Disclaimer: I don't own Alex Rider. Just as well, else all Alex Rider fans would have had my head for the length of time this chapter has taken.

A/N: I owe you all a BIG apology. This chapter has taken unacceptably long. I have been in contact with a few of you to tell you the next update would be in June 2014. It's a little earlier than that, but still horrendously late. I finished my History degree and switched to Law. Busiest I have ever been. But some observations before I begin:

First, I'd like to remind you all that this takes place post-Snakehead. Crocodile Tears and Scorpia Rising disregarded.

Second, I'm hoping that in the space of three years (gulp) my writing can only have got better, and that subsequently this chapter won't be a disappointment. I might be a bit rusty as I get back into the swing of this story, though.

Third, this chapter is dedicated to 'A kind reviewer', who has remained mysteriously anonymous, but left me so many wonderful and kind reviews over the space of a few days in March that it finally gave me the kick up the backside I needed to finish this. A further thanks to everyone who has stuck with me in my absence.

Chapter Seventeen

The Ambassador's car arrived at midday precisely.

It was a black Lincoln, and looked much the same as other government cars. Alex saw it arrive through the window from his seat in the kitchen, but he didn't move. Ben stared at him for several seconds before he got up to open the front door himself.

Quiet words were exchanged between Ben and the chauffeur, but Alex wasn't really listening. His gaze moved from the black Lincoln to his duffle bag waiting by the kitchen door. He hadn't packed much else other than what Smithers had given him. He had his iPod and a few books. Some homework, to keep up pretences. As though it was certain he'd come back.

He couldn't remember ever feeling quite so pessimistic about a mission before.

"Ready to go?" Ben appeared in the kitchen again. Alex stood up by way of response, rolling up the sleeves of his dark grey hoodie and picking up the bag. Ben put a hand on his shoulder.

"I expect I'll see you in a few days, but we won't be able to speak. I'll keep a lookout, though." He paused. "I made Wolf a promise – that I'd keep you safe. I'll do everything in my power to keep that promise."

Alex wanted to say, I can take care of myself. But with the certainty of kidnap hanging over him, he wasn't so sure. Nonetheless, his throat was stuck, so he found himself unable to even voice his thanks. There were a few seconds of silence as Alex and Ben stared at one another, the emptiness conveying that there was nothing to say. Eventually Ben's hand dropped from Alex's shoulder.

"Just be careful," he muttered, and moved aside so Alex could get out of the kitchen. Standing in the hall was the chauffeur, dressed smartly with a professionally neutral expression. His eyes betrayed some surprise as he looked Alex up and down – clearly he hadn't been expecting a teenager – but he merely nodded and took Alex's bag from him, and then walked away to the Lincoln. Alex turned back to look at Ben.

"Good luck," the man said, and Alex supposed it was all he could say under the circumstances. He nodded, keeping silent, and followed the chauffeur out to the car.

Ben watched him go with a mixture of dread and guilt. He would do everything in his power to rescue Alex promptly, but he'd heard in horrific detail how terribly Snake had been treated in captivity, and he was afraid what would happen even in the space of 24 hours. He knew, deep down, that if this plan worked, Alex would only be kidnapped to be used as blackmail, and it wasn't therefore in the enemy's interests that he was hurt – initially, at least. But Ben still felt uneasy. It was a risky plan. So many things could go wrong; the British Government knew that Alex wasn't the ambassador's son, and was unlikely to cooperate with any demands. Ben's team might not find Alex in time. The enemy might discover who Alex really was.

The Lincoln's engine started up. Ben could see Alex sitting in the back seat, his head slightly bowed, his fair hair falling into his eyes. Then the teenager looked up, out of the window, at Ben. It'll be OK, Ben tried to tell him, but Alex's eyes looked dead and serious, as though he'd accepted the worst possible scenario. Ben let out an involuntary shiver.

Alex was just a child. How could Blunt and Jones let this happen?

He could answer that himself – had seen their ruthlessness, especially Blunt's, enough times. It was somehow different, though, when it was directed at adults, who had made their own choices, who had known what they were signing up for when they joined MI6. Ben's currently inflated bank balance (somehow his spending had yet to adjust to his new pay packet) was testament to how that ruthlessness was justified when it came to fully-fledged agents.

When it came to Alex, it was exploitation, pure and simple. Wasn't Ben condoning it by his agreement to this ludicrous plan?

He watched the Lincoln roll down the street and around the corner, before he turned abruptly away.

Maybe he was beginning to understand why Jack Starbright had left.

"Come on, you can do better than that! Where do you think you are: prep school? You're in the SAS, so act like it!"

Wolf gritted his teeth as he reloaded his rifle, straightening up as he realised the Sergeant was still glaring at him. Next to Wolf, Eagle fired, his bullet finding its target perfectly, matching the boards of their fellow unit members. Wolf glanced back uneasily at his own board. The bullets were scattered everywhere – a few had come close, but the others were all over the place.

He could do better. He'd been the best shooter in their cohort.

But today he felt unfocused, his concentration skittish: he was finding it difficult to grasp any thought in particular. As he raised the rifle to take aim, almost involuntarily his mind jumped to the mobile phone, currently stashed with his razor in the cabin.

God Almighty, he hoped that K Unit's cabin wasn't subjected to an inspection that day. Maybe he should have kept it on his person.

Maybe he should have given it in.

"What are you waiting for, solider? You never have all day to line up your shot!"

Boy, didn't Wolf know it. A split second's hesitation the French mountains had cost him dearly last year.

Inevitably, the thought of France unleashed a sharp, mental image of Cub's face, just as Wolf fired. His bullet missed the target board completely.

"AGAIN!" the Sergeant roared. Wolf didn't flinch: did as he was told. But he had to concentrate. The target's Tulip Jones, he thought. The target's…Snake's captors. The target's –

His aim was deadly for the first time that day, finding the centre of the board. Gritting his teeth once more, Wolf let out a stream of bullets, one after the other, that landed on top of one another, finally having found their true destination. Slowly, he lowered the rifle, his mouth set in a grim line. He'd never shot in anger before. The desire to be the best – or circumstances of pure necessity, in the field – had always driven him. He was unnerved.

"You'll report to my office after this, Wolf," the Sergeant said, and walked away. Wolf watched him go, his hand clenching around the weapon in his hand. His expression had betrayed him, he knew. He wasn't a bloody spy, like Fox or Cub. He had never mastered the blank expression they seemed to share whenever it suited them.

His team mates had clearly noticed his distraction, and the Sergeant's dissatisfaction, though he got nothing more than a flicker of a glance from Eagle alone. They all knew better than to say anything. Even Jackal.

Involuntarily, Wolf's gaze slid from his rifle, which he was reloading, to Jackal, who was on his left. His team mate had not said a word to him all day, regarding him with cool indifference. It made Wolf's blood boil. He wanted nothing more than to take his team mate by the shoulders and shake him until he rattled. He wanted answers. What was so important you had to risk getting binned for a mobile phone? Why were you talking about Cub? Why are you different from the rest of us?

The last one was slightly unfair, perhaps. Jackal was no different from lots of soldiers Wolf had worked with: hardened, determined not to let the mask slip. Wolf, Eagle and Snake, too, were like that. They just knew one another so well now that they could see behind the mask. Wolf had never been able to do that with Jackal. It was nothing to do with the man himself, really. It was hard coming into a unit that was already established. It was never terribly pleasant, it rarely worked out on a personal level, but it didn't matter, so long as you all did your jobs.

Wolf looked back down at the rifle in his hands, now fully loaded. It wasn't Jackal; it was him: he was getting in the way of his own effectiveness.

Calmer, he raised the rifle and began shooting again.

It took a little over two hours to reach the Ambassador's house: an expensive, sprawling affair out in Buckinghamshire. The black Lincoln rolled up to the huge brass gates and the driver spoke into the telecom. A minute later they were sailing up the driveway. Alex, in spite of himself, examined the huge house outside his window. It seemed that being in the diplomatic service paid well.

The car inched to a halt outside the front door. Alex didn't move for a moment, knowing that as soon as he stepped out of the car, he would feel he could no longer be Alex Rider and would have to be…

Well. Whoever he was supposed to be this time.

Then Alex's door was pulled open by the chauffeur. The man wasn't looking at him, but his expression told Alex all he needed to know: he thought Alex had stayed there deliberately to get the chauffeur to open the door for him.

Alex shifted across the seat and opened the opposite door. It felt childish. But he hadn't meant to seem like a snob.

To underline this, he got his own bag out of the boot.

"Thanks," he muttered to the driver, who ignored him, apparently taking Alex's independence as more of an affront than his snobbery, and got back into the car. A second later the Lincoln had turned around and was heading back down the driveway towards the gates. Alex was left alone on the doorstep. He was suddenly reminded very strongly of his first arrival at the house of David Friend. On that occasion he had slipped around the back, towards the pool and the conservatory.

There didn't seem to be any such option here. For all its grand appearances, the house appeared in lock down, the front door the only way in. As Alex stood on the doorstep he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, a camera swivelling towards him.

Diplomats. Perhaps they were nearly as paranoid as spies. He raised a hand and knocked twice.

The door opened so suddenly someone must have been stood behind it – which begged the question, really, of why they hadn't opened it in the first place: they must have heard the car. But Alex did not waste time thinking about this as he came face to face with a short man, wearing a dress shirt, coat tails and white gloves. His handlebar moustache bristled as he took in Alex's scruffy appearance, and it occurred to Alex that perhaps he should have bothered to get his hair cut. He threw off the thought almost immediately. No hair could be more comical than the man's moustache.

"Alex, I presume?" the stranger said. His voice completed the caricature – his tone as clipped as the Queen's English.

Alex nodded by way of affirmation. The man raised an eyebrow.

"Well, don't just stand there on the doorstep. I suppose you'd better come in."

How welcoming, Alex thought dryly, as he stepped into the hall. It was much warmer inside than out, the red walls and dark wood furnishings giving the impression of an even starker temperature difference.

"Sir James requested that you go to the library to meet with him immediately," the man told him, shutting the door behind him. "Down that corridor and on the right. Would you like something to drink?"

"I'll have a Coke," Alex said. The man sniffed and moved away. Alex wasn't sure what to do with his luggage, so he dropped it by the door and headed down the corridor in the direction the man had said.

There was only one door on the right, and it was partially ajar. Alex knocked anyway before he pushed it open and went inside.

'Library' had been rather an overstatement, he thought, as his eyes swept the room. There may have been some mahogany bookshelves, but the books on them were few and far between. Instead, what dominated the room was the snooker table in the centre. The balls were lined up in the middle.

Sir James, the ambassador to Iraq, was sitting in an armchair to one side of the room. He was perhaps fifty, appeared fit, with thinning blonde hair. He was dressed smartly in an expensive-looking grey suit. His blue eyes were sharp as he examined Alex through his rectangular, metal-framed glasses, and Alex had the impression that this was a very clever man – someone who had truly earned his high position in the Foreign Office.

"At least we're both fair, I suppose," the man said, and his tone told Alex everything he needed to know. Sir James thought this was a stupid idea and he'd decided not to review his position on the matter having seen Alex.

"Got my mother's eyes, though," Alex said evenly. "And her love for reading."

Sir James's eyebrows lifted slightly at this. "I've just finished redecorating," he said. "The books will be moved back in here soon. Not that I owe you an explanation."

Alex was silent. He might have said something cutting about that attitude being an unlikely one to take with one's son, but he didn't. Where was the benefit in winding the man up when they had to pretend to be family?

"What the hell are MI6 thinking?" Sir James muttered. His hand moved to the glass by his side – a dark liquid that looked like brandy. "Sending in a fourteen year-old child as bait…"

"I'm not a child," said Alex. He couldn't help be slightly surprised at Sir James's awareness of the operation. It was a sharp contrast with the position of Sir David Friend, who had been very firmly kept in the dark when he had posed as his son. Alex thought he recalled Ian Rider telling him once that diplomats had very high security level clearance. And this was no ordinary diplomat: it was the Ambassador to Iraq. It was, perhaps, no wonder that he knew all about the mission.

Sir James ignored him. "Fourteen," he muttered. "Incredible." He took a gulp from his glass and set it down. His expression was suddenly business-like. "Well, come and sit down," he said. "If this is going to work, we'd better get to know one another."

Slightly taken aback by this abrupt change in demeanour, Alex did as he was told, taking the leather armchair next to Sir James. The man surveyed him intently and Alex began to become uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

"I didn't ask for this, you know," he said defensively.

"Oh, I know," said Sir James. "I've read your file. Took a lot of squeezing to get it, but it made for interesting reading. It only proved what I've been saying for years. MI6 have been allowed far too much freedom."

Alex couldn't help but let a small smile pull at his lips. It wasn't that Sir James wanted to treat him like a child or ostracise him. He just thought MI6 were off their rockers.

Sir James, too, was smiling slightly as he reached up and adjusted his glasses.

"So tell me, Alex," he said. "What do you like to do when you're not saving the world?"

The Sergeant had not been around to see Wolf's much better performance in the second half of the practice. It was frustrating, and Wolf was furious with himself as he left the rest of K Unit to go to the Sergeant's office afterwards. He knew he had no one else to blame. He just hoped the Sergeant's dressing down wasn't too humiliating.

It didn't start well.

"Your performance on the shooting range was frankly pathetic, Soldier."

Wolf didn't falter. He remained standing to attention, eyes fixed steadfastly on the clock on the wall.

"Sir."

"It's the worst I've ever seen you, in fact. Do you have any explanation, Wolf?"

"No, sir."

Traitorously, his thoughts wandered to the mobile phone stashed in K Unit's cabin. But the Sergeant was staring at him hard and Wolf kept his chin tilted up, kept staring at the clock on the wall. Tick, tock.

"You improved towards the end."

Here it came. The Sergeant's observation that Wolf had let his emotions get the better of him.

It never did come. Instead the Sergeant leaned back on his desk and folded his arms across his huge chest. "That would be too late in the field, Wolf," was all he said on the matter. "Now give me a unit report."

Great, Wolf thought. He'd been allowed to escape a lecture, but the Sergeant was clearly not prepared to let him go easily. That was the way it had always been. Wolf had thought, when he'd first got to Brecon Beacons, that the Sergeant might single him out to take a special interest in him. There weren't many black men in the SAS, after all, and the Sergeant and Wolf were two of the few. Wolf had had a nasty surprise in his first week of operations training, and that was that the Sergeant did single him out – but only to push him harder than any of the others.

It seemed that nothing had changed. Wolf's eyes flickered to the Sergeant and back to the clock.

"Training progressing reasonably, sir. Snake's leg is still giving him some trouble."

"I've noticed," the Sergeant said dryly. "What's your prognosis, Wolf?"

Wolf's eyes slid to the Sergeant again and stayed there. "I'm not a doctor, sir," he said.

"But you're an experienced soldier, Wolf. Is he going to recover?"

Bloody hell. Wolf didn't know how to answer that. He couldn't possibly be responsible for getting one of his team mates binned – permanently.

"He's been better since arriving back here, sir," he managed. "He's got stronger over the week." That much, at least, was true. Wolf paused, considering how to go on. "It's difficult to say, sir. He must be better than the brand new recruits. He only looks slightly…weaker when he's running next to K Unit."

That seemed to satisfy the Sergeant, who nodded. "And Jackal? His status?"

"An excellent soldier, sir. He's kept himself fit throughout leave. Eagle too."

"Mmm." The Sergeant unfolded his arms and rested them on the desk beneath him. "Jackal has always been an extremely dedicated soldier." He paused and then: "I'm not sure it was the wisest choice to place him in K Unit."

Wolf wasn't sure if he was being asked for his opinion, so he stayed silent. The Sergeant surveyed him for several minutes. Wolf waited, sensing he was not yet dismissed.

"I've orders to put K Unit on standby," the Sergeant said at last, his voice flat.

Wolf's gaze snapped to his superior, his mouth going slightly slack in shock. He would never question the Sergeant, but it was evident to everyone at Brecon Beacons that there were units far readier to be in the field again than K Unit. Wolf didn't think he was ready. Where would they be going? His heart was beginning to pound painfully against his ribs and he fought not to let it show in his face.

The Sergeant wasn't watching him anyway. Scowling, he straightened up and walked round to the other side of his desk.

"I don't care if this is on or off the record," he said. "This wasn't my bloody brilliant idea. But I suppose you'd better tell the rest of K Unit. Dismissed."

Feet suddenly like lead, Wolf did as he was told.

Outside, he breathed in the cold January air. It was nearly dark already, even though it was barely half past four. A thick fog was settling over Brecon Beacons, its icy touch enveloping everything in its path. The place was deserted. All units were either off on training exercises or taking a well-deserved and rare rest before dinner was served at five.

And rest they needed. Wolf was almost certain they were going to have to do an exercise that night. It wasn't usual to have a break before dinner. He very much hoped it wasn't going to be RTI. He'd only had to do that once and it was one time too many.

Snake's had to do it for real, a nasty little voice said in Wolf's ear, but he shrugged it off. He'd never asked Snake if it was anything like the training exercise. He'd never asked if his teammate had given anything up. That wasn't his job.

Somewhere, deep down, he knew Snake hadn't. Snake was easily the toughest after Wolf.

But was he tough enough? How would he take this latest news from the Sergeant – that they were on standby? The Sergeant hadn't even told him where they were standby for.

"This wasn't my brilliant idea."

Angrily, Wolf kicked the low wall outside the Sergeant's office. This wasn't bloody fair. This was clearly down to Special Ops – again! – with absolutely no regard to whether K Unit was ready for this.

Just what was their obsession with K Unit?

There could only be one answer to that. Once again, Wolf's thoughts darted to the mobile phone. He should have told the Sergeant about it while he had the chance. But as he hadn't…

He probably wouldn't have another chance. Mobile phones these days only lasted a short while before they needed charging. And it wasn't as though he could ask Jackal if he could borrow the charger.

Making up his mind abruptly, before he could talk himself out of it, Wolf headed for K Unit's cabin, the last in a line of barracks.

The rest of his team mates were there, having some down time before dinner, as Wolf suspected they would be. Eagle was lying flat on his back on his cot: Snake and Jackal were both reading. It was Eagle who looked up as Wolf came into the cabin.

"How angry was he?"

"Fine," Wolf said shortly. He was unable to keep the edge out of his voice: both Snake and Jackal looked up sharply. Wolf inwardly groaned. He hadn't wanted to draw attention to himself, and now they were all staring at him. Well, he might as well tell them. "Apparently we're on standby," he said, not even bothering to hide his contempt for this idea.

The reaction was predictable. Snake's face, always pale, lightened several shades: although his lips were pursed and his expression carefully schooled, he couldn't quite hide his discomfort as his eyes dropped to his book. Eagle's expression had darkened considerably.

"I don't know what you're smiling about," he snapped at Jackal. Wolf might have winced if he hadn't felt in such a foul mood himself: Jackal's lips had hardly twitched.

"I wasn't smiling about anything," the soldier returned icily. "Though I can't deny I'm looking forward to actually doing the job I signed up to do again."

"We're not ready." Eagle sounded like his teeth were gritted. He glared at Jackal. "This is your fault, with your bloody obsession about getting back in the field…I bet you've been nagging the Sergeant – "

"Of course I've been doing no such thing," said Jackal coolly. Wolf interjected.

"I'm pretty sure this has come from Special Ops at MI6. The Sergeant all but said so."

Snake's head snapped back up at this. His blue eyes reflected Wolf's suspicions exactly. Even Eagle had stopped scowling at Jackal long enough for his mouth to drop open in shock.

"Cub," he said.

"For Christ's sake, will you three ever – "

"Shut up, Jackal," said Snake fiercely. It was perhaps the only time he had ever snapped at the man. Even Jackal was taken aback: he stopped talking to stare.

"It's obviously because of Cub, isn't it?" Snake continued in his lilting Scottish accent. "I mean, we're OK, but anyone could see we could do with another couple of weeks here." His brow had furrowed but his own discomfort appeared to have evaporated in his concern for the youngest member of their unit.

"The question is why," said Eagle. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, staring between Wolf and Snake. "I mean, are they sending himaway? Or are they just trying to keep us from interfering? Did they think we were taking too much of an interest?"

"I don't know," Wolf snapped, suddenly remembering why he had come to the barracks in the first place. He strode over to his own cot and bent down, scrabbling underneath it, between his belongings. Luckily the others were too distracted to really pay attention to him. Wolf managed to transfer the phone to his pocket, before he straightened up, his razor in hand.

Eagle and Snake stared at him. Wolf glared stonily back.

"Sergeant says I've got to be smarter," he said gruffly. "Going to shave."

"You're going to shave?" Eagle repeated, his voice echoing his disbelief. "What about Cub?"

"What about him?" Wolf shot back. "What the hell can we do, Eagle? Got any suggestions?"

Eagle's mouth shut abruptly, though he threw Wolf a look of intense dislike. The mobile phone burning a hole in his pocket, too agitated to care about Eagle's strop, Wolf turned on his heel and left the cabin.

The fog had got thicker in the short time Wolf had been in the cabin, but it didn't faze him. Once outside, he pocketed the razor, which had only been for show. Then, checking around him to make sure no one was watching, he headed briskly towards the same trees Jackal had used to conceal himself the night before. No one challenged him as to where he was going. With the fog settling, he'd have to be very unlucky for anyone to see him.

Wolf went a way into the trees anyway, not wanting to risk being caught. He paused next to the stream that ran through that particular wooded area. It was a sensible place to stop. The stream would help him find his way back to the barracks if the mist got any thicker.

Slowly, he drew the mobile phone from his pocket and weighed it uneasily in his hand. This was against all the rules. But then, so was having the mobile phone in the first place.

He flicked open the phone and turned it on.

Thankfully it didn't take long to start up. When it did, Wolf saw it was already very low on battery, despite having been switched off all day. Just the one chance, then. And it was a good time to phone. Fox never worked late when he was on desk duty. And Cub would be back from school.

Wolf punched in Fox's phone number and brought the phone to his ear.

Ben glanced one more time around the flat. His car was waiting outside, but he always got jumpy when he was leaving for a while – got obsessive about checking the locks on the windows, about ensuring he'd turned off all the lights. He'd told his psychologist once, who'd informed him it was a distraction method – his unwillingness to concentrate on what was ahead, desperate to focus instead on what he was leaving behind. That was a weakness, Ben knew. He forced himself to pick up his luggage and his key. He'd already checked the flat twice. To do it a third time would be stupid. Weak.

He threw his coat over his arm and had already opened his door when the phone rang. He almost dropped his luggage and dived for it. But in the nick of time, he recognised the behaviours his psychologist had told him were so destructive. Abruptly, he turned away, stepping outside the flat and shutting the door firmly behind him.

He could still hear the phone ringing outside. Almost obstinately, he turned his back on it and went to the black Lincoln that was waiting for him. It was identical to the one that had picked Alex up earlier that day.

The windows of the car were blacked out. This didn't faze Ben. He put his luggage in the boot without the driver's help and, pulling his jacket on, yanked open the door to the back of the car.

He found himself face to face with Mrs Jones.

"Well, this is a surprise," he said. He might have said a pleasant surprise, or something else of that ilk. But in truth the Head of Special Ops always unnerved him slightly. Particularly her peppermint habit. The strong smell hit him now, even as he stood outside the car.

"Get in, Ben," she said. Her expression was grim. "We need to talk."

Several years in the army had taught Ben to obey a command when he was given one. Almost automatically, he slid into the back of the car and shut the door behind him. He pulled on his seatbelt as the car pulled sharply away from the curb.

"What I'm about to tell you goes no further," Mrs Jones started.

Ben's gaze slid, almost involuntarily, to the glass separating the driver's seat from the back of the car. Mrs Jones seemed to understand.

"Soundproof glass," she said. "This is a strictly private conversation."

"Right." Ben tried hard to keep his face impassive and indifferent, but he couldn't quite rid the crease from his forehead. He didn't like any of this. He'd got in the habit of looking forward to these missions – whatever his psychologist said – so much so that his 'secondment' to MI6 Special Operations had turned into a permanent fixture. But he'd been uneasy about this from the very start.

Something about Alex being involved in Special Ops had always made him uneasy, even in Brecon Beacons. Australia had only made it worse.

"Alex is very experienced," Mrs Jones said. It was the second time in as many minutes she appeared to know what Ben was thinking. "He's no ordinary child."

He's still a child, Ben thought angrily, though he said nothing. There was no point in upsetting the Head of Special Ops when she was bound to be the one he was relying on for backup in the next few days.

"What's this about?" he said instead. "I was under the impression we were done talking about Alex."

"Indeed." Mrs Jones did not offer any more information straight away, however. She must have known she could take her time: Ben would be flying from a private airfield, and it was more than half an hour away. Slowly and deliberately, she took out another mint and unwrapped it. Ben resisted the urge to shout at her.

"We told you at the Royal and General that this is a top secret operation," she said eventually. "The service has the potential to crumble. We told you there are very few people left in the organisation we can trust."

God. Ben was beginning to regret his move to MI6. Mrs Jones was making it sound like a bad share investment. He remained silent.

"Ben, I have to tell you now that not all that information is strictly true."

Ben's head jerked up in surprise, his blue eyes settling on the woman in the seat next to him. "What do you mean?" he asked. "This isn't top secret? The service isn't crumbling?"

"No," said Mrs Jones. "MI6 does have the potential to crumble – the sheer volume of intelligence that's been ripped out from under our very noses would cause a public outcry. We might even be shut down. What I meant was that there are in fact a great number of people in the service we can trust. We've just selected the very best."

Ben was too irritated by this news to enjoy the ego massage. His thoughts drifted bitterly to Alex, who had been manipulated into this because the Service had told him there was no one else. Disgusted with the woman in front of him, he turned his head to stare out of the window, watching the London streets rush past.

"I understand your frustration, but I must insist you pay attention," said his superior. "I haven't finished."

Almost growling, Ben's head whipped back round to look at Mrs Jones. She didn't even look apologetic.

"This is important," she said. "There are a number of people in the service we trust, but Maximillian Lacey isn't one of them."

"What?" In his shock, the word had slipped out before Ben could stop it. "He's a traitor?"

"Almost certainly. It was his house that Alex broke into on New Year's Eve. Lacey didn't intend for us to know that, of course – we have a different address on file – but his fingerprints were all over the place when we stripped it down. He hadn't done quite the professional job he thought he had. And then there was the photograph Alex stole." Mrs Jones paused, waiting for Ben to take this in. "It seems obvious, now we know. Some of our most important security leaks followed him around."

"Then why not detain him?" Ben demanded. "What's the point of this mission if you already know – "

"That's just it," Mrs Jones interrupted. "We don't know anything at all." She paused again. "Everything else we've told you is correct. Missing chemicals. Intelligence leaks. Lacey isn't working alone – he might not even be in charge! And we have absolutely no idea what they're planning or how to stop it. Detaining Lacey might be counter-productive."

"Good God, you're using him to flush the rest of them out." Ben's disbelief echoed in his voice. Suddenly he was angry. "So they'll know about the whole plan! They won't kidnap Alex – "

"Oh, I'm almost certain they'll kidnap Alex," said Mrs Jones. Ben gaped at her and she continued. "They've obviously been trying to get rid of him. In any event, Alex is possibly the worst-kept secret in the intelligence world. The money they could get by threatening to expose him!"

"Then what are you doing?" said Ben furiously. "He's in even more danger if they know he's not really the Ambasador's son – "

Mrs Jones's silence told him everything he needed to know. Trying to stop himself gaping, and from blowing up at his superior, he looked abruptly away once more. Mrs Jones was the first to break the silence.

"Alex isn't just very experienced, he's just about the best we've got."

"He's a child!" Ben burst out, his head snapping around again. "I don't care if he's the best you've ever had; you've got to be able to see that it's not his responsibility!"

"It's my responsibility to make sure this country is safe. And if Alex is the only one who can do it, that's the way it has to be." Mrs Jones looked as though the words had been wrestled from her against her will. She sighed. "Ben, I obviously haven't told you about Lacey in order to anger you. I've done it in the hope you'll be able to better protect yourself, Limes and Alex."

"Limes doesn't know about this?"

"No, and nor does Alex," said Mrs Jones promptly. "Please ensure it stays that way. I don't want anyone compromising this operation."

Ben supposed he ought to have been flattered that he alone had been trusted with this information, but he knew he was only being used, too. To protect MI6's most successful spy – a fourteen year-old boy. From a double-agent that MI6 themselves had purposefully sent on a crucially important mission.

It beggared belief.

"Do I have your word, Ben?" Mrs Jones was suddenly business-like, her dark eyes watching him carefully.

"Yes," said Ben grudgingly, because, really, what else could he say? It was pointless to argue.

"Excellent."

The car had rolled to a stop. Ben could see the lights of the airfield outside; there were a few military personnel around. He had the sense at that moment that he'd give anything to switch places with them.

"Good luck," Mrs Jones said as Ben unclipped his seatbelt. Her words meant nothing. Ben gave a non-committal nod before opening the car door and stepping outside. He was glad for a second that he was no longer in the military. He didn't think he could have stood to salute Mrs Jones just then.

They were all barking mad.

Ten seconds later he was strolling away from the car, bag thrown over one shoulder, heading towards the small plane waiting on the airfield. He flashed his identity at the soldier waiting by the steps up into the plane.

"Agent Daniels." The man nodded and Ben headed up the steps. They were rolled away shortly afterwards. It would be only him on this flight. The three MI6 agents were arriving separately – Ben first, several days ahead of the Ambassador – supposedly to throw off any scent. What a load of bollocks that now appeared to be.

Ben rested his head against the seat's headrest. There was a folder in his bag he could be reading, reminding him of what they knew of the case. He had very few facts to memorise on this occasion – no new name, no new history. He was going out as Foreign Office staff. No one tended to ask many questions in that scenario. The trick would be knowing where to look for information, whilst not drawing attention to himself. Reading the folder would probably help that.

But Ben did not have the mental energy at that particular moment. The weight of what Mrs Jones had told him had settled like a crushing burden on his chest. He suddenly had the sense that he'd made a very bad mistake in agreeing to any of this. Maybe even in leaving the SAS.

Unbidden, his thoughts sprang to the photograph residing in his wallet, currently nestled in his right trouser pocket. Conrad Daniels had been just about the best brother Ben could have asked for: they had been close from when they'd been young. So close Ben had very nearly followed him into journalism. Conrad had somehow found it hilarious that Ben had chosen a career in the army when, academically, Ben had always outstripped Conrad by miles. But what would he think now, of Ben's forays into MI6? Of Ben's involvement with an organisation that used children as bait?

It was easy to know what Conrad would have done. A huge exposé on the front cover of the Sun, no doubt. Ben didn't have that kind of option. And he would never sell Alex out, anyway.

He had to remind himself that there might not be an Alex to sell out after this mission. It was rapidly turning into a mess.

Ben made up his mind there and then. If they all came through this mission alive, things could not go on like this. There had to be some serious changes. Ben might have to make some difficult choices.

His hand went to his trouser pocket. He thought Conrad would have understood. He knew Conrad would have understood.

Ben already knew this mission was going to cost him a lot. There were exactly 590km between Baghdad, where the British embassy was, and Khorramshahr, where Conrad had been killed. That was a six hour journey, even somewhere that wasn't a war zone. Yet Ben still knew the urge to see where his brother was killed would be overwhelming.

His hand moved away from his pocket and settled on the arm rest as the plane started to roll down the airstrip.

However tempted he was, he had to focus on this mission. Things had just got a whole lot dicier. He would have to think about Conrad when he got back. He'd store it away with all those other things he needed to sort out on the other side of this.

Ben closed his eyes, the unhappiest he'd been since leaving the SAS.

"This is the voicemail of Ben Daniels…"

Wolf took the phone from his ear and stared at it for several seconds.

No one was home. In Wolf's mind, that only meant one thing.

Suddenly furious, he snapped the phone shut and threw it as hard as he could into the stream. It smashed against the rocks, breaking up immediately. Wolf lost sight of it as the pieces were carried down the stream, into the fog.

He had failed.

A/N: This will not be updated until my exams are over, so you're going to have to wait a few weeks. But please nonetheless review and let me know what you think of this chapter (and my shocking and unpredictable comeback). Remember reviews got me writing again. Much love and thanks for reading.