fredbassett

Title : Information Exchange
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Alex Rider
Rating : 15
Characters : Ian Rider/Yassen Gregorovitch
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Summary : Nothing is ever simple in the murky world of espionage.
A/N : 1) Follows I Spy and Friends or Enemies. 2) Belated birthday present for the lovely

bigtitch.

“Just a simple information exchange?” Ian raised a sceptical eyebrow. Nothing was ever simple where his employers were concerned.

Mrs Jones nodded.

“Back up?”

“Won’t be needed.” Blunt barely looked up from the reports on his desk. The dismissal in his voice was clear. “Everything you need is in your briefing material. It’s a simple job, Ian.”

***

Simple, yeah, right. Nothing that involved Yassen Gregorovich was ever simple.

“Yas.”

“Ian.”

“This was meant to be a simple job.”

“What makes you think it isn’t?”

“The fact that you’re here?”

Yassen looked faintly amused. “Drink?”

“Exchange first, drink later.”

“Business before pleasure. How commendably professional.”

Ian held out his left hand. The one that wasn’t holding a gun. “After you.”

“Ah, the famed British politeness. So, the correct etiquette dictates that I now say, no, after you, dear boy, I believe” Yassen’s exaggerated accent wouldn’t have been out of place on the playing fields of Eaton or at a Bullingdon Club dinner.

“Stop taking the piss, Yas. It’s been a long month. I’m tired and I need that drink.”

“You must be tired. You’re getting sloppy in your old age, Ian.”

Ian raised one eyebrow, even though in the semi-darkness of a grimy Paris backstreet the gesture was probably a waste of effort.

“You were followed and don’t appear to have noticed. Your standards are slipping.”

“Your lot, mine or the French?”

“I am freelancing. Scorpia are paying handsomely for my services. They are too money conscious at the moment to double their expenses by checking up on me. Paying the French to look the other way didn’t come cheap, either, so we can discount them. I can assure you I was not followed.”

In a blur of movement almost too fast for the eye to follow, Yassen drew a concealed weapon and fired. For a heartbeat, Ian fully expected to die then when he realised his heart was still beating, albeit rather faster, then reaction kicked in and he dived to one side, taking cover in a doorway. Yassen fired another shot in quick succession, not bothering to shift position.

“This is down to your lot,” the contract killer said in the sudden silence that followed the explosive burst of violence. “One of them is a contractor Six have used before. Your employers appear to want me rather than the information I have been instructed to trade. Scorpia’s analysts concluded that the specific request for me as a courier was likely to have some other significance. I expected better from you, Ian.”

Ian’s eyes widened involuntarily. “I had no part in this. I wasn’t even told you were the courier.”

“You expect me to believe you?”

“Yes.”

Yassen sighed. “And I do believe you. Your employer’s cavalier attitude to your safety never ceases to amaze me. They should have foreseen the possibility of their operation being compromised by their contractor’s execrable tradecraft, and in those circumstances. the most likely result would be me taking retaliatory action against you,”

Ian was startled to realise that the prospect of Yassen killing him hadn’t really occurred to him until the moment the contract killer had first drawn his weapon and fired. He’d grown used to the strange détente that had grown up between them.

The fact that they were calmly carrying on a conversation in a street with pools of blood spreading around two very dead men spoke volumes for the neighbourhood chosen for the so-called information exchange. Even with a suppressor, the noise from Yassen’s Grach was bound to have attracted someone’s attention, but all the shutters remained firmly closed.

Yassen calmly returned his weapon to a shoulder rig under his black leather jacket. “Shall we conduct the trade?”

Ian stared at the bodies sprawled out on the ground. Only one had a weapon in his hand. The other had died before he had even managed to draw his gun. Going up against one of the world’s foremost assassins without a weapon in hand was not a mistake than most people lived to make twice. He didn’t recognise either of the men. Local labour, under contract through several cut-offs so they couldn’t be connected to British intelligence, unless of course you had Scorpia’s extensive database and Yassen Gregorovich’s almost eidetic memory.

He took a USB stick out of his pocket and tossed it to the Russian. “I doubt you’ll find anything of value on there, not if what Blunt really wanted was you.”

“If he wanted me that badly, he could have just sent a friend request on Facebook like a normal person.”

“I’m not sure you’re his type.”

“Really?” Yassen threw an equally small USB drive to Ian, who caught it and tucked it away in an inside pocket. “How fortunate for me. However, I’d keep your nephew away from him, if I were you. Blunt has an unsavoury reputation.”

Ian forced himself not to rise to the bait, although he filed the jibe away for further investigation. Yassen’s smile was brittle with malice. Ian wasn’t sure if it was directed at him or Blunt. He hoped the latter. Earning Yassen Gregorovich’s disapproval was not a ticket to a long and happy life.

He threw his own USB stick to the Russian. “Are we done?”

Yassen shrugged. “You have what you came for. So have I. I’d say we’re done. Unless you want that drink now?”

What Ian really wanted was enough alcohol to drive the memory of two dead men and his boss’ betrayal from his mind. What he was likely to get instead was an anonymous hotel room close to the Gard du Nord and an early morning train to London. Being an MI6 operator was about as glamorous as cleaning toilets for a living, but cleaning toilets probably involved dealing with marginally less shit.

Ian’s eyes were drawn to a movement in the shadows behind Yassen. Before he could react, Ian heard the soft phut of a suppressed handgun and a sharp intake of breath from Yassen as the assassin dived for cover behind an overflowing bin, drawing his own weapon.

Ian had the advantage; he was facing the right way and had seen the movement a fraction of a second before Yassen’s assailant squeezed the trigger. The heavy clouds parted allowing watery grey light to cut through the darkness of the backstreet. Ian recognised the gunman; a young operator Blunt had poached from Five with promises of foreign travel and a more interesting job than running constant 24-hour surveillance operations on homegrown jihadists.

“Stand down!” Ian barked.

The man – Ashby – shifted his aim, bringing the muzzle of his Browning hi-power to bear on Ian. The look in his eyes and the fractional tightening of his finger on the trigger were enough of a tell. Ian had no intention of leaving Alex alone in the world just because some little shit wanted promotion and didn’t care who he killed to get it. His bullet took Ashby in the head, spraying blood and brains over the spray-painted brickwork of a boarded-up house. The young operator died without even understanding the mistake he’d made. The kid should have spent long practising his poker face. And he should have aimed better in the first place and not hesitated when he’d turned his gun on a fellow agent.

Ian sprinted to the man’s side checking for signs of life. A second bullet wouldn’t be needed.

The alley Ashby had appeared from was empty. The most recent gunshots hadn’t attracted any more attention that the earlier ones.

Ian stared down at the bloody ruin of the young man’s face wondering if he’d known that Blunt had almost certainly sent him on a suicide mission. If Ian hadn’t taken the shot, Yassen would have done. Ashby would have been dead either way. He turned away. Hanging around would be foolish in the extreme, despite the apathy of the absentee locals.

“Yas?”

“You didn’t have to take the shot,” Yassen commented. “He was a dead man walking.”

“He was pointing a gun at me and was heartbeat away from pulling the trigger. I gave him fair warning.”

“You ordered him to stand down. That’s not quite the same as ‘drop the fucking gun or I’ll blow your head apart’. Perhaps he’d been brought up in politer company than us?”

“He had no intention of standing down. But if I’ve offended your delicate sensibilities, we can discuss semantics later. Where did he hit you?

“Left side. Through and through.”

“Unfortunate but could have been a lot worse. Maybe you’re getting sloppy in your old age as well. Come on, I’ll get you to hospital.

“No. You’ll go to your hotel room and forget this ever happened. You’ve got what you came for and as far as your report is concerned, you left before any of this happened.”

“Blunt sent operators to kill us both. That’s hard to forget – or forgive.”

“Looks that way. What have you done to piss him off?”

“I imagine it has something to do with you.”

Yassen pushed himself away from the wall, taking an unsteady step, then a stronger one. “Pick up your casing and find the bullet that killed him, My weapon’s clean, but I presume they have the details of yours.”

In the darkness, Ian rolled his eyes. “I might not bank pay cheques the size of yours but I’m not that fucking green. The gun’s a burner. I’ll drop it in a drain. Where do you want to go?”

Yassen looked thoughtful for a moment then came to a decision. “I’ve got a safe house on Montmartre.”

“Long way with a bullet hole in your side.”

“Yes. That’s why I told you. I’d rather not collapse en route and I might be somewhat conspicuous on public transport like this.”

“How much blood are you losing?”

“More than I’d like.”

Yassen started walking and didn’t look back to see if Ian was following.

Without even a glance at the former colleague who had been ready to kill him, Ian walked after a Russian assassin who meant more to him that he was prepared to admit – even to himself.

At the first tabac they passed. Ian bought a bottle of water and half a bottle of whisky for cash then tugged Yassen sideways into a piss-soaked alley where he pulled up the bloody sweater and shirt under the ruined jacket. He quickly irrigated the twin holes in the killer’s flesh with the water, then took off his own shirt, tore it in half and used it to pack the wounds, securing it in place with the sleeves. He splashed a liberal quantity of whisky over Yassen, making him smell like a Parisian gutter rat then insisted on him drinking what was left. In retaliation, Yassen described him – in Russian – as a pustulent dewdrop on the end of a dog’s dick. Ian gave him seven out of ten for inventiveness and filed the insult away for future reference.

A kilometre later he dealt with the burner gun, spraying it thoroughly from a small container of bleach before dropping the weapon and the bleach into a foul sewer. It was unlikely to be found, and even if it was, there was nothing to connect the pistol to him.

By the time they reached the rue Saint-Éleuthère, Yassen’s normally pale face was grey from an unhealthy combination of pain and blood loss and he was leaning heavily on Ian

The safehouse turned out to be a ground floor apartment in one of Paris’ most exclusive and expensive districts with stunning views over the city from the hill topped by the enormous basilica of Sacre Coeur. They accessed he white painted building through a discreet gate set into a wall that led to a private, well-maintained garden. The security was modest but effective, with anonymity as much of a protection as the security locks and alarms. Once in the safety of a spacious hallway containing possibly the largest aspidistra that Ian had ever seen – including the monstrous one that had taken up an entire corner of his grandmother’s dining room – Yassen slumped against the wall and murmured his thanks.

“We’re not done yet. Where’s your bathroom?”

“Ensuite in the bedroom; second door on the left.”

Getting Yassen the final few metres wasn’t easy. The haul up the hill had taken the last of the contract killer’s strength. His breathing was shallow, and his clothes were soaked with blood. Ian knew from bitter experience that a little blood went a long way, but he didn’t like the clammy, waxy feel to Yassen’s skin. The man was shivering, and his eyes had lost focus.

This wasn’t the fucking way the night was meant to have ended. Damn Blunt and his suspicions to hell.

Ian got Yassen onto the edge of an impressively large roll-top bath in a tasteful, white-tiled bathroom. He kicked the pristine white bathmat to one side. No point in wrecking that.

“Come on, sunshine, let the dog see the rabbit.”

Yassen stared up at him blinking owlishly as Ian slipped the jacket off his shoulders, unfastened a cleverly fashioned and perfectly fitted rig containing a Grach, a Glock 17 and a pair of perfectly balanced throwing knives, then produced a small, sharp knife of his own and proceeded to cut off the bloodied black sweater and cotton shirt. Underneath, the improvised bandage was soaked red but clung to Yassen’s flesh in a way that told Ian the blood had started to dry. That was a good sign.

The entry wound was, as expected, small and almost neat. The exit wound was slightly larger and more ragged around the edges, but still a relatively neat through and through, missing any organs. As far as Ian could gauge, the blood loss hadn’t tipped over into the category of dangerous, but an hour’s walk hadn’t exactly been ideal. He needed to get the wound properly cleaned, remove any fibres that had been driven into Yassen’s flesh, stitch up the entry wound and properly pack the exit wound.

But first things first.

“Where do you keep your painkillers?”

“Bathroom cabinet.”

“Decent alcohol?”

“Kitchen cupboard.”

“First aid kit?”

Yassen nodded to the bathroom cabinet. His lips had started to take on a faint bluish tinge.

Ian quickly gathered up what he needed and boiled a kettle to sterilise a long, curved needle and a pair of fine-nosed tweezers and make a hot drink from brandy, honey and sugar. Yassen swallowed the strongest painkillers in the medical kit without objection and cradled the mug in his hands while Ian set to work cleaning, checking and stitching the entry wound. Only the occasional sharp intake of breath bore witness to the contract killer’s pain.

“You can yell, if you want. I won’t take the piss.”

“Kind of you, but I’ll pass on that opportunity. I know how you British shy away from emotion.”

As Ian worked, Yassen drank the remainder of the hot brandy. His hands were steadier than Ian would have believed possible for a man who’d walked for an hour across Paris with a gunshot wound. Ian helped him strip off the rest of his clothes then cleaned up the bloodstains with a warm cloth, noting the patchwork of old scars on Yassen’s skin, the very visible reminder of too many years in a dirty, dangerous business. Ian’s body was much the same, something he did his best to conceal from his nephew.

Ian rested his hand lightly on Yassen’s naked shoulder. “How do you feel?”

“Like someone with a gunshot wound in their side who’s just walked several miles across Paris avoiding CCTV cameras.”

“You Russians are a literal minded people.”

“Don’t stereotype.”

“Can you stand?”

“Probably.”

Ian held his arm out and Yassen used it to steady himself as he walked over to his bed and settled down, naked, under a soft duvet.

“This is more than just a safe house, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It’s the apartment I bought with the money from the first job I undertook after I paid off my exclusive contract with Scorpia.”

Ian whistled through his teeth. “Who the hell did you have to kill to afford this?”

“Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

“You’re right, I don’t.” Despite the stark reminder that the man Ian had just helped was one of the world’s top assassins, he brushed the backs of his fingertips gently across Yassen’s forehead, checking his temperature.

The man’s skin was cool to the touch, but no longer unpleasantly clammy.

“I’ll get you some water. You need to keep your fluid intake up. Food?”

Yassen shook his head. “I ate before our meeting, but I would certainly appreciate some water.”

Ian found a bottle of sparkling spring water in the fridge and watched while Yassen drank two full glasses. He nodded approvingly and set the bottle down on the bedside table. “Can I get you anything else?”

For a fraction of a second, Yassen looked tired and uncertain. “Your former colleague was about to kill you. What makes you think it’s safe to return to MI6?”

“I’m their best agent.”

“You indicated Blunt thinks you’re compromised.”

Ian shrugged. “Blunt’s a pragmatist. He wanted you and probably gave the impression – deniable, of course – that he didn’t care how the objective was achieved. I would simply have been unfortunate collateral damage.”

“There is another possibility.”

Ian raised one eyebrow.

“It might have been a test of your loyalty. If Blunt had seriously hoped to take me alive, he would have sent more than two local goons and one rookie operator barely out of short trousers.”

“It might have been. In which case I’ve probably failed. Perhaps it’s time I reconsidered my career choices.” He paused then added, “What did you mean about keeping Alex away from him?”

“As I said, the man has an unsavoury reputation.”

“The man is a single-minded cunt who’d sell his own mother as a sex worker if he thought he could gain a marginal advantage from it.”

“Is that an example of the noble art of British understatement?”

“Yes.” Ian sat down on the edge of the bed and took a mouthful of water from the same glass Yassen had been using. It felt strangely intimate. “Have you got a spare room?”

“There are two other bedrooms. Why?”

“I can’t be arsed to walk to a crummy Novotel near the Gard du Nord.”

Yassen glanced pointedly at the other side of the king-sized bed.

“I didn’t like to presume.”

“What are you like at giving pills to cats? Andromache is on another course of steroids.”

“I’d rather water your plants.”

“Madame Delaron will lend you her welding gloves.

“I’m allergic to cats.”

“Unfortunate.”

Ian sighed. “You’re fucking serious, aren’t you?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll definitely need welding gloves.”

“Naturally.”

“Do you mind if I use your shower?”

“Make yourself at home. Help yourself to any clothes you need. Yours seem to have acquired some blood.”

“I wasn’t thinking of dressing for bed, but yes, clothes would be appreciated.”

Half an hour later, Ian was sprawled out in bed next to Yassen, sipping an extremely pleasant Calvados, and trying to dredge up some regret for ending the life of a young colleague.

“You shortened his life by approximately three seconds,” Yassen said quietly.

“I’m more bothered by the fact that I’m not bothered.”

“It’s done. There’s no point in being bothered by it. You can’t change the past.”

“Did my brother teach you that?”

“He taught me many things. Yes, that was one of them. Now go to sleep, Ian. You’ll need your strength for dealing with Andromache.”

“Are you in danger of expiring from blood loss?”

“No.”

“Good.” Ian swallowed the last mouthful of Calvados, then leaned over to press a soft kiss to Yaseen’s lips. “Wake me if you need more painkillers. And by the way, who the fuck calls a cat Andromache?”

“A professor of ancient Greek.”

**

Ian came awake the moment he felt Yassen stir next to him.

The contract killer had slept for just over four hours, with minimal movement and absolutely no snoring or drooling. There were times when the man’s behaviour verged on unnatural and sleeping peacefully with a gunshot wound to his side was definitely one of those times.

His face was relaxed, the shadows under his eyes reduced now to no more than light smudges.

“Painkillers?” Ian asked softly.

“You say the very nicest things.”

“I must have been practising.” He reached for the bottle of tablets he’d left by the bed and handed them to Yassen along with a bottle of water.

“Thank you.” Yassen hesitated, then, “Thank you for everything. You could have left me last night.”

“I could have done, yes, but you know me better than that, don’t you?”

Yassen’s voice was soft as he murmured, “Yes. And if you’re not careful, that spark of kindness that your employers haven’t yet managed to extinguish will get you killed one of these days.”

“By you?”

Yassen reached up to run his fingers through Ian’s hair and drew him close enough that he could feel the warmth of the killer’s breath on his cheek as he gently kissed the stubble on Ian’s jaw. “Not by me. I promise you that, my friend.”

And to his surprise, Ian believed him.

He knew friend was not a word Yassen Gregorovich would use lightly.