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Somewhere in Central London - 10th January, 1989
It was an ordinary day in the midst of a prematurely dying winter. Commendable, Cossack had mused, maybe even comparable to a date in late April where he was from. He could feel spring coming. But he had been taught never to assume such things - "Pervaya lastochka vesny ne delayet", one swallow doesn’t make a spring; just one of the many gems of wisdom gifted to him by his grandmother.
The world had a funny way of making you feel secure, then pulling the rug from under your feet.
For the past five, nearly six years, the world had kept him on his toes, throwing countless obstacles in his path, waiting with bated breath for the inevitable slip. Life was unpredictable. He knew that now.
One week prior.
Scorpia was known for being almost comically flashy in its ritualistic initiation behaviours. The board had sat at their uselessly flamboyant table and presented ideas for his first major assignment.
"We are all in agreement that it shall somehow involve the Riders?" Mr. Mikato, a burly black man with narrow eyes all but bellowed.
Dr. Three, the renowned psychologist nodded, "Oh yes... Involving and possibly making him harm a Rider will sever away his last inhibitions. If he can find it in himself to betray someone he saw so dear, he will completely be ours."
The back and forth of the two board members had been watched by the others as if it was a mildly interesting ping-pong match, not a matter of kidnap.
The widow, Julia Rothman, as always, sat listless and enigmatic, but the board knew better.
She had fooled many a man with her falsely relaxed mannerisms - however she was in the presence of the most polished criminal minds; they easily saw straight through her. After all, they had minds just as twisted as hers.
Yassen Gregorovich sat opposite her, straight as a cane, bravely holding eye-contact with Rothman. He had already come far, he had bloomed under their resources and tuition, like a particularly sinister flower in spring. Nothing hinted at his humble origins, he was no longer the country bumpkin that the widow had a soft spot for.
"I want you to bring me Alex Rider, Cossack," Julia murmured slowly, "Bring me the boy."
The board stared down at her in interest. Targeting a child. How deliciously ruthless. How quintessentially Julia Rothman.
Cossack knew better than to question her, but mentally, he did. She had already exacted revenge on the Rider family, tearing it in neat halves.
Two people dead, two people alive.
But she wasn't done, he realised. She was still enraged that she had fallen victim to his tricks. John Rider, the great maverick. Superior to all, Cossack thought bitterly.
And perhaps she wanted to turn Alex into an agent, the thing he would've hated most for his son to become. A final, monumental "fuck you" to the double agent.
Yassen pretended to consider. He fooled nobody, not even himself. There was no question. He either had to do it, or he died. He was past caring about other people anyway.
"I understand."
"Good. You have until the boy's second birthday. You are dismissed. Leave as soon as possible."
He nodded, and turned his back to them at the last possible moment, coaxing a sardonic smile from a few members.
Somewhere in central London, present date
Cossack set bugs all around his hotel room, then straightened and found the key card, taking both plastic slips. Since he had assassinated his old master, he became neurotic about security. He placed his suitcase at an exact angle, positioned it so it hung off the table by four centimetres, and put a hair between the teeth of the zip. If it wasn't there, he'd know his bag had been opened, therefore his room searched. The oldest trick in the book.
Daily, he allowed some time to acquaint himself with the surroundings of the Rider house. The back of the house was not guarded by any means, no security cameras or microphones of any type. Ian Rider left the house at roughly 8:15 every morning, and returned at 17:35 on average, giving him about 9 hours on the day he chose. He left his infant nephew in the care of a nanny.
Alex's nanny was an elderly lady, named Sylvia, as he had heard. She was a burly lady, with shoulders possible twice as wide as his and a doughy benign face that was easily forgettable. At 9:00, 12:30 and 15:00 she fed Alex with baby foods and without fail, a glass of milk. The label stated it was whole milk. The woman used different milk for her tea, semi-skimmed. She preferred less fat.
Sylvia went on walks with Alex just after lunch, often to a pond roughly half a mile away. A strong woman for her age. He'd make sure not to cross her. At around 16:00 she set Alex down for a nap after changing his diaper and did not disturb him. The perfect window.
This was the information he'd gathered in the first two weeks. Through a cut-out, he untraceably sourced midazolam pills, a powerful water-soluble sedative, under the pretense of aggressive prolonged cluster seizures.
A 5mg dose was enough to incapacitate the child while still being safe.
Cossack had carefully chosen a date when the woman was out with the boy to crush a tablet and dissolve it in the whole milk, a heavily water-based solution with a hint of lipid.
Interestingly, milk had recently gained interest as a drug delivery system due to its inherent ability to dissole poor water-soluble drugs. He shook the milk once for good measure, returned it and retreated from whence he came to watch from afar again until it was time.
They returned at about 14:00 and for an hour they played "enrichment" games, puzzles and colour coded colouring with crayons that had evidently seen better days.
The tips were blunted with use, some lay in halves with the grip the boy had.
Was he really going to steal this child from his home for his bosses? He looked so happy and innocent. It tugged at his heartstrings.
He smothered that thought before it could cause any trouble - he was meant to be sadistic and ruthless. Mourning a child's loss of innocence was the worst thing he could do.
His train of thought was interrupted at around 15:30, when Sylvia appeared at the door of Alex's room, holding him to her rather fleshy bosom before setting him down on the cot.
She turned her back to him and left the room.
Cossack counted to one hundred, then got out from his hiding place and took the route he had scrutinised and checked over hundreds of times to scale the house and push open the heavy window.
The baby was spread eagled in the cot, a little trickle of drool inching its way down his chin and onto his pillow. How young he looked.
Cossack had wondered how all criminals and corrupt law enforcers could have started like this. He couldn't have imagined Brendan Chase, or Levi Kroll as a little "bundle of joy", about the size of a watermelon and about as useful as one too.
He didn't have time for such thoughts. Cossack bundled up the child in swaddling blankets and took his route back to his car, avoiding all cameras and nosy neighbours, having closed and wiped down the window handle to avoid his fingerprint being taken.
Ten hours later - British Airlines LGW to VCE
Being airborne had never truly lost its allure to Yassen Gregorovich. It reminded him of his daydreams back in his village, where he looked up at passing planes longingly, until the sun dipped to the horizon, blue fading into lilacs and pinks. He was riding a giant metal bird, reminding himself that humanity wasn't as backwards as he thought. Working with the worst people with the darkest beliefs could make you think so. But here, he cruised silently, bouncing a warm baby in his lap, his grip slackening slightly.
Alex had woken three hours ago, but had still moved sluggishly until about the last hour.
Yassen had just been dropping off to sleep when the infernal child decided to turn into a foghorn, wailing like a perfect soprano, or perhaps a banshee in the middle of a war ground.
The dreaded judgemental stares had flayed him from every direction. Irked travellers who had been peacefully trying to sleep on the plane had began to tut at him.
Yassen froze. He had absolutely no experience in childcare, apart from a three hour period where he babysat Babulia Yuliia's grandson back in his village for twenty kopecks, just enough to buy a handful of the famed Alyonka pralines. Frankly, he was surprised they found themselves in a paltry village shop, at least a hundred miles from the nearest city.
But that child was four, and potty trained. This wailing thing was hardly two and could not even stand.
Yassen flicked feverishly through the book he brought, "How to take care of a baby" and found the pages that listed common reasons for crying.
Hungry... probably not. Yassen had bought a jar of strangely appetisingly fragrant applesauce and fed Alex before they took off. Sleepy... he'd be damned if the boy was. Alex had been sedated for several hours. In need of a diaper change? Probably.
Come to think of it, he had been wondering why the child was heavier than normal, and then noticed an alarming lump and sag to his trousers, with a slight smell.
Shit.
He picked up Alex, brought a bag with the books, wipes, talcum powder and two diapers, then shimmied past the disgruntled passengers beside him to the aisle, murmuring apologies, while his cramped legs brought him in hobbling steps to the toilets, which were, of fucking course, occupied.
Alex was relentless in his wailing, and Yassen bouncing him and cooing to him did jackshit.
He ignored the disdainful glares still directed at him, and sighed in relief when the woman left the toilet.
The toilet stunk of a dehydrated person's piss and he wrinkled his nose, pulling down the baby changing table to set Alex on while he fumbled to drag off the evidently slightly too tight jumpsuit.
He peeled away the diaper and retched with his mouth closed. He bundled up the biohazard and tossed it at the bin, before wiping Alex's backside and groin before patting him with talcum powder to prevent diaper rash.
The baby had ceased his fussing and burbled, reaching up his hands to grab Yassen's nose, evidently fascinated by the irregular shape. Yassen exhaled. Alex did not have the right to act so cute after bawling unabashedly.
Yassen reached for a diaper, deciding to freehand it, mistakenly thinking it would be easy.
He ended up tying something that looked more like an avant-garde surrealist sculpture symbolising political struggle or some equally bullshitting adjacent.
Yassen swore and took it off, dumping it into the same bin.
He had a look in the contents page of the book and thankfully, there were pages of diagrams in diaper usage. Thank God for parenting manuals.
By the time he exited the toilet with a placid and already half asleep baby, whose cheeks were red from the exertion it took to cry so loudly, they were no longer the spectacle victim to the cabin's disapproval.
An inebriated man stood on his seat and began lecturing the other passengers about the inherently unjust system that was capitalism, in his words, the love child of Jorge Ubico y Castañeda and Satan. He earned the tuts and stares of other people and probably the inspiration of some pretentious radicals.
He fought off two flight attendants, and this commotion meant Yassen and Alex could sit down again undisturbed and ignored by the other passengers in favour of watching the brawling man.
The old lady beside him smiled and gestured to Alex, "Your son is adorable!"
Yassen smiled and thanked her insincerely. She had been one of the people irritated at Alex's caterwauling. Strange how people only liked babies when they weren't being loud or "expressing themselves". Babies showing their discomfort was "inconvenient". He seriously thought people needed to be more patient. But he understood her current sentiment. The slightly flushed energetic child in his arms was adorable.
This ordeal could've been easily avoided. Why did SCORPIA have to ask him to kidnap a non-potty trained toddler?