "It's an honour to meet you, Alex. I'm Colonel Mike Abbott of the Australian SAS. I've been in the military for twenty-one years and spent half of those with the SAS. Besides overseeing the Swanbourne training camp and providing logistical support for a battalion, I have a wife and three children so I spend my off-duty time with them."

Alex shook hands with the Colonel and, one by one, the rest of the soldiers followed their commanding officer's lead.

Scooter stepped up and said, "I'm Lance Corporal Will Norway. Nickname, Scooter. Codename, Dingo. Been with the SAS for two years. I'm the forward air control. Our unit has just finished a five-month deployment to Malaysia to help them deal with a domestic terrorist threat. We've got two weeks leave right now. My girlfriend and I are planning on moving in together so we've been looking at townhouses since leave started."

Stepping back after he finished speaking, another soldier followed his unit leader's example and stepped forward. "Trooper Ryan Truscott, unit medic. Nickname, X-Ray. Codename, Stingray. Studying to be a doctor right now. Got an exam in a few days."

X-Ray finished with a grin and fell back in line with his unit. Sparks stepped forward and said, "I'm Trooper Dominic Hilliard, communications expert. Nickname, Sparks. Codename, Koala. I'm a guest instructor at a local dojo when I'm off-duty so I was teaching a few classes of kids yesterday."

Sparks fell back and Texas stepped forward. "Trooper Jackson Windeyer, weapons expert. Nickname, Texas. Codename, Taipan. I've just been watching movies and eating takeaway these past few days."

Alex nodded slowly, recognizing their efforts to start over and build a relationship with him. Whether it would be as friends or simply allies remained to be seen. Their openness with personal and operational information also signaled trust, which he could not dismiss. And provided they had genuine intentions, he actually wouldn't mind spending more time with them. They were more relaxed than their British counterparts. So, returning the gesture, he said, "I am Agent Alex Rider. After coming out of retirement, I passed the British SAS selection, earning the rank of Trooper. Codename, Cub. No designated specialization as I am mostly MI6, but I am still attached to a SAS unit. I've been splitting my time between training and school these past couple of months."

The soldiers whistled, Sparks saying, "Nice, you're fully trained!"

Texas grinned. "It's got to be a record!"

"I'd be interested to see what working with you is like now," Scooter added thoughtfully.

"Probably still just as chaotic," Alex replied dryly. "I never get the simple stuff."

"That's quite a bit of responsibility," Abbott joined in quietly. Although he didn't show it, he worried about the teen.

Alex shrugged. "It is what it is."

"So, what should we call you?" X-Ray asked. "Alex or Cub?"

"... I guess it depends on the situation. Alex is fine for casual stuff like this. Cub should be for anything military. But don't even let on that you know me if you're not sure whether I'm undercover on an assignment."

"Fair enough," Abbott agreed.

A beat of silence. Then, Scooter called out, "Texas, cook us some more food, would ya? Our plates were empty ages ago!"

Just like that, the serious talk was over. Grumbling good-naturedly, Texas went to fire up the grill again. He traded insults with the rest of the unit, even as he took requests.

"Hey, Texas! Get some snags on the barbie!" Sparks yelled after X-Ray asked for some mussels, tossing a pack of sausages to the weapons expert.

"What am I? Your mother?" Texas retorted. The effect was ruined by the fact that he had still caught the sausages and proceeded to put them on the grill.

"Servant, more like!" Sparks grinned.

"Slave," Alex coughed. With a smirk, he pointed out, "Since he's not getting paid to cook."

Scooter choked on his beer and Sparks pounded his unit leader's back, exclaiming, "I knew there was a reason I liked you!"

"With that attitude, be careful that I don't poison all of your food!" Texas paused before hastily adding, "Not yours, Colonel."

All of them, including Abbott, snickered at the correction as Scooter called back, "Don't worry! You're also our food taster!"

It was Texas' turn to gape and they laughed even harder. Not being able to think of anything else to say, Texas just gave them the finger and continued cooking. Soon, they had more food on the table and everyone dug in. Somehow, the conversation turned into exchanging stories about past missions. Alex joined in, but made sure to keep it vague enough so that they couldn't identify which major world event he had played a part in. Mostly though, he wanted to hear about their experiences. After Alex, Colonel Abbott had some of the most interesting ones and they listened attentively to those.

"It's getting late," Abbott said a couple hours later, getting up from the bench. "We should pack up and drive Alex back to the hotel."

"Yes, sir!"

That was when they realized it was dark and the beach was empty. The next ten minutes were an efficient clean up that could only come from being military trained. Half an hour later, Scooter pulled up in front of the hotel and Alex got out. Colonel Abbott rolled down the window to his own car and called out, "It was good to see you, Alex! If you ever need us, or just want to visit, call and we'll be there. Until then, take care of yourself!"

Alex gave the Colonel a two-fingered salute, shaking his phone in the air to show that he had taken down their numbers when they had given it to him earlier.

"See you, Janus!" the younger soldiers yelled before the two vehicles drove off.

Alex smiled, turning to head back into the hotel. Somewhere between exchanging stories, the Australians had given him a nickname too. It referenced his double life and made him wonder why the men had the nicknames they did. He could take a guess at some of them, but he made a mental note anyways, to ask the next time they met. Reaching his room, Alex put the thoughts out of his mind and swiped the key card through the reader. Sleep came easily.

The next morning, Alex was still exhausted from the jet lag and late night. Yawning repeatedly, causing his vision to blur as tears formed in his eyes, he opted for a cup of espresso with his breakfast to get through the day. He felt marginally more awake by the time he was in an office at ASIS headquarters, sitting opposite of Ethan Brooke and Marc Damon, with the former's golden Labrador service dog laying on the ground beside its owner. Once again, he was providing information and debating courses of action, with the kind of influence over the decisions that was on par with what he experienced with the Egyptians. Since Gladius didn't have much of a reach as far south as Australia, there were only three agents they had to discuss. That shortened the amount of time needed for the meeting to two hours, which Alex was grateful for.

"As I'm sure you are aware, Mrs. Jones has arranged for you to have a little training with us before your next flight," Brooke said when the last file closed. "A Mr. Smithers, I believe, strongly suggested disguise lessons."

Smithers suggested the focus of his training? Although, it didn't sound like the ASIS director was very happy about it. He didn't fully understand the politics at play between the agencies but, with that tone, he'd bet that Smithers hadn't so much suggested as strong armed the Australians into agreeing to it.

"From what we've heard, you've had a packed schedule lately and have worked hard. So, you have three hours to do as you wish," Damon continued for his boss. "For lunch, pick any restaurant within a ten-kilometer radius from here, present this token, and tell them to put your bill on account. Be back at 1300 hours. Cloudy Webber will meet you at the entrance."

A three-hour break? Cloudy? Alex nearly smiled as he accepted the token but, recognizing the dismissal, simply thanked the men with a single nod and left with his luggage in tow. As ticked off as the Australians were about providing the training, it seemed that, in their own way, they were trying to make up for their manipulations in the Snakehead mission. Sure, there could be other explanations for giving him a break. Like not wanting to spend too much time training him. Or being too busy to deal with him. But if that were the case, they wouldn't have gotten their SAS involved last night. Or given him one of their best disguise specialists as his teacher. Someone he was at least somewhat familiar with too. He wasn't exactly sure how to feel about Cloudy. They had only met that one time to transform him into an Afghan refugee so they didn't know each other very well. But she had tried to protect him, as best as she could in her position, without overstepping boundaries. From the little he knew of her, Cloudy had a fiery, no-nonsense but cheerful attitude. She seemed like someone he would enjoy getting to know.

Alex shook himself from his thoughts as he stepped out of the agency's headquarters, immediately sensing two tails. With this unexpected break in his schedule, he was determined to make the most of it. This was the first opportunity he'd had to open a new bank account in a foreign country like he'd prepared to do for setting up future options at the beginning of this trip. Having MI6 already aware of all his financial assets unsettled him but there was nothing he could do about those. But what he could do was create other assets they wouldn't be aware of. He wasn't sure whether the new account would be for a future assignment, casting a wider net for his personal financials, or an escape plan yet. Whatever the purpose ended up being, it would have to be set up under an alias though. So, his next destination was a bank. A real bank. Not a cover for intelligence agencies. But first, he had to make sure he wasn't followed or monitored by CCTV.

Ten minutes later, he had shaken off his tails and hidden himself from the security cameras. Alex found a fast food restaurant and went into their public washroom to change into something more casual, adding a baseball cap to help hide his face. Realizing there was nothing to change the appearance of his luggage, he sighed and exited the building with his stuff anyways. Another ten minutes and he walked into a Commonwealth Bank branch. Lucky for him, there were only a few people in line. Within five minutes, the bank teller called for the next person in line and he went up to the counter, keeping the cameras from capturing his face. They passed him over to someone else in one of the offices once he told them what he wanted. And half an hour later, he had signed a bunch of documents, opened up a chequing and a direct investing account under the name of Jean Cadieux, deposited a total of five thousand euros which were converted into Australian dollars, and gotten his debit card and login information. Packing everything up into his luggage, he thanked the person helping him and turned to leave.

However, halfway to the exit after closing the office door behind him, a group of three masked men barged into the bank with guns, yelling for everyone to get down. Alex looked skyward and closed his eyes for a second, groaning inwardly. Why couldn't he even go to a normal bank without running into trouble? Following the men's directions, he copied everyone else's scared body language and expressions while clinically assessing the situation. The men were shouting at the bank's staff, demanding all the money in the building and threatening to start shooting people if they didn't get it. Alex had had enough of this nonsense. From their movements, he could tell the men weren't highly trained in anything. Their build signaled an average fitness level. The way they held their guns were amateur at best. And a bank robbery in broad daylight in this technological age told him they didn't have the brains or computer skills to be much more than petty criminals. It might even be their first time doing anything like this. Oh look, all of them were standing in a line to face the bank tellers, without guarding their backs against the hostages. Rolling his eyes at the perfect opening created for him by sheer incompetence, Alex shot forward, body checking one end of the short line which made them topple over like dominoes even as he took hold of two of the muzzles to control the direction the firearms were pointed in. Before they could get their bearings, he had disarmed and knocked them out with a pinch to a nerve in each of their necks. Another thirty seconds and all three guns were disassembled. Everyone gaped at him while he wiped his prints clean from the weapons.

"You should call the police before they wake up," Alex called over his shoulder as he strolled out of the bank, taking the luggage he had momentarily left behind for the encounter with him.

He kept walking until he found another fast food restaurant, trying to shake off the jittery energy that the bank robbery had created. It hadn't been a challenge at all. Even keeping his face out of view of the cameras while taking the men down hadn't made him break a sweat. But it was just enough to get his blood pumping. And he was itching for more. Jones was right. He had become addicted to adrenaline. And he needed to control it. As he changed into a business suit again, he thought about what his next stop was. Judging by the time left until training started, he had plenty of room to do whatever he wanted. He should find a secure place to call Manzour about the change in plans he had worked out on the flight first though. Nowhere that could be monitored by CCTV during the call. A public washroom would have to do. But not one that was anywhere near this busy. Alex exited the fast food restaurant and wandered around until he passed by Water's Edge Restaurant. It looked like a good place for lunch and a private call. Checking Google reviews, he found it had a 4.4 star rating. There was a sixty-six dollar per person, three course lunch. Fine dining with a lakeside view. He looked down at himself. Well, he was already dressed for it. And since ASIS was paying, he might as well. Besides having meals with the rich and crazy which tended to come with a side of possible death, it wasn't like he went to these places often. The restaurant opened at noon though so he still had another half hour before he could go in. Might be a good idea to just chill by the lake to maintain the image of being up to absolutely nothing of interest.

Walking along the edge of the sparkling lake to get rid of the last of his adrenaline, Alex watched the people and traffic pass by, enjoying the slight breeze that the water helped to cool down a few degrees under the hot sun. When he'd had enough of walking, he sat on a bench by the restaurant, tipped his head back, and closed his eyes. Meditating, listening. It was amazing, the amount of detail he could pick out amongst the sounds of a busy city. The rapid clicking from the chains of a bicycle zipping by behind him. A dog barking to his left, the flutter of wings as a few birds took off, and horns honking from all directions. A baby laughing on his right, a little boy tripping some distance in front of him. The mother was already soothing the child. Clicking of heels and a snap of a briefcase closing, somewhere at his four o'clock. Footsteps approaching him. Getting closer. Too close and direct to be a passerby. His eyes snapped open.

As soon as he saw a fair-haired man in khaki shorts and an open neck shirt making a beeline for him, his jaw tightened and he sat up properly to distribute his weight in a way that would allow optimal defense in his current position. His hands played around with his phone, getting it ready for firing a tranquilizer dart while appearing to just be fidgeting from nerves. Eyeing the man warily, Alex noted the relaxed body language. Or as relaxed as someone in the intelligence world could be. Mostly non-threatening, for now. More curious and assessing with a hint of anger. That did little to assuage his fears. Because the man's face was one that Alex had only seen in files. Brendan Chase. An ASIS paymaster until the man had defected by disappearing after robbing the agency of four hundred thousand dollars and boarding a plane, founding SCORPIA in the aftermath. According to Yassen's file on this board member, Chase was not only the most laid back of the SCORPIA executives, but also fond of drinking and gambling. Still, the man would have a grudge against him. This was going to be interesting.

Chase sat on the opposite end of the bench from him but stared straight ahead at the lake. Alex was sure the man was still paying attention to him in his peripheral vision. He did the same. After a few minutes, still admiring the lake, Chase said, "You've been a pain."

"For two years, I suppose. But you lot have been a pain in my life since before I was born," Alex replied blandly. "Are you here to kill me? I don't suppose the Australians know you're here."

Chase smirked. "No."

"Why are you here?"

"I could ask you the same. You're quite far from home. And this restaurant is too expensive for a middle class teenager."

"Diplomatic visit," Alex replied with the half-truth. There was no need to reveal the consulting part of the visit. It was what the SAS had been told anyways. Hoping to keep the man in a good mood, his mind scrambled to find a commonality to play on so he wouldn't be executed on the spot. "I hate politics. But at least ASIS is paying for everything."

Chase chuckled slowly like it had been reluctantly pulled out of him, finally turning to look at the teen, which Alex copied. "I like you. Luck of the devil, biting humor from what I've heard, a daring personality, and the cheek to waste government money on extravagance. Shame that we're on opposite sides. Forced into service though, right?"

Alex shrugged.

"If you ever wanted to leave their service, you would do well with us," Chase mused. How did the saying go? If you can't beat them, join them? Something like that. But recruit, instead of join, in this case. Losing to the teen three times in a row really was too much to risk another humiliation. Five times, if they counted the two failed operations that were not headed by a board member. Once was luck. Twice was coincidence. Three times and more, some level of skill had to be involved. Skill that could be turned to their advantage if they played things right. In truth, they should have properly recruited the boy when he had willingly sought them out. They hadn't paid much attention to Rothman's encounters with the boy and that had been their biggest mistake in the matter.

"Is that a job offer?

"If you want it to be."

Alex stared at the man. "I don't do well with murder. Or being on wanted lists. And I would like to think that I'm not suicidal enough to go to an organization for employment and protection when they are hell bent on killing me."

Grinning, Chase said, "You are brutally honest, aren't you? How refreshing. But not all of us are so blinded by hatred and revenge that we can't see the future. That Hunt Syndicate business was a good reminder."

Why was the Hunt Syndicate's fall so important to SCORPIA? He'd need to take another look at that situation later. Raising an eyebrow, Alex replied, "I don't know about that. Mr. Kurst doesn't seem to be the type to let me live."

"No, not dear Zeljan," Chase admitted. "As I said, not all of us actively want you dead anymore. But, of course, some still do. If I were you, I'd watch out for Zeljan and Mikato."

"I find it hard to believe that those are the only two who want to kill me," Alex said dryly.

Chase shrugged. "They're the most vocal. The only other board member I know for certain who will not take the first opportunity to kill you is Dr. Three."

"That's reassuring," Alex muttered sarcastically. A traitorous recruiter and a torture expert were, at most, indifferent to his immediate death. His chances of survival when it came to SCORPIA's board were still better with Yassen Gregorovich.

"I don't do reassuring."

"So, what are you doing here then, Mr. Chase?"

"That's for me to know and you to wonder," Chase smirked. Getting up, he said in parting, "Spend as much of Brooke's money as you can. It's the best reward you'll ever get from him."

Chase walked off, leaving the teen to contemplate what just happened. Checking the time, Alex saw that the restaurant should have opened by now and got up too. He walked into Water's Edge and asked for a table for one. Although the hostess took a moment to give him a once over, wordlessly questioning his age and ability to afford eating at their restaurant, she led him to a table and let him know that the waiter would be there in a few minutes. After asking her where the washroom was, he draped his empty suit jacket over the back of the chair and followed her directions. He did his business, washed his hands, and mentally went over what he needed to say. Once he got that down, Alex swept the place to clear it for bugs and eavesdropping people. Then, he called Manzour. It took a few minutes of convincing, but the head of the Egyptian secret service eventually saw the benefits and agreed to change the plans and do things his way.

Relieved that it had gone smoothly, Alex returned to his table and did another bug sweep. He couldn't be too careful with Chase hanging around. Finding none, he relaxed just in time for the waiter to take his order. Since he hadn't actually put any thought into what he would like to eat, Alex ordered the three-course meal that he saw in the Google reviews. His choices from the options in each category were the lobster and carrot jus for the entrée, wagyu sirloin for the main course, and the yuzu sorbet for dessert. Once the waiter went to put in his order, Alex took out one of his other phones and texted Yassen.

Сегодня я столкнулся с одним австралийцем в его родной стране. (I ran into a certain Australian in his home country today.)

Seventeen thousand kilometers away in the middle of the night, Yassen stopped his meditation and frowned at his phone, wondering why the teen was contacting him at such a late hour. After reading the message, he blinked at it, breathing in deeply through his nose and slowly exhaling through his mouth. That would explain the late hour. How did the Rider child always manage to find trouble? Or just run into a board member?

Почему ты в Австралии. Чего он хотел. (Why are you in Australia. What did he want.)

Alex winced. He had forgotten to tell Yassen about his weeklong trip. Bright side was that the man would no longer be finding out after waiting for him to show up at their next training session. That would definitely have extremely painful consequences. Still, he knew to expect a punishment for this oversight when he got back to England.

Извините, я забыл вам сказать, что я в командировке до понедельника. Не полевые исследования. И набор, я думаю. Стоит ли мне беспокоиться о его присутствии? (Sorry, I forgot to tell you that I'm on a business trip until Monday. Not fieldwork. And recruitment, I think. Should I be worried about his presence?)

Recruitment? That was a new one. What was he missing in this picture? The board was usually talking about killing the boy. Although, come to think of it, Chase tended to be silent during those. Three and Duval didn't say too much on the subject either. Interesting. He would need to pay more attention to this matter. They might be planning something worse than death for the boy. Or perhaps they were warming up to the last Rider and could be amenable to certain suggestions regarding the boy. It was hard to tell. But, if it was the latter, he might be able to use them to his advantage.

Он только проводит свободное время в своей собственности. Его забавляет жизнь под носом у бывшего работодателя. Он не должен быть проблемой. Мы обсудим это позже, когда вы вернетесь. (He is only enjoying some free time at his property. Living under his former employer's noses amuses him. He should not be a problem. We will discuss this further when you are back.)

Oh, right. There was something in Yassen's files about Chase owning a property in Australia. He'd forgotten about that. Well, at least he was mostly safe at the moment. Good enough for now. He put the phone away and smiled a thanks at the waiter bringing his food. If there had ever been any doubt that this was a fine dining restaurant, it disappeared at the sight of the fancy presentation of the entrée's small portion. He would definitely need three courses to even feel slightly full. Oh well. It was the experience that mattered. And it did taste good, with interesting combinations of flavors. He supposed that was really what the restaurant was charging their customers for. When he finished the sorbet, a nice closing flavor to the meal, he was neither hungry nor particularly full. He'd probably need a snack later, Alex thought as he flagged the waiter down to let them know he was finished and presented the token like Damon had instructed him. Instantly, the waiter's eyes widened and all of the staff were suddenly much more respectful and attentive. Not that they had been rude or anything before. But this change was on another level entirely. It made him uncomfortable and he couldn't wait to escape from it all. But with all the attention, it had taken him another ten minutes before he could politely leave the restaurant.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Alex shook his head and walked back to the ASIS headquarters. In a way, he was glad that his break was over. He didn't want to risk a third time of running into trouble. Twice in three hours was quite enough already. So, half an hour later, his muscles eased up at the sight of a short, dumpy woman in a shapeless two-piece suit and no makeup, standing on the front steps of the headquarters. Even her hair was lackluster. With the kind of skills the woman had in changing other people's physical appearances, it was a bit baffling that she didn't seem to pay any attention to her own. But perhaps that was the point. No one would suspect someone so drab looking to be a master of disguise. Or maybe she was so busy with other people's appearances that she didn't have any time left for herself.

"Alex Rider!" the woman exclaimed with a big smile as he climbed the stairs towards her. She might look lifeless but, as soon as she spoke, it was clear that she had a big personality. "How are you doing?"

"Good to see you, Mrs. Webber," Alex said, returning the smile.

"Oh, none of that now!" she scolded, leading him up to her office. "Just call me Cloudy. Everyone does!"

"Alright, Cloudy," Alex agreed.

"Now, Mr. Brooke says you're to have two hours of training with me on disguises and then, Mr. Damon will take you to the airport," Cloudy said. "Let's see how much we can do in that time."

Cloudy unlocked her office and waved him in. Her desk - most of the room actually - was completely filled with stuff. Wigs, clothes and shoes of all sizes and styles, and bottles upon bottles of product. Makeup, hair dye, and skin dye. Supplies to make tattoos and prosthetics. Jewelry of every kind hung everywhere in one of the corners. Another corner had bags, scarves, hats, hair accessories, glasses, and contact lenses. It looked like a whole department of an Amazon warehouse had exploded and somehow fit itself in her, admittedly large, office. She gestured for him to sit down and he gingerly found a small corner of a chair to perch on, pushing his luggage into a gap between the racks of clothes.

"I don't know what Mr. Brooke or your MI6 are thinking, using you at all," Cloudy frowned at him. "That Snakehead business was terrible. I'm glad you made it out of that ordeal alive. If Ash were still here, I might strangle him myself for what he did, what he put you through. I'm sorry we didn't see his deceit earlier."

"He fooled a lot of people," Alex replied.

"That may be the case, but it was still our responsibility. And now, it is my responsibility to teach you the art of disguise, however much I don't like the purpose for it. Are you sure you want to continue in this line of work?"

"I'm sure."

Cloudy nodded slowly, assessing his sincerity. "Well, I suppose we better get to it then! Hopefully, I'll be able to teach you enough to help you survive. The higher ups must be absolutely mad to expect us to get through everything in such a short time! At least they only expect you to be able to disguise yourself and not anyone else. Let's start with an analysis of your body and facial features."

The next two hours were a blur. Cloudy led him through exercises in identifying which of his features would be easiest to manipulate the appearance of. Apparently, if he kept his body lean and relatively slender, he could make a passable female. Even more convincing if he wore body shaper shorts that had hip pads and tucked his bits up and in, which helped change his gait to mimic a female's better. It was uncomfortable as hell though. After that, he learned fashion rules, which were only for playing certain types of people. Like those from high society. Often, Cloudy would have him break the rules in the next second to suit whichever persona their example scenarios required. He dressed in the outfit chosen for the scenarios and assumed their personalities as he walked out from behind a screen that was acting as a makeshift "dressing room" for Cloudy to scrutinize, letting him know if everything would pass inspection if he was undercover. Next, she taught him how to use different products. Makeup. He struggled with the eyelashes the most. Skin and hair dyes. In addition to learning how to use them, she taught him which ones were semi-permanent and how to obtain them as these were not widely available. Prosthetics. She made a point to emphasize how much better than Hollywood's they were. The silicone was mixed with something else to make it a better material than the entertainment industry used. It could withstand a few fights, being submerged under water for up to twelve hours, arctic temperatures, and scorching heat as long as it wasn't directly burned by fire. All of that while being on the run for at least a couple of weeks before the prosthetics would start to come loose. They were also a bitch to take off though. With all of this being crammed into his head, it felt like no time had passed between entering her office and Damon showing up to signal the end of the session.

"Oh bugger!" Cloudy exclaimed at the deputy head's entrance. "Is it that time already? We haven't even gotten around to hairstyles and accessories! Or on-the-spot changes!"

"Unfortunately, that is all the time we have," Damon stated. "Alex is on a tight schedule."

"Oh, alright then," Cloudy huffed. Turning to Alex, she shook a finger at him and said sternly, "Now, you take good care of yourself, young man. And don't forget the techniques that work best with your features."

"I won't," Alex promised. "Thank you, Cloudy."

She waved him off and he followed Damon to a vehicle that was waiting for them. The deputy head didn't say much, only handing him a phone number. That was when he remembered Chase.

"Did you know that Brendan Chase is in the country right now? Or, at least, he was about three hours ago when I was waiting for the restaurant to open."

Damon stared at him. "The information is appreciated. We'll look into it. What happened?"

Alex shrugged. "I was sitting by the lake, he approached me, talked about SCORPIA's grudge against me, and left."

"Why didn't you let us know earlier?"

"Didn't have your number and wasn't sure how much Cloudy was cleared to know."

Damon sighed. "Well, you have our number now. Next time, call."

And that was the extent of their conversation for the ride. Damon was on the phone, issuing orders, until they reached the airport. After that, the deputy head hurried him through passport control and security. As soon as Alex walked through the gates to board the plane, Damon left.

Once again, Alex took a one-hour flight to Sydney, then boarded another plane at 1700 hours. This time, it was a twenty-three hour flight to Washington D.C. which gave him plenty of time for more work and tutoring sessions. However, the first thing he did once he got to his seat was check for bugs, set an alarm on his watch for eight hours later, and force himself to go to sleep in an attempt to match American time which was currently three in the morning. With the jetlag, it wasn't hard to will himself to sleep, especially after doing meditations.

When his alarm went off, Alex groggily rubbed his eyes and flagged down a flight attendant for some food and water. Yawning, he lazily pulled out his books and laptop, checking his emails on his phone first for anything urgent that needed to be dealt with. There was one from Crawley, asking for his input on his cover for infiltrating Nightshade. That case was moving quickly, he thought with a frown, opening up the new intelligence reports that had come in since he last checked the Nightshade files. It became clear why the case was being rushed. An agent of theirs was killed while doing surveillance on Kavos Bay and his partner was missing. Fortunately for the case, the two agents didn't know much beyond watching for anything suspicious. Still, it would be enough of a tip off to make it much more dangerous for anyone else going after them. They needed to recover the agents too. In addition, there were more assassinations of London's gang leaders which were nudging the balance in the Mali Boys' favor. An interference with the gang war that indicated Nightshade's involvement, if they had read the situation correctly. Because of this, his infiltration mission was being moved up. It would be within a couple of weeks of getting back to London instead of a month now. Groaning inwardly, he pinched the bridge of his nose and absentmindedly thanked the flight attendant bringing his order, replying to Crawley's email with his own thoughts and suggestions.

As he ate, Alex went through the more recent intel in the Japan files and news reports on current events in the world. He checked the stock markets. It seemed that the Japan situation was progressing about as expected. A known Yakuza member was appointed as a director of the consumer products portfolio of Hitachi, which may have caused the stock prices to fall for a few days. While that hinted at possible appointments for the other business portfolios, a bit worrying due to the company's involvement in key sectors like energy and IT, there wasn't an emergency situation like the one with Nightshade yet. As for current events, there were reports of US troops burning copies of the Quran that had been used by Taliban prisoners to communicate with each other. This just happened yesterday and had sparked protests, resulting in the Bagram Air Base being attacked with petrol bombs and stones. The protests were still ongoing. Alex did a mental facepalm at the stupidity of the US troops. Who the hell decided that it was a good idea to burn the physical embodiment of a country's beliefs while in said country? Religion was always going to be a sensitive subject and the American soldiers should have known better than to incite the anger of over a billion Islamic followers across the world by being horrendously disrespectful. At least that wasn't a problem that was his responsibility to solve. He hoped.

Finished eating and going through the news, Alex started on homework. The next fourteen hours were a mix of the same things as his previous flights. Homework, tutoring sessions, and reading the aviation books. Two more meals somewhere in between all that, still matching the schedule of the American time zone. By the end of the flight to Washington D.C., he had finished all his homework for Brooklands, only had the current tutoring session's homework left to do, and two more aviation books left to read. It was also two in the morning in America and his eyelids were heavy enough that he might fall asleep without meaning to.

"Alex!" Byrne called out with a grin when the teen got off the plane. "How've you been?"

"Joe," Alex returned warmly, glancing at a vaguely familiar man standing beside the new CIA executive, letting them fast-track him through security. Smirking, he said, "Could use some sleep but probably doing better than you, dealing with that fiasco at Bagram."

Byrne groaned. "Don't remind me. That's bad PR for our international relations and it's going to take awhile to smooth over. It's a lot of lives lost on both sides too. Those soldiers need more training. Sometimes, I think we recruit too young. Most haven't matured enough to grow out of their hot-headedness and make good decisions. Exception being you, of course."

"Glad I don't need to be involved in that," Alex said as they led him to a black car outside. He shivered slightly in the below zero weather, a world away from the temperatures in the land down under, and was glad for the heat blasting through the vehicle's air vents.

Byrne noticed and frowned. "Why are you only in a suit? Where's your coat?"

"Came from Australia and didn't bother changing into something warmer," Alex answered. "I wasn't sure who was meeting me and didn't want to fall asleep where I'm standing."

"Fair enough," Byrne said and took the hint. "I don't think I had a chance to introduce you to my second in command last time. This is Brenner. He's a former marine. I brought him along with my promotion."

Alex shook hands with Brenner, exchanging pleasantries. "So, where are you taking me right now?"

"To Langley," Brenner replied. "It's only a twenty-minute drive between the cities. We're putting you up at the Ritz-Carlton for the night. Here's the key card to your room."

Raising both eyebrows and taking the card, Alex questioned, "Ritz-Carlton? A luxury hotel?"

Byrne grinned. "Yes. Anyone complaining about the budget for the bill can stuff it. You deserve some luxury. Without a mission. You're in the executive suite. Soundproof windows."

Alex shook his head in amusement. "I don't think there are many who would voice their complaints to the head of their entire intelligence agency anyways."

"You're right about that," Byrne chuckled. "And the politicians can complain all they want, but even they know that treating foreign allies well is a necessity. Speaking of which, I'm sure you know that Mrs. Jones requested us to provide training sessions for you. She gave me free reign on what to train you in. I've got an idea but I want to run it by you first."

"What is it?" Alex asked warily. While the Russians and Egyptians had been required to, at least diplomatically, ask his opinion on training with them because it hadn't been expected on either side beforehand, the Australians had just arranged everything without his input. Since Byrne was in the same position as the Australians, it raised a bit of a red flag for why it was important enough to run it by him.

"It's nothing bad," Byrne reassured him as they pulled up in front of a reddish sandstone-colored, twenty-storey hotel with European architectural influences. "It just involves your security as you'd be meeting with a couple of... interesting agents. They've been involved in some highly classified cases so they're concerned about security. They'd like a brief file on you before making any decisions on whether to meet and both have agreed to let you read a brief file on them in return. If you agree to this, you'll get the files tonight, as will they. All of you will make the final decision after reading the files."

Alex stayed silent as he thought it over. He didn't know anything about these agents. What their attitudes towards teenage operatives were, if they were trustworthy. That did make it a security risk. But they were willing to exchange information which could be a good sign. If it worked out alright, he might even gain some new contacts in the intelligence world. Still, he needed more information. Hesitantly, he asked, "Why them?"

"They have unique experiences and are some of the top experts in their fields," Brenner answered.

"Areas that I know you haven't got much instruction or experience in," Byrne added.

"How brief are the files going to be?"

"Name, gender, age, years of service, current agency and role, and specialties," Brenner rattled off. "No pictures."

So, no mission details. Although his name would be revealed, that didn't sound too bad for a start. Because of his age, they'd be able to guess his name anyways so it would only be fair for him to get theirs. And from the sounds of it, if he didn't like what he saw, there would be time to change his mind about the meeting before it became a real risk. "Alright, send us the files."

Brenner immediately handed him two folders, saying, "We will need your final decision by tomorrow morning at eight, when we pick you up."

"And what happens if one or more of us don't agree to the meeting?" Alex asked, taking the files.

Byrne shrugged. "Hand-to-hand combat training with Knight and Shulsky. You could shadow me as well, if you wanted."

"And get sucked into the PR nightmare you've got in Afghanistan? No, thanks," Alex grinned.

Both men laughed, Byrne joking, "Darn it! So close!"

Alex shook his head, chuckling as well. "Not a chance, Joe."

"It was worth a try. Go get some sleep, Alex."

Getting out of the car, Alex gave them a casual, two-fingered salute and took his luggage into the hotel. Making his way up to the executive suite after asking the front desk for the location, he opened the door to a living room with a thirty-seven inch flat screen television, a mini bar, and a sitting room with a desk. Moving further into the suite, there were one and a half marble bathrooms with fluffy robes and slippers, a king-sized bed, a safe, and three phones. Definitely too much for just one person, but it was nice to have all this to himself, especially after being cooped up in a plane for so long. Alex sighed in satisfaction, surveying the suite a moment longer, before putting his luggage by the bed and doing the customary sweep for bugs. Surprisingly, there were none.

Shrugging to himself, Alex went to take a shower and, fifteen minutes later, padded out to the mini bar to make himself a cup of chamomile tea. He turned on the Bose radio for some background noise. Settling on the sofa, he tucked his legs underneath himself and began reading the two files as he sipped his tea.

Name: Emily Prentiss

Gender: Female

Age: 38

Years of service in current agency: 5

Total years of service: 15

Current agency: Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI)

Division: Behavioral Analysis Unit (BAU)

Role: Profiler

Specialties: Linguistics (English, French, Spanish, Italian, Arabic, basic Russian, and basics of Eastern European languages), child advocacy, and terrorism

Currently FBI... Well, that was an unexpected departure from the usual agents he met. Then again, there were ten years of service that were not in the file so she very well could have an intelligence background. She certainly spoke enough languages to qualify for espionage. They were mostly the same languages that he spoke. A specialty in terrorism and the ability to read people supported an intelligence career too. As for child advocacy, as long as she didn't get him out of this line of business against his will, she sounded like a solid person to work with. He moved on to the next file.

Name: Ziva David

Gender: Female

Age: 30

Years of service in current agency: 2

Total years of service: 12

Current agency: Naval Criminal Investigative Services (NCIS)

Division: Major Case Response Team (MCRT)

Role: Investigator

Specialties: Linguistics (English, French, Spanish, Italian, German, Russian, Turkish, Arabic, Pashto, and Hebrew), armed and unarmed combat, interrogation, and assassination

There was a dichotomy in the information that sent up red flags in his mind. Investigating crimes involving the navy forces. A specialized police officer. But then, why would she be an expert in assassination? Useful for the investigations but, last he checked, cops weren't trained for that. She hadn't been with NCIS for too long though, especially compared to her total years of service. What had happened in that decade to make a specialty in being a killer? And her last name. David... Where had he heard it before? He searched through his memories like it was a flip book. There! Crawley had been teaching him about different intelligence agencies. Eli David was the Mossad director. He had a few children... And one of them was named Ziva. Well, that would explain her skillset. Why had she turned away from Mossad though? Could she be trusted? He didn't know. But he couldn't resist the itch of meeting someone on the legal side that was so prominent in their circles, even if it was dangerous.

Closing the files, Alex stretched lazily with a loud yawn. Checking the time, he was startled to realize that it was three thirty in the morning. Time for bed, which was feathery soft and warm when he fell on top of it, lulling him to sleep in no time. But four and a half hours later, the alarm rang. Alex dragged himself out of the cozy and oversized bed with a groan, trudging around the suite as he prepared for the day. He was packed and ready at 0800 hours on the dot, just as there was a knock at the door.

"Alex, are you up?" Byrne's voice called out from the other side.

"Morning, Joe," Alex greeted, opening the door.

Smiling, the CIA director gave him a once over. "Well, you're looking a little more alive than last night. You can leave your luggage here for now. I've got a surprise for you."

Alex raised an eyebrow, stepping out of the suite empty-handed to follow the man. "A surprise?"

"Yes," Byrne grinned, leading him down the stairs. "Don't worry, it's not a mission. You'll like it. Did you decide on whether to meet with those two agents?"

"Yeah, I'll meet with them."

"Good. They've accepted as well so you're all set to go. You'll be meeting each person separately and they've been sworn to secrecy. Not even their teams are to know about you."

"And you trust that they'll keep it from their teams?"

Byrne shrugged, heading towards the hotel's restaurant. "Hard to say. We'll be watching them though."

"If they're close with their teams, I wouldn't bet on it. It would be like - "

"Alex!" a very familiar voice exclaimed. She rushed into his arms which he instinctively wrapped around her.

"Sabina?" Looking a little further, he saw her parents. "Mr. and Mrs. Pleasure?"

"I'll leave you to it. You've got one hour," Byrne murmured, retreating with a smile.

"Alex, it is so good to see you," Mr. Pleasure said warmly.

"Mr. Byrne flew us out here for today," Mrs. Pleasure explained at his bewildered expression.

"He just called us up a few days ago," Sabina added, releasing him so her parents could give him a hug too. "Dad cursed at him and told him that we weren't going to do whatever they wanted. But then, he said you'd be here and asked if we would like to have breakfast with you."

"Of course, we said yes," Mr. Pleasure said, clapping him on the shoulder after the embrace and gesturing towards a table. "It's been months since we last saw you. And this is perfect for a belated birthday celebration."

"Thank you." His smile was so wide that it felt like his lips would split open.

The next hour was a little slice of normal family life that Alex never experienced while living in America with them because of his grief for Jack. Laughter, telling jokes and stories, bickering over whether eggs should be scrambled or sunny side up for breakfast, and feeling cared for amongst the day-to-day mundane things in life with every action or word spoken. A scrapbook of photos was even handed to him as a birthday gift. Family photos that included him - from their time at Wimbledon, Cornwall, France, Scotland, and America - which was better than any other gift they could have gotten him. And most importantly, highly classified state secrets were not the first order of the day. Or ever, for that matter. It made him wonder what his life would have been like if he hadn't gotten back in the game. He liked what he saw of being in their family. But then, he remembered that danger followed him and he craved the adrenaline. Normal had never been in the cards for him. So, when he left to check out of the hotel and meet up with Byrne again, he glanced back at the family wistfully, knowing that these were moments he would always treasure but that they could never last.

Back at CIA headquarters, Alex dived right into the analysis, debating on next steps with Byrne and Brenner. Unlike the Australians, the CIA had quite a few agents placed within Gladius. However, Byrne and his people had enough recent knowledge of both criminal organizations to get a head start on planning so this session only took two hours. In this time, Alex noticed a few things. The first was that a couple of files already had a finished plan of action but they discussed them anyways. The second was that, compared to his experience with MI6, he found no difference in the way that Byrne treated him in this case. Everything was an open book. They didn't keep any information from him. There were no politics involved in the interactions either, which helped to make things go faster since they didn't need to posture or watch their words. And with their guidance, he had the final say on every decision, including the ones they had already planned out before this session. It was like he was one of their own. And third, since this was his last stop and he knew what the other countries were doing, he could see any potential interagency conflicts resulting from the plans. With Byrne's trust, it was easier to steer them away from those conflicts too. Of course, he was aware that it wasn't perfect and there was only so much he could do because there were other countries that hadn't requested his services but were definitely doing something about the situation. But at least the ones he knew about were prevented as much as possible. Still, by the time they finished making the decisions, he had a headache from the amount of things that had to be considered.

"What would you like for lunch?" Byrne asked, glancing at the clock as the last file closed and Brenner quietly left to issue orders. "It's a little early but you'll need the energy to get through training later."

"I've never been in Langley before. What do you recommend?"

"There's a family restaurant and a French place that's not far from here. Italian, Japanese, and even an Afghan place too."

"Family restaurant," Alex answered decisively. "Might as well support the locals."

"Family restaurant it is then," Byrne agreed, getting up to put on a coat. "Come on, let's go."

Leaving his luggage in the office, Alex followed the man into a vehicle, where a driver was already waiting for them. The ride took less than ten minutes and he was soon looking up at a neat and simple sign that read "McLean Family Restaurant" in Times New Roman font. Inside, it was brightly lit, with outdated décor and plants hanging from the ceiling every few feet. The restaurant was bustling with casually dressed people of all ages. It seemed that the lunch rush had already started. He saw a few people taking a second glance at their suits, presumably because it wasn't common in this establishment. Even this busy though, they were seated at a table for two within minutes, in a corner that had a clear view of the rest of restaurant as requested by Byrne, and given a menu. Alex ordered a tuna melt sandwich with a side of fries and a French onion soup while Byrne stuck with a hamburger and fries. Their food came quickly and they were left to enjoy it.

"What have you been up to lately?" Byrne asked quietly in between bites.

"School," Alex replied.

"Really? Nothing else? No offense, but I find that hard to believe. You are here, after all."

"And training," Alex said amusedly. Because it was busy enough that they couldn't be overheard, he added, "And no, I haven't been on any missions since officially getting back into this business, if that's what you're looking for."

Byrne huffed out a laugh. "No, I suppose not. I think word would have already gotten around if you had been in the field recently. Your missions don't exactly end quietly. They're too large scale. How's school, by the way?"

"Fine. I've been doing some research on communication devices for physics homework and hit a snag though." Not completely true. He was learning about communication devices from Smithers when they did lessons on creating gadgets but he wasn't researching anything for it.

"What kind of communication device?"

"Implanted." Might as well see if the Americans had any info on implants that could control operatives. He wasn't ready to believe in mind control technology being successful just yet so communications was his first point of interest.

Raising an eyebrow, Byrne questioned, "For school, you say?"

Alex shrugged, finishing his sandwich and moving on to the soup. "Not exactly. More like extra tutoring to fast track my progress in school subjects that would be useful to know in my chosen career."

"I see." Byrne considered him for a moment before saying in a low voice, "You may want to look up Krysten Schultz. Twelve years ago, she was a Harvard professor in engineering. However, she was blacklisted for unethical reasons when she invented a communications device that put radios in people's teeth and radio loops in people's necks, experimenting without the consent of her research subjects. Ever since then, she's been on our radar. Last we heard, which was over five years ago, those radios could transmit messages up to a hundred eighty miles in an urban setting. It might be worthwhile to look into how the radios were designed."

"A hundred eighty miles? Emergency responders use the 700/800 MHz band for radio communications and might only get a maximum of a twenty-five mile range without signal towers if there is nothing obstructing the radio waves," Alex pondered with a frown. Considering that no one knew how Nightshade had been communicating with the teens, this device actually sounded like a plausible option. "In a city, there's bound to be interference from physical objects and other signals. With that kind of distance, she'd need to use a lot of signal towers as well as something else to boost the signal. Usually longer antennas at a higher altitude but, if the device is in a person, that can be ruled out."

"Exactly," Byrne said. "She never shared the details of her research so all we can do is speculate and do our own experiments in recreating the signal. We've tried different frequencies, lower for longer distances and higher for better signal in high interference areas, but none of it works over that kind of distance without cooperation from a major communications corporation that can provide signal towers like cellphones are set up for."

"What did she do after being blacklisted?"

"We're not sure," Byrne frowned. "Traveling the world and working odd jobs here and there. But, again, this information is from five years ago. The only thing that raised a red flag was a single meeting with Lamar Jensen of LJ Weapons Systems."

Well, that sounded like a recipe for a criminal organization being born. "Interesting contact," Alex commented. "I guess I'll have to do some research into both technologies."

"Very much so," Byrne agreed. "The two technologies could have nothing to do with each other though. It was only a single meeting."

"Can't hurt to look into it anyways. Besides, schools make you research useless things all the time," Alex grinned, popping the last French fry in his mouth.

"And isn't that the truth," Byrne chuckled. "Back when I was still in school, I once had a teacher make us do research on the evolution of spoons for science class."

"That's pointless."

"It really was. But it was worth fifteen percent of our grade," Byrne grimaced at the memory as he waved down a waitress to get the bill.

Soon, they were on their way back to CIA headquarters. A pale-skinned woman in a black suit and navy dress shirt was waiting outside Byrne's office, her shoulder length, ebony hair making her face appear even paler. Dark brown eyes glanced over at the teen repeatedly, as well as anyone else in their general vicinity. Even though she was expressionless like every good intelligence operative, the tension she was feeling was still palpable. It was in her eyes and careful movements.

"Sir," she greeted respectfully.

"Agent Prentiss," Byrne returned, waving them inside. "This is Alex. You've got the conference room across the hall for an hour to teach him behavioral analysis and get to know each other. Any questions?"

"No, sir," Prentiss said.

"What are the parameters of getting to know each other?" Alex asked.

"Whatever you feel comfortable with," Byrne simply answered.

Alex glanced at the woman and shrugged. "Alright, see you later then, Joe."

He walked out of the office, Prentiss trailing behind him warily. Plopping into a seat at the conference table with a view of the door and windows, he studied the woman, waiting for her to say something as she sat across from him. Now that they were out of Byrne's sight, she seemed to have relaxed a tiny bit.

"So... you know the director pretty well," Prentiss commented.

"We've crossed paths a few times," Alex replied.

She gave a short, suppressed laugh while tilting her face slightly to the side with both eyebrows raised for a moment. "You're on a first name basis. That's... more than just crossing paths a few times."

Alex shrugged. "They were an important few times."

Prentiss nodded her head slowly with another raise of her eyebrows. Voice softening, she said, "Alright, that's fair enough. I don't know what the leadership in either of our countries are thinking. But, according to your file, you've been doing fieldwork for two years and you're clearly not of legal age to be doing so. Why?"

"Why do it?" Alex asked. "You're the profiler. Why do you think?"

Blinking in surprise, Prentiss reevaluated him and followed his lead, getting down to business and treating it like an exercise in building a regular profile. "Okay. Your file says you've been serving for two years, which means you started in intelligence at fourteen years old. You don't have many years of experience and you're too young to have learned any of the skills needed for intelligence work in a normal school setting. But you're fluent in five languages, have some knowledge of a sixth, and have a flair for pyrotechnics. Even more important, you're still alive after being in the field which shows that you're successful. And if any of the rumors circulating through the intelligence community are true, you're more than qualified to do the job, formal training or not. But even with your skills, you don't show signs of the kind of psychological trauma that would come from the strict, often violent, methods that terrorist cells use to train child soldiers. So, I'd say you were trained for this from a young age, but not in a way that you would recognize it as training. Possibly a family member, relative, or close family friend encouraging certain hobbies. You were brought up to believe in serving your country and that's all you've ever known so, when they asked you to do a mission, you agreed."

Interesting. So, linguistics and explosions were listed as his specialties. He stayed silent, considering her, before saying, "Almost. I believe in helping people, not serving a specific country. What kind of rumours have you heard?"

Her eyes sharpened at the correction. He could see her mind furiously working to slot that piece of the puzzle into a place that made sense even as she answered in a you-tell-me tone, "I don't know. Something about Russian nuclear weapons, Drevin's space hotel, and Egypt."

Just the ones that concerned America then. "What about those three?"

"Single-handedly defeating a faction of the Russian military to neutralize the weapons. Going into space to prevent the hotel from crushing the whole country. And tackling our Secretary of State to save her from an assassination attempt," Prentiss said, voice becoming higher by the end as hearing it out loud brought into perspective just how insane it sounded.

Alex snorted. "So exaggerated. My message got through to my bosses on the nukes and they contacted the Russians to form a joint task force to stop the weapons from being used. That's hardly single-handedly. Ark Angel was not going to crush the whole country either. It was intended to be blown up so that the hotel's debris would hit the Pentagon and destroy any files the CIA had on Drevin while enabling him to get money by claiming insurance. The rest of Washington D.C. would obviously have been a casualty from that collision though. And I never even got near the Secretary of State. Too busy taking out the shooter directly."

Prentiss was speechless for a moment, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. When she did speak, it was with a concern that hinted at wanting to do something about his situation. "That's really not toned down much, in terms of what you had to do to complete the missions. These aren't assignments for people just entering service. I can't believe the higher ups even considered using you as an option for these. Or using you at all. I thought the rumors were just rumors. Are you - "

"If you say 'are you okay'," Alex interrupted dryly, "I'm going to flick this pencil at you."

He held up the pencil that someone had left behind on the table to emphasize his point.

Nodding in surrender, Prentiss said, "Okay, bad question. How are you coping?"

"Fine. Therapy helps."

"You truly want to do this job? At this age?"

"Yes."

"Oh, this really sucks," Prentiss sighed, closing her eyes. "Children are not supposed to be out there sacrificing themselves for the greater good." She was silent for a few minutes. Then, she exhaled loudly and opened her eyes. "Okay," she said determinedly, pulling out a piece of paper from her bag and writing down a number. "I respect that you want to help people and your choice to do the job this young. But, if you ever want help, with anything, just know that I'm here. You got that?"

"Noted and much appreciated," Alex answered quietly, accepting the piece of paper.

Prentiss nodded. "Alright, let's get started then. What do you know about behavioral analysis?"

"It's noticing behavior and making sense of it to predict how someone will react to things. Psychological and biological factors, nature vs. nurture, are included in the analysis."

"Yeah, that's the gist of it," Prentiss nodded. "Why don't you give it a try? Profile me. And let's see where you can improve."

Alex studied her for a bit before launching into an analysis. "Your file says you've been with the FBI as a profiler for five years but you've been serving for fifteen. You specialize in languages and that suggests that you're well-traveled and have lived in several different countries, especially in Europe and the Middle East. Or you just really liked languages and studied them at school, majoring in them in university. But you're also specialized in terrorism. Combine those two specializations, and the chances that you were an intelligence agent sometime in the ten years before your FBI days becomes more likely. Joe chose you for this session, which strengthens that assumption, but I still wasn't completely sure until I met you today."

"What tipped you off?"

"Everything," Alex said. "Unless you're expecting a chance of being treated like an enemy, you know that standing outside of Joe's office today is probably the safest place to be. And yet, you were on edge, constantly scanning your surroundings for danger. Your body is tense, your movements careful. Either something happened in the normal line of duty to cause PTSD that would result in these behaviors or it's a habit from your intelligence days. Your expression, or lack thereof, indicates that you may have worked undercover in the past too. Every intelligence operative worth their salt has an expressionless face. But you must've been out of undercover work long enough that you can't quite keep it up as naturally anymore because, while your face gives nothing away, your eyes are quite expressive. That matches up to the timeline of when you joined the BAU too. Five years is plenty of time for your espionage skills to get rusty, but not enough to lose them completely. Especially not when you're still using some of them to an extent in your current job."

"Wow. That's... actually pretty good. I don't think you need any help in behavioral analysis. With some more advanced psychology and criminology courses, you'd be fully equipped to be a profiler." She fell silent, mentally reviewing his analysis and deciding how much to reveal. "My mother is a US ambassador so, growing up, I lived in a few different countries. I hate politics. So, that was never going to be my career. I didn't want to follow in my mother's footsteps. But I wanted to make a difference in the world and chose to be in law enforcement. Sometime in my career, I was recruited into a task force for a deep cover intelligence assignment. I guess the habits stuck with me more than I thought they would."

"So, it was a one-time thing. Wait, deep cover?" Alex questioned. He paused as Prentiss hummed an agreement, then shook his head with a groan. "I don't think behavioral analysis was the point of this session."

"What do you mean?" Prentiss asked in confusion.

"You just said that I don't need any more training in behavioral analysis. Joe knows this. It's a required skill to stay alive in the field. But Joe - or rather, his second in command - said you were chosen for this meeting because you have 'unique experiences' and you are 'one of the top experts' in a field that I don't have much experience or knowledge in."

"Uh... I'm flattered but, you lost me."

"The point wasn't behavioral analysis, but talking about your deep cover work," Alex continued as if she hadn't spoken.

"You totally lost me."

Alex pinched the bridge of his nose, explaining, "My father was a soldier but got pulled into a deep cover assignment. I never knew my parents because they were killed when I was about three months old. It was the organization he infiltrated, taking revenge. I think this is Joe's way of providing a connection to my father, by understanding deep cover work. Which will also give me an idea of how to do it myself, if I ever get one of these assignments. It's a win-win situation for him."

"What - I can't - " Prentiss fell silent. Exhaling long and slow, she said, "Oh, this is just wrong. On so many levels. Are you sure you want to continue this?"

"If they want me on a deep cover assignment, it's going to happen no matter what we say. Better to be prepared."

Shaking her head, Prentiss sighed. Normally, she'd be fighting to get the teen out of the line of fire. But she couldn't. For one, he was British so wasn't even in their jurisdiction. For another, he wasn't willing to get out. She recognized that steely determination in his eyes. It said that no one could get in his way and it would be a fruitless effort if she tried. So, all she could do right now to protect him was give him classified information to help him survive out there. It still felt like kicking him out to face the wolves alone. She'd be in trouble too, physically and legally, if anyone ever found out she was revealing any information about her deep cover assignment. Not just her either. Anyone involved in that operation would be compromised. Then again, with recent developments, their lives already were in danger. "I guess we better get to work then. How much do you know about - "

"Wait," Alex cut her off, putting a finger to his lips. She watched as he combed over the whole room and realized that he was looking for bugs, something that she should have thought of. Once he was done and had sat back down, the teen said, "Okay, we're clear. Go on."

"You don't trust the CIA with this," Prentiss stated. "You don't trust them with information on an operation that they were involved in."

"Joe hasn't given you explicit permission to reveal classified information which means, if what happens here ever gets leaked, he's going to deny it. Let's cover all our bases, yeah?"

"I can see why the secret services want you," Prentiss replied. "So, how much do you know about the IRA?"

Alex thought back to Crawley's lessons. "Irish Republican Army. A paramilitary organization that believes Ireland should be free from British rule. The original IRA was reorganized and split several times though, so there are quite a few of these organizations claiming to be the only legitimate descendant of the original. All of them are considered terrorist organizations in the intelligence community. But the IRA doesn't have anything to do with the US. Why would your people be interested in them?"

Prentiss nodded, half agreement and half approval. "They weren't. I was CIA but, Interpol pulled me from my position, along with a few others, to put together a team of profilers focused on bringing down high profile terrorists. For one of the cases, our team looked at an IRA leader. I happened to fit a certain type that this IRA member was looking for so I got sent into deep cover."

"What happened?"

"We succeeded in putting him away in prison. But not before he figured out I was a spy."

Alex eyed the woman. "And you're still worried about being targeted."

"What?" Prentiss gave an awkward laugh. "Why do you say that?"

"You completed the mission and got out alive so you have to be competent at espionage, which includes controlling your body language. Stress is something that you can handle well too. But you've been biting your nails throughout this whole time discussing your deep cover assignment and, judging by the state of your nails, they don't look damaged enough to be a long term thing so that's a habit that only picked up in the last few weeks. A sign of stress. I would know cause I do the same thing. My guess is that something related to your deep cover assignment happened recently to make you believe you're in danger."

"I - " Prentiss looked down at her nails and put her hands under the table, hiding them from view. "I didn't realize that I was even doing it... But that's not the point right now. We don't have a lot of time left and we need to give you a crash course on deep cover work. If what you're saying about the director's goal for this meeting is true, I think we need to start with the mental effects. We'll move on to methods and procedures of deep cover work, if there's time left. Sound good?"

"Works for me, Agent Prentiss."

"Prentiss or Emily is fine," she said dryly, to which he nodded and gestured for her to continue. "What's the longest time you've spent undercover?"

"On a single assignment? Two weeks."

Prentiss frowned. "Single assignment? Do you usually hold several covers at the same time?"

"No, but I've had back-to-back assignments."

She opened her mouth to say something but it seemed that, whatever it was, she decided against it. After a moment, she began again. "Two weeks, you say? Those are short term assignments but you should already understand the concept that you have to maintain an act and be someone else at all times throughout the mission, right?"

Alex nodded. "Go on."

"Well, there are two main problems that undercover operatives face. The first is maintaining your identity. That's not just keeping up the identity that you're portraying but keeping your real identity separate from your cover in your mind. And when you're pretending to be someone else for weeks, months, or even years, a lot of people can't tell the difference anymore. People doing deep cover work will often develop traits that they are only supposed to pretend to have. To keep their cover, they have to participate in criminal activities. There's a mental struggle over their morals conflicting with the actions they are carrying out. In addition to that, they have to form relationships with their targets. Isolated from everyone else they know, those relationships could turn genuine, whether from craving human connection, life and death bonding experiences with the targets, or a combination of both. And once there's a genuine and trusting relationship established, guilt will play a role in the amount of stress the agent experiences. That's on top of all the stress that the risky nature of the job, secrecy, not knowing how long you have to keep up the act for, communication issues, and pressure from your bosses for results will bring. With all this affecting the agent's psychological state, there's always a risk that the operative will become corrupted, or even turn traitor. It takes a certain skill in compartmentalizing to make it through without affecting the assignment, especially for deep cover work."

"'We are what we pretend to be, so we must be very careful what we pretend to be,'" Alex said quietly, thinking about how his father's time with SCORPIA might have changed him. He realized, for the first time, that a part of his father might have truly become a cold-blooded assassin. There was a good chance that he might be headed in a similar direction. Or, perhaps even worse, John Rider might have always been that person but just chose to direct it into something more legal until this assignment gave him permission to unleash his true nature. Either one could be the reason for his father's success in the field. There wasn't a way to tell which one though.

"Kurt Vonnegut!" Prentiss exclaimed excitedly, shaking him from his morbid thoughts. "I didn't realize the younger generation knew his works."

Alex shrugged. "I was in an American school for a bit and the English teacher assigned that novel."

Prentiss grinned. "Did you like the book?"

"Wasn't in the school long enough to finish it. But I probably would have liked it better if we didn't have to analyze every word choice," Alex replied dryly. "And I could have done without the reminder of war and espionage. The themes were interesting though. What did you struggle with during your deep cover assignment?"

Her grin faded when he brought the topic back on track, reminding her of the reason for this meeting. Biting her lip as her mind was cast back to those memories, she took a deep breath and avoided eye contact, focusing on a point slightly to his side. "My task required me to get close to the target in a romantic sense. Now, I was not inexperienced in those types of relationships. I was a bit wild when I was younger, trying to find a sense of belonging. Made some pretty bad choices. But, acting as an arms dealer falling in love with a terrorist for so long, actively encouraging his affections... Emotions get mixed up. There were people on the IRA side that I wanted to protect. Innocent people. And... Lying to them everyday, not knowing when I might be found out, the betrayal they would feel if they knew who I really was. The pressure and planning involved to create scenarios that would allow my team to build the files and capture our targets. It all messed with my head. It was really hard to stay on task, make the right decisions. And even now, sometimes I'll think back on it and still not know whether I made the right calls, whether I could have done things differently."

Emotions get mixed up. He understood that. Sometimes, you spend so long around someone, and getting to know them, that you sympathize. He could see real relationships forming from that, whether it was intended or not. His father had gotten attached to Yassen, after all. And he had liked some of the people at SCORPIA well enough, when they weren't trying to kill him that is. It raised the question of his father's fidelity though. Rothman had been interested in John Rider and he knew that taking advantage of that was a good way to gain trust, or at least information, quickly. But what if, somewhere along the line, it wasn't an act anymore? What if it became real? Did Helen Rider ever know? How had this mission affected his mother? It had been hard enough on Jack when he had to go into the field. And that was usually only for a couple weeks at a time. Not even taking on a criminal role as cover either. He couldn't imagine what his mother would have gone through. And yet, Helen Rider had still stayed by her husband's side until the very end. That had to count for something, right? That had to speak to his father's character. Besides the Adair family's accounts of John Rider, it was as good of a voucher for his father's integrity as he was going to get. But that was all in the past. What he needed to worry about was whether he could do the job without losing himself. Focusing back on Prentiss, he asked, "Did you fall in love with your target for real?"

"What?" Her eyebrows scrunched slightly towards the center as she bit her nails again. "Of course not. I may have struggled but I completed the mission."

Her body language told him that she was lying. Maybe not even aware of what her true feelings were. But it wasn't his place call her out on it, so he just shrugged. "Okay, just curious. What's the second problem undercover operatives face?"

She took a second to answer, trying to catch up with the abrupt change in topic. This time, she had no trouble making eye contact. "Uh... Second one is trouble with reintegration back into normal duties. Normal society too, depending on what happened during the mission. Agents coming out of undercover work often have difficulty keeping to normal work hours, accepting direct supervision, and following the dress code. Of course, paranoia is also a problem. When I finished my deep cover assignment, my death was faked but... it took months before I was able to shake the feeling that the IRA was going to find me and kill me at any second. The direct supervision didn't help the paranoia either. Sleep patterns. That needed adjusting to match a normal work day. And clothing. I had gotten used to wearing expensive, fashionable, high quality clothing. Coming back to work in my own clothes, everything felt scratchy. And ill-fitting, compared to the high end stuff."

Alex nodded. "I can identify with that. Even the short term assignments I've had... I don't feel like I fit in anymore. More comfortable in a military camp than at school."

Prentiss studied him. "Yes, I imagine you've had plenty of experience with the post-mission adjustment period already. I really hope you've thought this through properly. There's a reason why children aren't used and it's not just because it violates international laws on children's rights."

A knock sounded on the door, Byrne walking in a second later, saying, "Time to wrap it up. If you want to talk some more, we can set up another meeting."

Getting up, they glanced at each other. Alex shrugged. "We'll see."

Following the director out of the conference room, Prentiss was dismissed and she gave his shoulder a squeeze before returning to her duties. Then, Alex was led down to the basement level. He was given time to change into workout clothes before they went to the training room. A young Israeli woman with tanned skin and long hair in a ponytail was waiting for them, arms crossed as she leaned back against the wall. Unlike Prentiss' business attire, she wore a t-shirt, combat trousers, and boots. A gold Star of David pendant hung from her neck.

Upon noticing their arrival, the woman automatically scanned them to assess threat levels and pushed off the wall, standing with her feet planted firmly shoulder-width apart. "Sir."

"Agent David," Byrne greeted. "This is Alex. You have this training room to spar and get to know each other for an hour. Just... don't injure or kill each other."

"Yes, sir."

"Alright, I'll leave you two to it then," Byrne said, walking off.

Turning to the teen, David narrowed her eyes, giving him another once over. "I had heard of a British teenage spy being active in the last two years, but never believed it to be true until now. And to find that the Americans have used you too..." She snorted in disgust. "These western countries talk about human rights and condemn others for not tripping in line with their beliefs, but - "

"I think you mean falling in line," Alex murmured.

" - turn around and break their own laws. And thank you! But I like mine better. Tripping gives a more accurate description of what these countries want."

Alex smirked. "You're not wrong there. So, you're one of the Mossad director's children and a former Mossad operative?"

"Yes," she answered, expression daring him to say something. "Is that a problem?"

"No, just wondering why you would change allegiances when there are such strong ties that should have kept you with Mossad."

"That is none of your business."

Shrugging and putting his hands up in surrender, he said, "Just curious. You don't have to answer. Should we get started with the combat session?"

"Yes. What martial arts do you know?"

"Karate." That was common knowledge amongst the intelligence agencies. There was no need to mention his lessons in Krav Maga and ninjutsu, much less the crash courses in other styles that he had received this week.

"Level?"

"Second dan."

She silently studied him again. "You are John Rider's son and trained from birth."

"You knew my father?" Alex asked, blinking in surprise.

"No. I would have been about your age when he was active. But I have heard about him. Being associated with SCORPIA at such a high level is not something that the intelligence community can miss."

It was unclear, from that statement, whether she knew the truth behind his father's involvement with SCORPIA. He would have to play this carefully. If she didn't know the truth, then he could not reveal it and it would be best to denounce the relationship to avoid the misunderstanding gaining him an enemy. But if she did know that John Rider had been working undercover for MI6, then the opposite was true. Without any idea as to what she knew, he decided on something neutral. He shrugged. "I don't know much about him. He's been dead since before I could talk."

"Who raised you?"

"My uncle and our housekeeper."

"Ian Rider," she guessed, narrowing her eyes again. "I worked with him once on a joint mission many years ago. I would have thought that he had the sense to not train a child for this life."

"I can't tell you what he was thinking when he trained me, if that's what you're looking for," Alex replied quietly. "He didn't even train me properly because he was hiding it behind hobbies and vacations. I thought I knew him. But after his death, it turns out that I know nothing about him."

David paused. "I am sorry for your loss. I was not aware of his death."

"It is in the past."

Nodding to herself, David said, "I understand what it is like to be trained from birth. My training was more obvious than yours and even my country - which is considered barbaric by international standards - did not put me in the field until I was eighteen. But I still know some of what you may be feeling. If you need to talk, I may be able to explain some things."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Good. We will start with a spar to assess what you can do."

As soon as the last word left her mouth, David struck. He barely managed to dodge the punch, rolling on the mat to avoid the kick that followed, and was fairly sure he only succeeded in doing so because of his sessions with Yassen. The next few minutes were made particularly complicated by the need to ensure he only used karate so that David wasn't tipped off on his other skills. He kept up well enough with defense, blocking and dodging attacks the entire time, but he had only been able to attempt a few strikes of his own and only three of them landed. The different fighting style that naturally came with going up against an unfamiliar person also took a bit for his brain to catch up to and adjust his own methods. If he had been able to use some of his other training though, there were several ways he could think of to tip the fight more to his favor. Still might not win. It was hard to tell if Yassen or David would win a fight against each other, so he would definitely have some trouble winning no matter what. But it would have been a more even playing field. And that told him that he needed to work on isolating each fighting style until he could win a fight with only using one martial art, regardless of which one it was in any given situation. Working on specific, different combinations of styles - like only using karate and Krav Maga or only using aikido and Systema - would be a good idea too. As would incorporating sparring sessions with more than just his two main teachers. He made a mental note to bring these up with Yassen and Tomohiro. Separately, of course. At least, by the time David called an end to the spar, he had an idea of what else he needed to improve on.

"Not bad. But you were right about not being trained properly," David said. "If you had been trained properly from birth, you would have far more advanced combat skills than this. How are your knife and firearm skills?"

"Basic for knife combat," Alex instantly replied. "Firearms... only started training a little over a year ago but I learned from some of the best."

David gave an almost feral grin. "We will work on your knife combat skills to make the most of this time then. At Mossad, we have a saying: Knives don't run out of bullets. It is a useful skill to have."

She walked over to the weapons on one side of the wall and chose two knives, picking up some practice targets to set up on the farthest side from him. Coming back over, she handed him one of the knives. "First, you will learn how to throw. This is a last resort. Knives may not run out of bullets but you will not have infinite knives available if you only throw them. Now, watch me."

Spinning around, David brought the knife up slightly past her ear and launched it, letting it fly from her hand. After one rotation in the air, a dull thud sounded as the knife found its mark. "Now, you try."

Carefully, Alex recalled as much of her demonstration as he could and tried to imitate it. The knife hit too low on the target. When he tried again, David adjusted his stance and told him to relax his body. It took another few tries to hit the bullseye, his instincts of when to let go helped by his shooting experience. After that, he did it a few more times to make sure he had it down before David taught him some different throws, sometimes switching to other knives. It didn't take long to master the throws but they weren't able to go through all the different types as they were on a time crunch. So, twenty minutes later, David moved on to sparring with the knives. Here, he had more difficulty keeping up because of his unfamiliarity with handling a knife in a fight. As much as he had worked on armed combat with Yassen and the SAS, those had been for a variety of weapons so knives had only been a focus for a small percentage of his training so far. Compared to David, who seemed to handle knives as though they were second nature to her, Alex might as well have had no training at all. The good thing was that, as soon as she "killed" him each time, she would teach him what she did and how he could counter it. Through this, he learned how to hold the knife, maneuver it into different positions to stab or slash, and transfer it from one hand to another in the middle of a fight. And by the time Byrne came knocking, Alex had gained another myriad of cuts and bruises but he could do everything from the lessons without making mistakes. She had given him a good foundation to work off of. All that was left was to practice until it became muscle memory before he learned some more tricks. He needed to practice until the weapon became a part of him, and extension of himself.

"Ready to go?" Byrne asked as he poked his head into the room cautiously when they answered his knock by telling him to come in. "I see you're both still alive and relatively unharmed."

"He learns fast," David said with a smile. "It was a piece of pie to teach him."

"Piece of cake," Alex corrected, more confident in its reception now that he knew her better. "Or easy as pie."

"Yes, piece of cake," she repeated, eyebrows slightly scrunched up in confusion. "What does cake or pie have to do with easy?"

Alex shrugged. "Good question. I think 'piece of cake' was RAF slang that was made popular back then, but the phrase isn't used as much in the UK these days. I picked these up when I lived here."

"I'm not sure either," Byrne added in amusement, whether from their interactions or the bit of trivia was unclear. "Cake and pie have always been symbols of an ideal life in American culture, so maybe that's why we use it, gluttons that we are. Alex, you're going to miss your flight if we don't go soon."

"I guess this is it then," David said, holding out a hand. "It was nice to meet you, Alex."

"Likewise, Agent David," Alex replied, shaking her hand.

"Ziva," she corrected with a twinkle in her eyes. "And stay out of trouble. If the stories are true, the amount of chaos around you is ridiculous."

"I'll try," he said dryly. He raised a hand in farewell. "Until next time."

"Next time," Ziva murmured, waving goodbye. She clutched her pendant and silently sent up a prayer for the teen's wellbeing, staring at their retreating backs.

Following Byrne back up to his office, Alex retrieved his luggage and they were at the airport within half an hour. All Byrne did was clap him on the shoulder and wish him luck in his research on communication devices. With their history, there were no bureaucratic pleasantries needed. No wishing each other well, 'pleasure to meet you', or 'hope to work together again'. A casual wave of their hands and Alex sauntered onto the plane to find his seat. But once again, he checked for bugs first before settling in.

Throughout the twelve-hour flight, Alex tried to match his sleep and meal schedule to London time. So, he started by ordering the in-flight meal for dinner. And when that was done, he Googled information on Krysten Schultz, Lamar Jensen, and LJ Weapons Systems for a few hours. It gave him a bit of background information to work with so the search through the MI6 database he was already planning would be easier. However, unlike the other flights this week, he decided that he had earned some time away from anything that resembled work. With the jetlag, which would only get worse as he moved across the time zones to London, he fell asleep easily after setting his alarm for approximately when his plane would land. It was seven-thirty in the morning when he arrived at Heathrow and he was bleary-eyed, still yawning. But he was home again.