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Soft, flaky snow crunches under his steps as he makes his way up the small hill, where an old brick building stands tall at the end of the path. Thin slits in the stones line the facade, forever marking the spots where archers once rested their bows. The sky above wears its winter coat of heavy, thick, and grey clouds, deafening any noise for miles around.
Alex isn’t used to the silence, and his ears ring in the quiet, longing for the city noise of London.
A short, stout wall guards the ancient castle, winding its way around the estate, and he crouches beside it, surveying the activity around the building. His winter coat blends in well enough, but he wishes he’d left behind his bookbag. The bright blue stands out like a beacon amongst the white snow.
A chill breeze wafts past and a snowflake floats onto his nose. Great . He’ll have to find his way inside soon — if a snowstorm hits, he doesn’t want to be left sitting in the middle of it.
Creaking wood distracts him from his thoughts, and he peeks through a gap in the stone to see an old wood and iron gate being pulled up with ancient levers. The whole place seems like it’s been plucked out of a medieval story, and Alex half expects the Sheriff of Nottingham to emerge through the arched doors.
It’s not a medieval tax collector, but a darkly dressed man, guarding a large metal box on wheels. Alex doesn’t know much about what’s going on (that was, actually, why Crawley took him out of class before lunch and drove him to the north of England), but he feels reasonably certain that the aluminum trunk is only being transported from one end of the grounds to another.
The wheels rattle loudly on the cobblestone as the iron of the gate screeches into the still air. That is why, Alex tells himself later, he doesn’t hear the quiet footsteps approaching him until it’s too late.
On instinct, he pulls his arms up, ready for a fight — and finds himself face down in the cold snow. From below, brittle, dry grass pokes him in the face.
The guard ties up his wrists before pulling him up. He seems to be the strong and silent type, and has only communicated in grunts.
“Listen mate, I just got a bit lost, I swear!” Alex says, but he can already tell the guard won’t listen. At least he won’t have to find another way inside the castle.
He chances a glance behind him, where the man is pushing him onto the path. The bulky guard is dressed in black from head to toe, and a dull badge is embroidered into his sleeve. As they turn a corner, a well worn symbol gleams in the early morning light — a scorpion.
Well, that explains the dark and dreary old castle — SCORPIA certainly has a flair for theatrics.
He’s pushed and prodded past the oaken doors, through airy (and cold) walkways lined by arches looking into the courtyard, and into a small, dark chamber. Old wooden chairs sit along one end, and a metal table is set against the side. Stone walls are lit dimly by the lamp, its black wire hanging limply off the table and snaking out of the room to a power source somewhere out of sight.
Alex is shoved roughly into one of the chairs, and the guard tugs open a drawer, punching buttons on his walkie-talkie. Then, he finally speaks — “The boss won’t let you go easy. You were caught trespassing. I’m going to have to question you.”
Alex shrugs. “I told you already, I got lost.”
“Right. So you were, what? Hiking in the middle of a snowstorm?”
“I didn’t know it’d be snowing! That’s how I got lost, obviously.”
The man grunts, rolling his eyes. “In the middle of a school day. And you’re not from around here, either.”
“Well,” Alex huffs, tugging at his tied wrists. “If you’re not going to believe me, I won’t bother telling you.”
They sit in silence, glaring at each other, for the next several minutes as the guard methodically empties the bookbag and rifles through Alex’s coat pockets. In short order, the desk is covered in textbooks, a few of Smither’s gadgets, his phone, a graphing calculator, and many, many worksheets and unfinished assignments. The lamp flickers as a gust of snow blows past them outside. The stone is cold, and damp, and Alex wonders what this room used to be, hundreds of years ago. At least he’s not in a dungeon.
Finally, the walkie-talkie lights up with a trill, and the guard explains the situation to The Boss.
“The Boss’ll be here in a minute. Good luck lying your way out of this one, lad.” The bulky man makes his way to the door, shaking his head at Alex. “The last person who got ‘lost’ in here never made it out of the castle.”
Alex shrugs, knowing he’ll have to find something to tell Crawley at the end of the day. Maybe meeting The Boss would hurry things along. “Who’d want to leave this lovely place? Maybe I want to make myself at home here.”
In the lamplight, a large shadow appears, presumably of The Boss. The guard is quick to his feet, and he might have repeated his explanation if it weren’t for Alex’s laugh of disbelief.
“ You’re the big bad boss of the castle?”
The Boss, a slender man with short blond locks of hair, long eyelashes, and icy blue eyes, is none other than Yassen Gregorovich.
Yassen doesn’t spare him even a single glance. “Leave the boy to me. I think, in this case, psychological...techniques will work better than the usual physical methods.”
It is only when the guard leaves that the older man turns to him.
“Little Alex,” he says, leaning on the desk as he shuffles through Alex’s things on the table. “What have you gotten into this time?”
Alex attempts to cross his arms, remembers his hands are tied, and crosses his legs instead. “Same old, same old. Got a free ride here, thought I’d check out the castle before going back to school. Nice place you’ve got, by the way, really cool .”
His breath puffs out as steam in the chilly air. Yassen, dressed in a very warm jumper and a thick woolen coat, doesn’t seem to be affected.
“Ah, yes,” the Russian says, pausing to squint at one of the assignments as he stuffs the papers back into the bookbag (he pockets Alex’s phone, calculator, and other electronics). “Our esteemed client is running on a bit of a low budget. Heating an old castle would be a huge drain on resources…have you fallen behind in your coursework again?”
“…since when do you care about my homework?”
Yassen zips up the bag, an almost smile on his lips as he looks at Alex. “I’ve always cared about your schoolwork, Alex. The first time I met you, on that rooftop, I told you to go back to school and be a normal boy.”
“Too late for that now,” Alex mutters. Yassen rounds the table, crouching at Alex’s side as he cuts open the ties on his wrists.
“I trust you won’t cause any trouble with your hands free?”
Alex rolls his eyes in response.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” says Yassen, and Alex clambers to his feet. “Since you’re missing class, I think you’d appreciate some alternate education today.”
Well , thinks Alex, this is going better than I thought.
A half hour later, having followed Yassen (who had shouldered his bag in quite the same way a father would for his young child on their first day of school) to the renovated wing of the castle, Alex revises that thought.
He spins in the office chair for what must be the thousandth time. Wooden rafters twirl and whirl in kaleidoscopic patterns as Alex stares up to the ceiling with unfocused eyes.
“Stop that,” Yassen says, not looking up from his screen. “If I hear those wheels squeak one more time, I’ll take the chair away from you and make you stand in a corner.”
Alex rolls his eyes but slowly spirals to a stop. The walls pulse for a few moments, and the little room seems to tilt like a ship as his brain catches up with the motion.
“I’m bored ,” Alex wails dramatically, flopping over one arm of the chair for good measure. “When you told Sir Bulky downstairs that you’d torture me psychologically, I didn’t think you’d actually kill me of boredom.”
Yassen pauses mid-scroll on the computer that sits on the modest desk in the middle of the office. Several workstations line the wall, with an array of screens on one side, showing various camera feeds. The floor and walls are the same stonework as the rest of the old castle, but this side of the building has been updated, and exposed wiring, air ducts, and lights hang from the wooden rafters above. Someone has even, very thoughtfully, added cozy rugs underneath the desks.
“...Sir Bulky?”
“ That’s what you focus on? Aren’t you supposed to ask me if I have any last requests before I die?”
Now it’s Yassen’s turn to roll his eyes. “You’re not dying, Alex. I’m sure you can find something to do.”
Before the older man can turn back to his work and leave Alex to wallow in despair once more, Alex tries a different angle. “Well, if I’m not dying of boredom,” he whines, “I’ll surely die of hypothermia, because it’s freezing in here. Are those heating vents just for decoration?”
“Hm,” says Yassen, and briskly walks out of the room.
“Um,” says Alex, as the door shuts with a loud bang, followed by a lock turning.
Oh no, what if Yassen had changed his mind about the physical methods after all? Alex bites his lip, suddenly realizing that he is in a locked room in the middle of nowhere, and that too only on the good graces of a sometimes-lonely-and-caring assassin.
He hops out of the chair, glaring at its squeaky wheels. Have those wheels condemned him to a painful death?
The door clicks open, and Yassen locks it again behind him, holding something in his hands. It’s large, grey, and...
It’s a jumper. A thick, woolen, warm and cosy looking jumper.
“Put this on. We’re running on a bit of a low budget, so the client’s had the heating shut off in all non-essential areas.”
When Alex doesn’t reach out to take it, Yassen shakes it out impatiently. “It’s clean, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“Um. Thanks,” Alex says meekly, pulling it on. “That’s very kind of you.”
“Does that surprise you?” The older man huffs out a quiet laugh, settling behind the desk. “If you’d like to be kind to me in return, you can find something to work on quietly in here.”
Alex finds the bookbag being shoved towards his side of the table. “You want me to do homework?”
“You’re warm, safe, unhurt, and have all day to sit here. Seems like a good opportunity to get caught up.”
“Well. When you put it that way...” He peeks into the bag with a grimace.
“Good. Pick something you can do with just pencil and paper, because you’re not getting any of your electronics back.”
Alex hides away his math and history notebooks — he doesn’t have his calculator and he doubts he’ll be allowed to use the computers here for any kind of research. He’s too behind on chemistry to attempt the problem sets without watching videos online, so that leaves English.
He pulls out the worksheet and stares at the header printed across the paper. Brookland Career Week: Job Shadowing. Now that he’s looking at it, he remembers Tom going on about getting to see a TV series set and follow around a director for the day downtown.
Well, he thinks, when life gives you lemons…
“What if I need help?”
“Help?” Now it’s Yassen twirling the chair side to side. “Do you really need help with something?”
“Um, yes, actually,” Alex starts. “It’s this assignment.”
Yassen squints at him suspiciously. “You need my help?”
Alex nods.
“...This better not be like the last assignment you needed my help with.”
“No, no, it’s nothing like my journalism assignment at all.”
Yassen leans over, and Alex hands him the stapled papers.
“Job shadowing?” Yassen’s voice still sounds skeptical, which isn’t very promising.
“It’s when you follow someone in their workplace, to see what their job’s like. You’re supposed to pick somewhere that’s related to your career goals, and I’ve been putting it off forever, since I can’t exactly ask Mrs. Jones to let me follow around a spy.”
“So you think I’ll let you follow me, a SCORPIA agent, around?”
“I mean, I’m already here. And you did say I wasn’t allowed out of your sight.”
Yassen is quiet as he slides the paper back towards Alex, folding his hands under his chin. There’s a spark of interest in the man’s eyes, and Alex can’t help but wonder if Yassen has actually been bored with his job.
“Fine. You can see what it’s like working for Mr. Heulfryn. And maybe next time, you really will refuse to do another job for MI6.”
“Great! Ok, first thing to fill out...Name of company.” Alex pencils in “SCORPIA”, only for Yassen to click his tongue at him.
“No. No mention of SCORPIA. We’re going to pretend this is a normal job.”
“A normal job.”
“Yes. Or you can find someone else to do this homework with, maybe your housekeeper? She’s a lawyer, correct?”
Alex scowls. Sitting in a cold castle in the middle of nowhere is loads better than being stuck in a law firm.
“Ok, fine. So what’s the name of this very normal company?”
“Solaris, a solar energy venture that aims to convert the entire world’s electricity use to a renewable source.”
“Huh,” Alex says, scribbling onto the paper, “that doesn’t sound so evil. What’re they actually doing?”
Yassen tilts his head and raises an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Worth a try —”
Yassen interrupts him, tapping his finger on the top of the paper. “Cross this out. I’m not an assassin.”
Underneath Solaris , below neat letters spelling out Yassen Gregorovich, the finger rests on “Employee’s position”. Alex scribbles out Assassin and writes Hitman next to it.
Said hitman crosses his arms. “If you’re not going to cooperate, little Alex, you’ll have to find something else to do. How do you feel about mopping floors?”
“Alright, alright! How would you describe your role here?”
“I’m a contractor. I work on logistics and security for Mr. Heulfryn.”
“Ok,” mutters Alex. “Let me just fill out the rest of this section here…”
The instructions that his English teacher, Ms. Eldritch, has provided describe the importance of conducting proper research into the company beforehand. Thankfully, Alex has plenty of prior knowledge about SCORPIA.
What type of company is this? Alex skims the choices (nonprofit, family business, government) before circling Large Corporation.
What is the company’s mission? That’s an easy one too, it’s right in the name, and he fills in: Sabotage, CORruPtion, Intelligence and Assassination .
Yassen coughs pointedly.
“Well, what else is their mission? Make money?”
“Of course. Just like any other business.”
Make money , writes Alex, before his pencil is snatched away. Generate revenue , Yassen scratches out.
“And? What’s our USP?” At Alex’s blank look, Yassen elaborates, “SCORPIA’s unique selling proposition — how do we generate revenue ?”
“...By killing people you don’t like? Actually, I’ve been wondering about something, do you still get paid even if you kill your boss? Like with Sayle and Cray and —”
“SCORPIA generates revenue by facilitating the flow of intelligence and information. Write that down.”
A sharp chime interrupts Yassen from going on a longer lecture on SCORPIA’s business goals. Alex stretches his arms over the desk, peeking at the man’s computer. A browser is opened in the background, with more than a dozen tabs open. One of them is titled “Best Cat Memes of the Decade.”
Alex snickers, and Yassen shoots him a glare as he swiftly clears the screen of any windows open.
“What?” Alex shrugs, leaning on his elbows. “I’m meant to be observing you!”
Yassen mutters something that sounds really quite ungrateful about meddling teenagers being in places they shouldn’t be. “What are you, a housecat? Bring your chair here and sit like a normal boy.”
“I’m not a normal boy, Yassen.”
“Yes, yes, we all know how special you are. Humour me, and pretend you’re an ordinary child.”
Alex rolls his chair over, settling to the left of the screen. Along with the expected sticky notes, pens and paperclips, there is a bright yellow paperweight. The smiling sun painted onto it grins eerily at Alex. Yassen clicks around and an email client pops up on the screen with an alarming number of notifications. There is one email in particular, which is tagged with a red flag, an orange exclamation mark, and titled “URGENT!!”.
“Now, the first thing you’ll probably do at any job is check your email. You should know how to manage your inbox, or it can impact your work.”
“...Yassen, you have more than a hundred unread emails.”
“Oh, don’t worry, hundred is a very low number. SCORPIA’s a busy place, this is just from the past couple days.” The assassin sorts them by importance, then starts scrolling all the way to the bottom, to the earliest unread email. The titles swipe past, and Alex catches messages about mandatory training, appointments, board meetings, and paperwork.
Yassen selects all of them. “Now, you don’t need any of these emails. Unless it’s marked urgent, there’s really no need to read them.”
Alex takes notes. No need to read emails unless they are marked urgent. He assumes they’ll be marked as read, to remove that alarming red circle that reads “198 new emails”.
“If they’re really important, someone will send you a follow up at some point.” Calmly, Yassen drags them all into the trash.
“You — you just deleted those!”
Yassen shrugs and takes a sip of tea. “I delete a lot of things.”
His eyes move back to the screen and he opens the remaining email with a soft click — RE: FWD: RE: URGENT: Y.G./HEULFRYN REQUEST #16.
“I should show you how to fill out forms, too. Have you had to do much paperwork for your employers?”
“Paperwork? I don’t think my missions are exactly on the books.”
Yassen hums thoughtfully as the attached PDF opens up in a new window. “Well, you see here — Mr. Heulfryn needed a special item for his demonstration, so I put in this request to have it secured and delivered here.”
“What’s he demonstrating?” Alex tries to keep his tone innocent, but knows he’s failed when Yassen squints at him. He busies himself with clicking his pencil and shuffling papers. “I mean, for the assignment.”
“Right. For the assignment. Why don’t you read over this form for me, for your assignment.”
The document is filled to the edges with tiny text and boxes everywhere. The text is in several different colours and there’s a list of comments on the side, marked with progress and dates. He can’t make much sense of it, but he does see locations, vendors, and a single item on the request list: a sunstone, one meter in diameter, and perfectly round.
It has never occurred to Alex that professional criminals and spies would have to fill out paperwork, and he wonders how much time Yassen spends filling out forms.
Next, Yassen shows him a complicated system for scheduling and delegating security tasks, like screening visitors, checking in on guards doing their rounds, and going through security checklists. Surprisingly, a large amount of these tasks are conducted through the aid of artificial intelligence, which explains why Alex has had some trouble escaping evil villain lairs recently.
“So the app predicts where the guards will need to go next, based on people coming and going into the building?” Alex has long since forgotten his notebook, and Yassen pushes it back towards him as he answers his question.
“Yes, and no. The technology is used to automate the process of alerting and diverting agents to predicted areas of suspicious activity, but it’s still a computer. If you — someone — were to be in a building using SCORPIA’s security technology, you — he — would simply need to create enough distractions over a period of time in a location that the system would begin to expect activity in that location, and divert the guards’ attention there. Additionally, the system tracks activity more intensely in less heavily guarded areas, so ironically, suspicious activity in areas with many agents is less likely to be flagged.”
This is an awful lot of information, and Alex is fairly certain it’s meant to be kept confidential.
“Why are you telling me all this?”
Yassen gestures to the paper on the desk. “I’m doing what you asked, telling you about my role in the company.”
“No really, aren’t you supposed to keep that secret? Especially from, what did you call me earlier, a meddlesome teenager?”
“We’re discussing technology,” Yassen says with a shrug, and spreads his hands in front of him. “If a certain meddlesome teenager is able to put that to use in case a very generous, kind, and caring SCORPIA operative isn’t there to hide him away in a tiny office, then, well…”
Alex stares at the man. “I think you might want to find a dictionary at some point, because generous, kind, and caring have a slightly different meaning than you think.”
Yassen’s response is cut short by a phone ringing from inside his jacket. He swipes to accept the call, and Alex strains his ears, trying to listen in. Unfortunately, Yassen has anticipated this, and he moves to the other side of the room, leaving Alex to swing his chair side to side. Through the small window, snow falls in heavy clumps from the sky, big gusts of winds pounding on the frail glass. Every now and then, the overhead lights flicker, but the computer and camera feeds remain steady. They’re most likely powered through a generator, he guesses.
Yassen strides back towards him, pocketing his tablet and powering off the computer. “Mr. Heulfryn needs me to check some details for the product launch. Come, you’ll be with me.”
Alex bounces out of the chair, excited to finally see some action and find out what’s going on in the ancient castle. He reaches for his bag, but a hand on his arm stops him.
“Leave the bag, we’ll collect it on our way back. You can bring your notebook if you’d like.”
As they make their way down the long corridor, Alex picks at the big woolen jumper. “So, what’re you going to tell Mr. Hell-fern?”
“Heulfryn. And tell him about what?”
“About me, obviously,” says Alex with a roll of his eyes.
“The truth, you’re doing an assignment on solar energy. It’s hard to believe, but we have had several employees bring their children for various reasons.”
“But I’m not your child.”
Yassen mutters under his breath. “You might as well be, the amount of times I’ve solved your problems.”
The corridor widens, the stonework intricately shaping arches through which Alex can see the courtyard he’d been brought through. Yassen leads him down a narrow set of stairs and through an antechamber that opens into a vast space. Alex imagines it might have been a throne room, once.
The stone floors have been covered in laminate, shining steel workbenches stand in rows, and bright white lamps shine in his eyes. Parts and machinery gleam on the tables, and workers in protective suits fiddle with all sorts of materials. There are small electronics, and large satellite dishes. In one corner, there are a trio of workers linking together a series of large solar panels.
In the middle of it all is a small, thin man directing a group of people clustered around a whiteboard covered in diagrams. Dark curls frame a triangular face topped with large, round spectacles. His hands move frantically, and he gives off the impression of a nervous owl.
“Ah,” says the man, clapping his hands together. “Mr. Gregorovich, come and have a look at this new panel.”
“Mr. Heulfryn.” Yassen nods at the man, and strides over. Alex follows.
“Oh, you have brought a guest! Hello!” Mr. Heulfryn’s words have the slightest Welsh lilt to them.
“Yes,” Yassen says quietly. “This is Alex. He’ll tell his teachers all about the benefits of the Solaris project.”
“Excellent! Perfect! Word of mouth, the best advertising you’ll ever have!”
The group of people has dispersed, and Yassen sidesteps one of the man’s wildly flailing hands. Alex takes his chance with the enthusiastic scientist.
“Er, Mr. Heulfryn, could you tell me a little bit more about the company, if you have some time?”
“Mr. Heulfryn is a very busy man, Alex,” Yassen says.
“Oh, Yassen, I am never too busy to nurture the young and growing minds of science! You see, er, Alan, was it?”
“Alex, sir.”
“Yes, yes, Alex. The Solaris project is so very close to my heart. You see, fourteen years ago, I was on holiday at this beautiful beach, a just gorgeous island. Pristine water, sparkling sand, amazing wildlife. I’d visited many times before. But that year was different.” Mr. Heulfryn shudders in disgust, eyes widening dramatically before continuing. Clearly, he has perfected the story through many retellings, and Alex wonders if this is the narrative behind the demonstration Yassen mentioned earlier, with the giant sunstone.
“The water was dark, and black with oil.” Mr. Heulfryn continues. “I couldn’t even dip my toes into the ocean without coming out slicked with grease. Of course, I immediately informed the authorities, but nothing came of it. The oil companies don’t care about a little old island, you see. That is when I decided, it was high time to make them pay, for what they did to my island, and for ruining my holiday. So what if there aren’t any cute penguins to clean up after a spill? They have a duty to keep our oceans clean!”
The Solaris head is livid, and as he gets angrier, the Welsh accent rolls into his words. “This is how I’ll make them pay, Alex.”
There’s a small pause, where Alex realises he’s meant to respond. He glances over to Yassen, who is busy smothering a yawn, as if he’s heard this story many, many times before.
“...by making solar panels?”
“These aren’t just any solar panels. These are Solaris panels, and they don’t go on anyone’s roof.” Mr. Heulfryn lets out a small chuckle. “What you’re looking at is just one piece of a much, much larger puzzle. These are solar panels meant to withstand the pressures of outer space!”
Alex blinks. “You’re sending them to space?”
“Indeed, we are! Modular panels will link up, one by one, to create the largest satellite known to man — and the sun will beam directly onto them. No need to wait for a sunny day or install machinery in the desert; they’ll always be running a full charge. All that energy, that power, will of course be transmitted straight here to our receiver.”
Here, Mr. Heulfryn spins around and gestures to the diagram behind him, of a large, rectangular machine.
“Can you really just zap electricity straight from space to earth?”
“Yes, yes, the same way radio waves travel to the space stations. And then, once everything’s in place, this extra energy will be sent straight to the power grid. It’ll be overloaded with so much extra energy that there will be no more need for any fossil fuel or energy companies in any major city across the globe…The entire world will run on solar power, and no one will ever use fossil fuels ever again. They’ll be scrambling to sell their shares as their stocks drop, the entire global economy will be transformed . No more will anyone flatter the leaders whose countries happen to have oil springs. No more will any islands be ruined by oil spills !”
Alex listens closely, but he’s having trouble connecting the dots. Isn’t solar power a good thing? What’s SCORPIA getting out of this? His curious look meets Yassen’s steady gaze, and he files that thought away to ask him later.
“Mr. Heulfryn,” Yassen interrupts. “You had called me to take a look at something important?”
Mr. Heulfryn, still caught in his daydream of destroying fossil fuel companies, nods absentmindedly, before taking off towards the back of the large hall. “Ah, yes. Yes, thank you for reminding me, Yassen.”
Yassen follows, and Alex scampers behind him like a gosling following a mother goose. They climb up two flights of stairs, and emerge onto the flat roof of the castle. Heavy stone parapets line the edges, in the middle of the space is a steel structure covered in some kind of plastic tarp.
Everything is covered in a soft layer of snow. Alex pulls his borrowed jumper closer, pulling the sleeves over his fingers. Wind whistles as it passes through the grooves and notches in the stones.
Mr. Heulfryn seems unaffected, the fire of revenge keeping him warm. He leads them into the structure, and Alex realises the plastic is thicker than it looked from the outside, and does a decent job of keeping the wind and snow out.
In the centre, the machine from the diagram stands in the flesh. Or, well, in the steel, or whatever metal they use for energy receiving machines.
“My scientists are refusing to come out here in the snowstorm,” Mr. Heulfryn calls out over the wind and the loud flapping of the thick plastic around them. “I need you to do the daily inspection, you have the checklist here. Just make sure everything’s clean and nothing’s missing.”
“Right.” Yassen says, with a plastered on smile. Mr. Heulfryn mistakes it for genuine joy at being in the middle of a snowstorm.
“Well, I’ll leave you boys to it!”
Alex turns to Yassen as the Welshman scurries away. His teeth have begun to chatter, but the Russian seems unaffected by the cold. Well, other than his nose slowly turning pink.
Alex peeks over the man’s shoulder at the clipboard Mr. Heulfryn had shoved at them. “Did he seriously just tell you to do all this in the middle of a blizzard? Isn’t that, like, against Health and Safety??”
“Alex, many of SCORPIA’s jobs wouldn’t pass Health and Safety regulations.” Yassen pauses, looking back at him. “Not much of MI6’s work would pass, either.”
Alex shoves his hands under his arms and stamps his feet, trying not to lose more body heat. Yassen watches him closely, gripping the pen strung to the clipboard. Alex tries to keep his face blank, but he’s sure his distress at being trapped in the cold for so long has seeped through onto his expression.
Yassen laughs. “There’s no need to look so stricken, little Alex. Let me teach you another thing about working as an agent — there are times, when your motives don’t align with the client’s. In those cases, we do what we know is best, even if the client doesn’t agree.”
The man flips through the pages, ticking off the various boxes on the checklist, before going to one side of the device and dusting it off with his sleeve — Alex is fairly certain that wasn’t what Mr. Heulfryn had in mind when he asked the equipment to be cleaned. Lastly, he signs and dates the page before hanging the clipboard back up on its little hook.
Alex suspects this isn’t the first time that checklist has been filled out in this manner. Yassen doesn’t seem to be concerned, and insists Alex note down the proper method of managing client expectations.
They take a different route back into the building — Yassen insists it isn’t because his method of client management risks an angry client. Alex’s fingers have thawed a little as they walk through the well-heated areas of the castle’s renovated wing, and he scribbles down observations about the work around him. He peeks into an open door on their way past, and sees dozens of uniformed workers busy at an assembly line. Now that he knows what Solaris is actually doing, he can make sense of the small black panels that pass from worker to worker.
Speaking of which, Mr. Heulfryn doesn’t exactly seem like the kinds of evil villains he’s had the misfortune to bump into.
“So,” he starts, and Yassen slows down to match his pace. “Mr. Heulfryn doesn’t seem evil enough for SCORPIA to be involved.”
“Doesn’t he?”
“I mean, he’s just trying to make the world a better place, isn’t he?”
“So was Damien Cray,” Yassen says quietly.
“Right, but his grand plan is to get rid of fossil fuels, not kill millions of people.”
Yassen shrugs. “Mr. Heulfryn is not a stranger to death. Why else would an assassin like me be in his employ?”
Alex stops short, and the other man turns back towards him, hands clasped behind his back in the shadowy passageway. “I thought you said your job here was logistics and security.”
“Sometimes security means eliminating threats.”
Alex takes a breath, reminding himself of who he is walking with, and that the Yassen he knows — the Yassen that holds enough fond memories of John Rider to bestow the same fondness to his son — is different from the Yassen that everyone else knows.
He takes a few steps, eyes on the stonework as he skips over cracks in the floor. “Okay, but lots of billionaires get rid of a few threats now and then. I kind of figured SCORPIA would be against getting to zero carbon emissions, you know, more chaos and destruction with climate change and all that.”
“Remember what I said SCORPIA’s mission was, earlier?”
“Er, to make money?”
“...yes. If the global economy will be turned upside down, don’t you think SCORPIA would want a piece of the new world order? Mr. Heulfryn stands to make a lot of money and SCORPIA is fully invested in making Solaris a successful project.”
Alex mulls this over. Economics is not his best subject, but there’s still something strange about a criminal organization backing an environmental project instead of a more peaceful group. How was SCORPIA persuaded to invest in something that activists everywhere are still begging companies and governments to take part in?
“You’re thinking very loudly, Alex.”
Alex shoots him a glare. “Are you a mind reader now?”
“Perhaps I am,” Yassen smiles. “If you’re wondering why Mr. Heulfryn asked SCORPIA to invest instead of any other organization, it’s because he’s a repeated client of ours. He knows we’ll get the job done.”
Yassen leads him into a small room full of packages and boxes of varying sizes. A small window lets in grayish light that spills onto a small workbench.
“Another important part of the job. Ensuring the safety of all shipments we receive.”
Alex whips out his notepad, flipping the page and writing in capital letters, “SHIPMENT SECURITY”.
Yassen selects a few different parcels and lays them out in a line on the little table. He picks up the first one, a simple brown envelope.
“Step one: inspect the package visually.” He turns it over slowly and looks closely at the seal.
“Step two: check for any noise or vibrations,” Yassen pauses to put his ear to the envelope. “This would be more of a concern for any larger parcels you receive. Step three: check the balance, is everything evenly weighted?”
This goes on for some time, as Yassen goes through a surprisingly detailed list. Alex is beginning to suspect this may be the man’s own way of making sure he knows how to keep himself safe, by identifying any suspicious mail he could receive at his home.
“So…shaking the box isn’t the right way to make sure it’s safe?”
“A little shaking is fine, but not enough to disturb the contents.”
By the time they circle back to the little security office, the sky is darkening into evening. Alex drops back into the rolling chair, dragging it to the window. The storm shows no sign of slowing, and he’s afraid he may be trapped in the castle overnight. Behind him, Yassen taps away at his computer.
He doesn’t know how long it’s been, when a soft hand gently shakes him awake.
“Hm?” Alex hums sleepily, rubbing his eyes open to see Yassen standing in front of him, the bookbag in his hands.
“The snow’s stopped.”
“Oh,” Alex says, turning to the window. It hasn’t quite become night yet, but in the floodlights of the castle fence, the snow sparkles magically. It’s breathtaking.
“Here,” Yassen hands him his bookbag, and then holds out the jacket the guard had hidden away that morning. “Come, I’ll take you home.”
Still half asleep, Alex puts on the jacket and takes the bag.
“Do you know where I live?” He mumbles.
The blond man ruffles Alex’s already mussed up hair. “Of course I do.”
Alex doesn’t remember much of the long drive back to London, fading in and out of sleep after his grand tour of the castle that day. It’s strange, that he feels content enough to close his eyes around such a dangerous man. But, that dangerous man has saved his life more than once.
Maybe Yassen was dangerous to other people, but not to Alex, not at all.
The car rolls to a stop, and Alex looks up to see they’ve arrived home.
“Alex,” Yassen says softly, patting his shoulder. “Oh, you’re awake.”
“Thanks Yassen. For driving me home, and for helping with my assignment, and — oh! I still have your jumper!”
“Keep it,” the older man laughs. “And make sure you don’t miss any more school in the new year. I’ll be checking to make sure you get good marks.”
Alex groans. “Great! You and Jack both.”
“Well, if you’re not excelling at school, I may have to put aside some time for another educational day like today. To get you caught up.”
“No, thank you! That will not be needed!” Alex clambers out of the car, and at the last moment, leans back in before closing the door.
“Um, I don’t know if assassins celebrate Christmas, but if you do, happy holidays!”
Yassen actually chuckles. “Happy Christmas, Alex.”
Alex watches as the black car slides away into the night. Later, after Jack scolds him and hugs him (at the same time, no less), Alex puts away his books and notes on his desk.
The job shadowing assignment is neatly folded into the smaller pocket of his bag, nestled against his phone. He unfolds it to see Yassen has marked up his answers, adding little details and crossing out “errors”. Clipped to the stack of papers is the form he’d completely forgotten about — Yassen has filled it out and signed it too.
A fake signature, probably, but still.
He pulls out his phone, too, and a little square of glossy paper falls out. Alex flips it over to see it’s a photo of him, looking around in the Solaris lab, notebook in hand. In Yassen’s writing, there’s a small caption — I promise your Christmas gift will be better than this .
Alex smiles, and tucks it away, looking forward to the weeks to come.