Alex stood handcuffed in front of Alexei Sarov. The bastard Conrad had disappeared and the sound of the gun battle was sporadically heard in the distance. The fourteen year old was very cold and was shivering on the crumbling concrete quay of Murmansk Submarine Base. Only dressed in the same thin clothes he had worn in tropical Cuba, which offered no protection in the cold penetrating wind off the Barents sea. He now knew the full details of the general's plot to blow up the Submarines at Murmansk with the dirty bomb built from illegally procured plutonium, which on detonation would send a cloud of radioactive death over western Europe in a bid to depose the democratic government of the Russian Federation. An act of terrorism to turn back the clock and to reimpose the might of the Stalinist era USSR, to re-erect the Iron Curtain and make his home a world power again, feared by all. Alex knew his efforts to alert the authorities in Scotland had failed. The defending troops here at this mostly derelict naval base were loosing to Sarov's forces. The boy looked at the bomb on the quayside. Alex had no more cards to play, well maybe one. He was the image of young Vladimir Sarov.

"Please don't kill all those people, General. There has to be another way. Can't you blame Conrad. Say it was all a plot by enemy agents or by terrorists? Tell people you were blackmailed. That they were using me to force you to do their bidding? Please, don't detonate that bomb. My father would not do such a thing. My father was an honourable soldier, sworn to defend his country, his homeland, to protect the weak and the innocent. My friends Tom, Sabina and James at school in London don't deserve long slow painful deaths. I'll do anything... even take the blame for all this. You can shoot me as a foreign spy, just don't poison Europe." At this point Alex faltered and knelt before the man. His head bowed. Tears streaming down his face. He was about to die, to be vapourised, if the General went ahead with his plans because Alex would not, could not follow a man cold enough to do such a heinous act of mass murder.

Alex did not see Alexei Sarov raise his arm, gun in hand. The butt of the handgun connected with the child-spy's skull and he fell unconscious.

...

Alex woke in a white room, which smelled of a faint mix of sewerage, stale food and antiseptic. Obviously a hospital with its old fashioned beds, the glass saline bottle attached to the drip in his left arm. He reached up to touch his head, which was swathed in bandages. He saw the bruises on his wrist and felt the deep bruising on his back from the beating he'd received from Conrad after trying to alert the customs official at Edinburgh Airport. He groaned at the deep throbbing headache, the stabbing pain in his eyes from the too bright room and the bile rising in his throat from his queazy stomach. He definitely had one hell of a concussion. He closed his eyes and tried to organise recent events despite the pain. Was he in Cuba? He had a vague recollection of traveling. Was he in Russia? He then woke fully and shuddered. Had that bomb detonated? If it had why was he alive?

Possibly the ugliest nurse in the universe came in and started to speak to him in Russian. Asking questions as if she thought he understood her.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am but I don't speak Russian." He tried to remember the few words of Russian General Sarov had tried to teach him, but he could not remember much that would be useful here. He then realised he'd spoken with an American accent, he was still clinging to his legend as Alex Gardiner. "Where am I?"

The woman then spoke another spring of unfamiliar words and patted his arm, before leaving.

A middle aged woman came in with deep red hair and wearing a white coat, a stethoscope around her neck. She smiled and spoke with english with a slight Russian accent. "Good Afternoon, My name is Irina Ivanova. I am your physician. You are a patient here at the Murmansk Clinical Hospital. You have a skull fracture. You have had surgery to alleviate the neurological trauma. You must rest. We will be monitoring you closely but you are currently stable. You will receive the best care but please can you answer my questions. Your name please?"

"Alex... Alexander John... errr..." to lie or not to lie. "... Rider." Alex settled on the cold hard truth, consequences be damned. He had no idea what was happening, what had happened or if he was in deep shit. The only reassurance was that this hospital was in Murmank so the bomb had not gone off.

"Date of Birth?"

"13th February 1987."

"Parents or Guardians?"

"Parents Dead... My uncle Ian Rider brought me up and he died in March... errr, my foster parents Tom and Belinda Gardiner died in a diving accident in Cuba, ten days ago."

"Umm, that checks out." The doctor then shone a bright pen light in Alex's eyes and then spoke to the nurse in sharp terse Russian. "We must continue to monitor your brain injury. you will be woken at 2 hour intervals for the next two days. I will now test your physical responses."

The covers were removed and Alex shivered, wanting to be back in the oppressive heat of the Caribbean. He felt impossibly tired as the doctor made him moved his arms, legs hands, feet, toes and fingers.

"Good boy. Now rest. You will have some dinner soon, you must be hungry."

"Errr, no. I feel pretty sick, umm.. like I might vomit err... nauseous thats the word." Alex at this lay back and closed his eyes. The conversation was exhausting him.

"That is normal, food will be light and bland, OK."

"Umm.. sure." He mumbled as he fell back to sleep.