A/N: HAPPY MONDAY, EVERYONE! I'm so stoked to get this story out. I've been working on it for ages and it has broken my brain at least a dozen times, if not more. Again, thank you everyone who posted comments on my last story- my terrible reply time aside, I really did read and treasure all of them. They definitely help motivate me to keep writing and refining and editing to the bitter end. :)

See you next week.

O

Feeling rather than seeing the improvised airfield they'd arrived at only a few minutes ago disappear beneath them, Yassen watched from behind clear-sheeted plastic as the surgeons double checked the straps holding Alex in place on the operating table. Apart from running a few IV lines and giving the boy anesthesia, little else had been done to prep the boy directly for surgery; there simply hadn't been enough time on the way. None of the other medical staff made any attempt to walk as the ascent progressed, bracing themselves patiently against the vertical climb and quietly gesturing to the various readouts and monitors displaying Alex's heart rate and blood pressure.

The jet's engines wound high and drowned out Abramoff's quiet offers of a drink.

Lamp cleared his throat as the plane stabilized at cruising altitude; the second the floor leveled out, the surgeons stood and began moving around in their improvised surgical room, drawing Yassen's gaze. "The boy is on the plane. Now that we have your initial demands settled, it's time for ours. What do you know about Estrov, Mr. Gregorovich?"

Yassen gave him a thin look from his seat on the plush white leather chairs. Perhaps ironically, the interior of the jet reminded him of Air Force One. Glossy wood paneling, soft lighting, a crystal laden bar cart that probably cost more than the value of the last six cars Yassen had stolen for their time on the run combined. He'd been expecting a military transport or something that could be disguised as a civilian aircraft. Either Lamp or Abramoff were far more important than he was led to believe or they wanted Yassen's information badly enough to try to impress.

He suspected it was the second. That could be problematic or a boon. It suggested they wanted something more than simply information about his hometown. Something requiring an ongoing relationship. While reassured that he had more than one bargaining chip, apparently, Yassen knew it was critical that he play his hand carefully. "That's a broad question, Mr. Lamp. As I said before, I lived there as a child. Surely you don't want me to detail the location of every potato field and tool shed."

"Actually," Abramoff said, breaking in with a tip of his glass. The ice plinked against the edge. "That would be very helpful." He waved his hand as Yassen paused. "We'll get there, we'll get there. First-"

There was a string of muttered curses from the surgical area. Something metallic being set down hard on the tray. "I can't cut through. Get me the bigger shears-"

Yassen experienced a split second of horror before he realized the actual problem. He held up a hand to halt Abramoff and stood. The security escorts, positioned across the aisle from him, surged to their feet. "You'll have to pull his shirt off," he called, to the surgeons. "It's bulletproof and stab-proof."

A surgical-scrub-clad man, closest to Yassen through the plastic wrap, squinted at him with bushy white eyebrows. "It's what?"

"Just pull it off. It won't cut," Yassen said heavily, sinking back into his chair. After a moment's hesitation and a nod from Lamp, the surgeons complied and began working again. He made a mental note to get Alex's shirt back from him: he'd likely want it since it was a gift from the gadget man, even if it had limited use after taking so many bullets. At least Yassen had the sense to grab his iPod from his pocket before the CIA arrived. No doubt they'd be happy to "lose" it for the boy.

"My apologies," he said, turning back to Abramoff. "Where were we?"

"Do not worry. We have plenty of time. The flight is sixteen hours long." Abramoff glanced at his security detail as they settled back into their seats. "Tell me what you know of Estrov's destruction."

Beside them on the other side of the sheeted plastic barrier, a surgeon barked a quick order. Two nurses scurried to his side, offering tools and gauze. The plane bounced gently, the whine of the engines shifting ever so slightly. Was it enough to disrupt the delicate cuts of even the most steady-handed surgeon?

Yassen forced himself to look away. "The plant that we believed to be a pesticides factory had an accident. Chemical. The alarms went off. I found out later that it had been secretly producing anthrax and other biochemical weapons. Everyone ran to see what was going on, except for me. The military came with helicopters and fire bombed the village."

Abramoff studied him over the rim of his glass. "But you got away."

"Yes."

"How?"

"I was warned."

"By who?" Abramoff scowled, as Yassen declined to answer right away. "We had a deal, Mr. Gregorovich. You must tell us everything. We know Estrov was firebombed and buried. We know you were there. We need to know how you experienced it and what you saw."

Yassen felt his insides clench. He should have known. The instant he'd made whatever promises had been necessary to get Alex on the plane, he knew that he would have to speak of that day. Of his family. He'd have much rather preferred to disembowel himself with a rusty knife and watch his own blood pool on this soft, leather chair than speak to these strangers leaning on the edge of their seats like vultures waiting to pick over the carrion of his memories.

It couldn't be helped. This was the price of Alex's life. The universe had given him every sign that it wouldn't be nominal. Wasn't he saying just an hour ago that he'd do anything?

A little talking should be cheap, but it wasn't.

Yassen felt his hand drift atop his pack of cigarettes, squeezing them through the fabric of his jeans. Plastic sheeting couldn't completely wall off the surgical theatre from the air supply of the rest of the cabin: it had been secured using an efficient combination of ties and tape, but obviously wasn't perfectly air tight. Unlike the actual Air Force One, this jet hadn't been built to accommodate emergency situations such as surgery. If he was worried about second hand smoke before, it had only quadrupled since: Alex was only breathing because of the machines hooked up to him at the moment. "My parents warned me. They worked there. I was fourteen. When the alarms went off, I was at our home on the edge of the villageā€¦"

Yassen kept his account short and clinical. Describing it in English made it easier, somehow. Less personal.

Moments later, Abramoff leaned forward, drink forgotten. "What happened after you and Leo ran into the woods?"

Yassen met his eager gaze with a cool one of his own. "I said I would speak of Estrov and it's fall. I have done so. Now it is your turn. Tell me why the SVR has any interest in these events at all. I doubt you could elicit such cooperation from the CIA for the sake of simple curiosity. Estrov is but one tiny example in a sea of human misery. "

Sitting back, Abramoff exchanged glances with Lamp. So far, none of this little interview had been conducted in Russian. Yassen took that to mean that this was, at least in part, a joint operation. "Your question is fair. As I'm sure you know, things have changed greatly in Russia during the last few decades."

Yassen shrugged, making no effort to conceal his disinterest.

"Yet some things stay the same. There is a rift in the government between the old administration and the new. It has always been there. Poisonous legacies of the old KGB units and antiquated relationships with the bratva that somehow never seem to allow for better changes, despite promises. Kiriyenko has only done what he was permitted to do. With his term ending next year, there is a window of opportunity to divert influence away from the old guard. To break from the corruption of the past. These attitudes and relationships have no place in a modern Russia. They offer little benefit. Why should the son keep paying the father's price?"

Yassen flicked a glance at Lamp. "I take it the CIA would rather the new administration be successful in this endeavor. More so than they want to conceal the embarrassments of MI6."

Lamp gave him a thin smile. "Let's just say Joe Byrne would be delighted for the people of Estrov to get the justice they deserve."

"They are dead. They deserve nothing."

Abramoff folded his arms, studying Yassen's face closely. "And you? Do you not wish to see the men responsible for the deaths of your friends and family stand trial?"

Ah. So that was their chief selling point.

"I don't believe in justice." Yassen raised an eyebrow as both men stiffened ever so slightly. Their surprise was a little entertaining: while most in his profession possessed the moral and ethical regard of sharks in a kiddie pool, it appeared they rather expected his personal involvement to bridge that gap. "Those truly responsible will never see the inside of a cell. The powerful. The wealthy. Perhaps you will catch whoever pulled the trigger or fired the missiles. Perhaps it will be enough to tear down the remnants of the old administration or force others into early retirement. Perhaps you will succeed beyond your wildest dreams and force a powerful man to pay a fine. That is of little value to me."

Lamp's eyes tightened, though he didn't seem terribly surprised. "I think it's safe to assume that your freedom does have value to you. That and the Rider boy. Why don't we start there?"

The jet hit another patch of turbulence. Equipment rattled in the surgical area. A tray overturned, sending instruments crashing to the floor. A flurry of urgent voices started up. At the operating table, a surgeon hovered over the boy's prone form, standing stock still, his bloody tweezers bobbing with the current as he struggled to hold the metal away from the wound.

Fear coiled in Yassen's stomach like trapped smoke.

Alex should be in a real hospital. Smithers had better have a damn good explanation for this.

Yassen turned back to the two government spooks, drawing on every meditation technique Malagosto had ever given him to keep his face and voice smooth. "Then we shall get to the heart of the matter. Precisely what do you hope to accomplish by securing me? You clearly already know of Estrov. Nothing I've told you adds significantly to your information. We are all aware of my reputation and employment history. I will hardly make a trustworthy witness on the stand if justice is what you truly seek."

Abramoff scoffed, dismissing Yassen's point with a shrug. "Your employment is of no concern to the SVR, at least not compared to the value of your cooperation on this matter. I wouldn't call your former profession ideal, but we have forgiven worse. Not that we officially have anything to forgive." The liaison offered him a rueful smile. "Luckily for us, you were never formally charged with anything. To do so would have required that MI6 provide you or your body for court proceedings as almost all of your proveable crimes with Cray span several borders. Obviously they could not afford to do so, considering your secret incarceration. Additionally, they have cited no witnesses to your terrorist activities within their own country; Scorpia is not in the habit of leaving those anyway. Being a 'person of interest' is not the same, even if they can tie your DNA to a few crime scenes here and there."

Yassen took a moment to turn that over.

What felt like a glaring oversight made a certain kind of sense in the intelligence world. MI6 had no real reason to move forward with prosecuting him if it meant admitting he was alive. Alex had certainly believed him dead when he'd approached him in prison so it was likely that most other intelligence agencies had been told much the same. A posthumous prosecution would also be problematic, given the international interest in closing the various case files on Yassen's operations: all kinds of tissue samples and autopsy photos would be requested of MI6 by their intelligence allies, requests they would have little to no good reason to refuse. Questions would be asked. Apart from collecting basic DNA analysis and fingerprinting for the sake of recording his death, it was far more advantageous to leave all of his suspected crimes unresolved and see if they could get him to flip on his employers in the meantime- while Yassen likely had dozens of cases open to his name, the organization he represented had thousands.

Still. He had assumed that they had him recorded as guilty of something.

Perhaps they did. Perhaps they didn't. It might not matter either way. If they simply hadn't made any serious charges public knowledge, it was possible to stall any legal attempts to apprehend him despite whatever evidence they might reveal about his arrest. Alex's incarceration in Gibraltar was hardly legitimate and a good lawyer might be able to poke holes in whatever abnormalities were no doubt present in Yassen's as well, all from the safety of a country that wasn't known for playing nicely with extraditions anyway.

Abramoff continued, shifting neatly on his own plush chair. "There are few records that you even exist. Prosecution would take years in their own courts. Again, it does not concern us. Even if MI6 could somehow prove your criminal record overnight beyond the shadow of doubt, we do not need you to function as a credible witness so much as living proof."

Yassen crossed his arms. "In what regard?"

"Anthrax is a bacteria. It evolves and can be guided thusly. That's why so many vaccines exist and why there is the need to create new strains to circumvent them. The factory at Estrov created one such divergent strain, one that no other country would have the immunity to already. The vaccine your mother gave you would be unique to it. You might lie, but the DNA of your immunity cannot." Abramoff leaned forward, eyes blazing with sudden, eager clarity. "They can say that Estrov never existed, but you exist. They can call you a liar, but your blood has anthrax antibodies unique to that factory. Your DNA matches the bones of victims no doubt hidden in the soil. You are proof enough that they have lied without even opening your mouth."

Yassen studied him without speaking. Interesting. The scale of this particular bone to pick would be enormous. There would be testing and testifying, excavations and charges. Yassen might not be an expert in any particular field of law, but he knew enough to understand the scope of what this endeavor would require: likely years of covert preparations followed by an almost equal amount of time hashing out the legal battle in the open. It would buy Alex plenty of time to recover, plenty of time for Yassen to plan their next move.

He could use this.

"And where does the flash drive on Air Force One come into this?" Yassen sat back in his chair, features stilled in a facade of unconcern. He should have never written the damned thing. One mistake, but a big one. He'd meant to leave some kind of record, some kind of legacy; borne out of some poor impulse in his psyche, one he fully expected would die with him one day. No one had ever been meant to see it; the man who'd designed it for him had assured him it would evade detection even if outright examined. He'd almost forgotten about it, but now, to think that the various intelligence agencies had been pouring over the worst experiences of his life-

It should be inconsequential. He was flooded with rage anyway.

Perhaps he hadn't let go of the past as much as he liked to think.

Lamp exchanged a slow look with Abramoff, before crossing his arms. "As I said, we haven't been able to fully decipher the decryption. Only chunks. Names. One of which showed up too frequently to be coincidence."

"Estrov." Yassen leveled them both with a cool glance, suddenly glad he and Alex had discussed his past missions in good detail. "Combined with my ties to it in MI6's files, I assume you felt that this confirmed my origins."

Lamp nodded. "Which brings me to another question. Exactly what is on that flash drive?"

It was hardly an avoidable question. Yassen gave an indifferent tilt of his head, as though the answer was trivial. "You might call it a record. A journal perhaps."

That earned him a surprised blink. "That's a rather risky thing to carry on you."

Yassen set his jaw. His professional reputation was taking a number of hits these days. "Says the supposedly top intelligence agency unable to decipher more than a handful of words of it. Perhaps not as risky as you think."

"Decryption issues aside," Abramoff interjected. "The important thing is that we have now confirmed these things to be true. You are from Estrov. You witnessed the destruction. We must move forward."

"What sort of cooperation are you asking for?" Yassen demanded.

Abramoff leaned in. "Full. You testify, you give blood, you tell us everything you remember. Every neighbor's name. Every scrap of village gossip. Every potato field and tool shed, as you said. We don't know the exact coordinates where Estrov was located, but we will find it. Ground penetrating sonar should make the task swifter. What you tell us about the layout of the village will help us identify buildings and structures."

"Surely there are others who can do this for you."

"They do not dare. The military sent soldiers after anyone listed on the census records in the weeks after its destruction, even if they were not in Estrov at the time. Rosna was also neutralized, in a supposed accident; they claimed a local farmer dumped pesticides into a stream and contaminated the water source, killing hundreds. No loose threads. However, you are correct that there are others. Villagers in, say, Kirsk who had relatives under different names in Estrov. Friends. Business associates. No one will come forward for fear of reprisal, but you have no such fear, do you? Once the tide has turned, they will speak. They will want resolution. Your testimony will loosen their tongues." Abramoff waved a hand. "In exchange, you will never face prosecution for your own crimes. You will be free."

Yassen felt his eyes narrow. "That's not enough."

"I'm open to hearing your demands."

"Do you know who that boy is?" Yassen asked him.

Abramoff eyes flicked to the operating theatre. "Alex Rider. The child spy MI6 has been desperately trying to track down and conceal. We have quite the file on him."

Of course they did. Alex was the worst kept secret of the intelligence community after all.

"He stays with me."

Abramoff waved another hand. "Done. Anything else?"

"I want to ensure that you understand," Yassen said, every word said with calm, frostbitten emphasis. Even Lamp looked startled at his sudden shift in tone. Good. He had their attention. "He will not be extradited. He does not go ahead of me to a secure location without my explicit permission. If I have any reason to think that MI6 is allowed any kind of access to him, I will be gone. If any intelligence agency attempts to contact or interfere with him, I will be gone. If he has anything less than a normal, quiet life attending school, I will be gone. There will be no cooperation. No Estrov. Nothing."

Abramoff scoffed and crossed his legs, glancing out the small round window beside his chair into the pitch black of night. "I will tell you twice: MI6 does not concern us. With Sarov disowned, we have no skin in their little spy game being made public. He will not be returned, regardless of whatever fuss they would like to make."

Lamp shrugged as Yassen's gaze turned to him. "We've already insulated ourselves from the little public relations nightmare he presents. There are no records of his time in Miami. We have no official interest in him. The CIA's involvement in both of your lives ends when this plane touches the ground."

Yassen didn't doubt it. The CIA had a long and proud history of throwing around secret support, placing bets, and stepping away just in time to avoid blame. Whoever Abramoff was gunning for to take over after Kiriyanko was obviously their new favorite. Even so... "Will Byrne have a personal interest?"

The deputy director snorted. "That brat leaves a trail of guilt wherever he goes, doesn't he? Joe's got plenty of that, but it's nothing new. I doubt he'll do anything so long as he believes the kid is alright wherever he is."

Abramoff broke in. "And he will be. Alex will be well provided for in Russia. The best doctors and facilities to help him with his schizophrenia. Protection from MI6-"

"He's not schizophrenic," Yassen informed him. "MI6 drugged him with an experimental hormone blocker called A216 to delay his growth and keep him in the field. It has psychiatric side effects but they will fade with time. He will resume a normal life."

"Then we will assist him with that," Abramoff said without missing a beat. "I'm sure there are doctors who can help make him whole. Surgeries. Therapies. Treatments. Whatever he needs. What else do you want?"

Yassen considered Abramoff carefully. It was clear that the man had plenty to gain from whatever power shifts were currently in motion. While Yassen couldn't exactly swan-dive off of the jet if he didn't like his offer, it seemed he still had room to negotiate. His cooperation was of value, regardless of what Abramoff said about his blood being all the evidence they technically needed. "My final demand is that we not discuss my former employer. It is no secret that I have cut ties with them, but I have no desire to make myself a bigger target than I already am. You can have Estrov, but you cannot have Scorpia."

Abramoff hesitated. "Your case will be stronger-"

"My case will not exist if I am dead."

Yassen watched the information twist it's way through the other man's brain. Scorpia was powerful. A threat. The world had plenty of grudges against the organization and Yassen could be used to dismantle them down to the rafters. Someone higher on the food chain than Abramoff could climb the career ladder by taking down a heavyweight in the black market intelligence world, and Yassen's deal would seem like the perfect opportunity on paper. Unless Yassen made his position clear now, it would almost certainly come up later. Abramoff was a representative of the SVR- they would not be having this conversation if he wasn't authorized to negotiate on their behalf. They would be bound to his promises. If they modified the terms of their agreement to suit their every whim after the fact, Yassen's cooperation could be threatened.

Without Alex, Yassen was quite the flight risk.

Another patch of turbulence rattled the metal tools on the trays in the surgical area. Yassen let his eyes flutter shut only briefly, head turning in the direction of the surgery, knowing full well it was observed.

As loath as he was to give any sign of internal discomfort, the idea that Yassen's mid-life crisis would remain private was a ship that had long since sailed. It was just as well, however much it made him want to snap the neck of every intelligence agent on this damn plane. Apart from Scorpia's obvious attempts to kill them both, Yassen's attachment to Alex was the main reason the SVR had to believe he wouldn't bolt shortly after landing. That he had something to lose.

At least it was coming full circle. Finally.

Three hours ago, as he sat opposite Steiner in the cabin, his fondness for Hunter's stupid fucking oprhan had been the only thing that Yassen thought would get him killed. Now, it was the only thing that made him remotely trustworthy. Cooperation based on self-preservation was hard for an agency to trust in a man with Yassen's skillset; he'd have never been caught were it not for Alex. It was clear that Alex could not maintain such a lifestyle, however, and if Yassen refused to leave Alex behindā€¦.

It was ironic and embarrassing and just so par for the course, but this was his life now.

Abramoff nodded. "Very well. No Scorpia. Anything else?"

Yassen shook his head. If worse came to worse, Alex would be well enough to go back on the run in a few weeks. They could find another place to settle.

Assuming the surgery went well.

"Fantastic." Lamp said, as they hit another patch of rough air. Something metallic crashed to the floor, followed by a surgeon swearing loudly. The deputy-director of the CIA watched Yassen's eyes flutter shut for a second time and asked, "Are you sure I can't get you that drink, Gregorovich?"

Yassen shook his head, exhaling slow and forcefully through his nose.

There would be time for a drink later. Right now it wasn't his turn.