Alex stood in front of the full length mirror, a pronounced grimace on his face as he buttoned up his dress shirt. The silk slid over his skin smoothly as he buttoned the French cuffs, slipping the silver cufflinks through the buttonhole.

His fingers moved over his abdomen, relishing its freshly unscarred nature, skin grafts having rectified what surgery could not. He casually tucked his shirt in, the white silk bow tie hanging from the collar, which he deftly knotted, before reaching to his bed a grasping his dinner jacket.

The inside label read Anderson and Sheppard, and Alex knew that the bespoke tailoring of Savile Row fitted him perfectly, as he had paid for two weeks previous when he was informed that he would be attending the event this evening.

The sound of the intercom buzzing downstairs alerted him to the fact there was someone at the gate, and he shrugged the jacket off momentarily, and searching through his draws.

He grabbed his wallet, Italian leather naturally, and also his side holster with his weapon of choice; a Beretta M9 FS 9mm handgun, stored in a custom holster designed to be carried concealed. Alex never went without it.

Similarly, he strapped his Fairbairn and Sykes Fighting Knife to his calf. More than half a century old, Alex respected the craftsmanship of the traditional brand of choice for the British SAS so much he never used anything else.

He carefully laced his handcrafted John Lobb dress shoes, and placed his cell into the inner pocket, finally clipping the white-gold Figaro chain style bracelet that had been a gift from an Arabian prince onto his left wrist as he descended the wooden stairs of his Chelsea home.

He paused at the door only to engage the security system, typing in the 25 digit code with practiced ease, before closing it after him. He paused once more on the doorstep to activate the pressure pads in the hall, living room, bedroom and his office, as well as the cameras and nerve gas system.

Similarly, while MI6 had refused his application to run an electric charge through his gate on the grounds that it may injure passers-by accidentally, the top of his ten foot high walls were protected in this manner, and any attempt to move the gate from its current position without the correct code would result in an almost fatal voltage being passed through that individuals body.

Alex's shoes crunched on the gravel as he moved to the gate, where a pair of headlights shone through the bars, lighting his path. He manoeuvred his body between the keypad and the car as his fingers danced over the numbers, his trust not even extending to the man MI6 had sent to transport him to his destination.

He slipped through the gap in the gate, and closed it after him. As per MI6 protocol, the driver said nothing as he slipped into the vehicle, and Alex settled into the leather backseat of the black Mercedes, and flicked through the dossier that was waiting beside him casually.

He didn't read it carefully; he knew the basic premise by heart. The inherent disadvantages to being the only seventeen year old on the books at MI6 were that he was automatically assigned to any duty involving targets or people of interest who were still minors.

As was agency policy, when an 'employee' was off duty, i.e. between larger assignments, they were compelled to assist with domestic security events which MI5 has somehow managed to convince the Home Secretary and the Minister of Defence that this was the best use of MI6 resources. They were a bunch of conniving pricks in Alex's opinion, crippled by their own internal political manoeuvring, but they had managed to dodge a considerable bullet on behalf of their agents, security duty.

The bane of Alex's existence. He'd only flown back in from Morocco two weeks prior, and was looking forward to some rest and catching up on school work before his finals. Instead, before they'd even finished debriefing him on his two months in North Africa, he was rostered on to his least favourite security detail of all; protection of the Prime Minister's eldest daughter.

For two years now, whenever the Prime Minister's daughter had appeared in a public place, if available, it was Alex that was called on to provide the personal security detail. Sienna, or 'no.3' as she was referred to through the radio system, was only a year and a half older than Alex but lived a very different lifestyle. She came from wealth, and obviously resented the limits applied to her by her father's position, rebelling against them as often as possible. This led to notable occasions when her assigned security attachment had been given the slip, and led to some very nervous moments inside the security agencies.

It had been the night of her eighteenth birthday that Alex was first called upon to provide security, as her birthday was to be held at the Aura nightclub in St. James Street, Mayfair, and the owners of the venue were justifiably unhappy about having several large individuals hanging around in suits with weapons on the grounds that it would be bad for business, on top of Prime Minister's daughters assertion that she would be as difficult as possible.

It was no help that she was regular tabloid fodder within her own country and even overseas, hunted mercilessly by the paparazzi for her combination of affluence, prestige of position, rebellious ways, and last but certainly not least, attractive appearance.

Alex had been excused from a majority of security details up until that point on the grounds that he was too valuable as a field operative to risk on such mundane work, but he was too perfect for the role it was decided. So Alex, his trusty Beretta 9mm stowed in the back of his designer skinny jeans, sat at the bar sipping his soda water and lemon while observing the table of screaming girls with a certain distaste as they ran the clubs supply of champagne dry.

At one point during the evening, one of the friends had tottered over in her heels and virtually non-existent cocktail dress, and introduced herself to Alex while wrapping a firm arm around his waist, pulling him close.

Alex had kept his cool and manoeuvred the two of them so the friends who were watching them couldn't see his face, curtly informing her that he wasn't interested, then slipping away to take up another vantage point.

Tonight's event was a dinner party filled to the brim with political and social dignitaries, from the royal family to chart-topping pop stars, nominally present to support some charity or other. It was being held on the banks of the Thames, in front of the Houses of Parliament which had been cordoned off the day before to prepare.

Alex would be posing as a guest, as conventional security would not be allowed close enough to reasonably do their job, at the behest of the Prime Minister, who didn't want to 'spread paranoia and fear' to the people. This was much to the chagrin of Alan Blunt, who held very different priorities when it came to security.

The Mercedes pulled up in the car park behind Westminster, and Alex removed the earpiece from the dossier onto which it had been stuck, and placed it carefully in his ear. Immediately he could hear all the security chatter that was going on all over the event, giving him information about the entire perimeter that had been formed, including those stationed on the rooves of the buildings on both banks and the water patrols that were buzzing along the river.

Alex had both a security tag and an invite, which he had been given in case he was challenged during the evening. He flashed his security ID as he picked his way through the tradesman's entrance, behind the catering trucks and surveillance vans. The entire operation was a nightmare for those who were in charge of protecting the party, hundreds of guests who were all viable targets, all in an open space with numerous sightlines and entry points.

Alex was relieved he only had one assignment, and as he was buzzed through into the party, he began to pick his way through the early arrivals, typically the less well known individuals seeking some publicity, well aware that they would be ignored by the press scrum that had formed out the front once the real showstoppers made their entrances.

The arrival of 'no.3' along with her parents, numbers one and two, half an hour after Alex's own, had given him plenty of time to check his own security measures, which amounted to checking exit routes and then settling down for some dinner in the form of the stupid little assortments that were being offered up on silver platters by overdressed waiters.

By this time, the event was much more crowded, and the bulbs of the select few photographers who had been granted entrance exploded at the sight of the nation's leader.

Speeches were given extensively, detailing the plight of impoverished individuals globally, and general suffering of all, to rousing applause from the crowd.

Then more pictures were taken, and hands shook, as the nauseating self-congratulation continued well into the evening. It was scheduled to conclude at midnight, to avoid having some of more elderly members of parliament falling asleep in their seats, but when Alex glanced at his watch it was still an hour before he was officially off-duty.

He glanced over at his assignment, who had a glass of champagne in her hand, but was apparently managing to be more restrained than his previous experiences, standing by the stone balustrade, staring out over the Thames looking as bored as Alex felt.

It wasn't hard to see why the photographers were all over her like a rash, though. Even dressed in a formal dining gown, she managed to make herself stand out from the crowd by quite some distance. She was wearing a pale gold number, cut low to her stomach at the front, and without a back, it was quite the stunner, and had the photographers in raptures.

The security for the immediate area was tighter than most third world dictators required, and Alex couldn't do anything about any threats that fell outside the immediate zone. He glanced over at his mark, making sure she wasn't about to leap over the edge for a night time swim, before looking for one of those individuals who was handing out bottles of water.

Alex rested his arms on the stonework, watching the patrol boats whiz past quietly, out of sight and out of mind for the guests. He felt someone tap him on the arm, and he whirled around quickly, ready to fend off any questions as to who he was or what he was doing there.

He was surprised, then, to find himself face to face with the very individual he was supposed to be protecting.

"Who are you?" came the brazen question from the blonde haired girl, as she looked him up and down.

"Nobody special," Alex replied, aiming to be as unmemorable as possible. If he was too abrasive, it would stick in her mind, but he certainly wasn't about to be friendly.

"Well, you're the only other person here under 20, and I don't think you're a pop-star or an actor," she replied, staring keenly at his features.

"I'm the Shadow Treasurer's nephew, up from Sussex for the weekend. I'm interested in politics so he brought me along. I'm really excited to meet all these people who I've spent so much time studying. My name is Quentin," he said tersely.

Everything about that sentence was designed to put her off him, and he couldn't imagine anything she'd dislike more than politics, after living with it all her life.

He was so engrossed in trying to make himself invisible to her that he failed to notice their two person conversation, if that's what one could describe it as, was suddenly joined by a third party.

"Darling, there you are! Oh, and I see you've met Alex Rider. I'm surprised to see you here, Mr. Rider. It seems Mr. Blunt wasn't able to resist despite his best assurances."

"Good evening Prime Minister," Alex said, nodding politely before attempting to slip away.

Once more he felt a hand on his arm, although this time it was a firm grip on his elbow.

"Don't you go anywhere," the blonde haired girl demanded, and Alex hardly felt able to defy the Prime Minister's daughter in front of her father.

"Why did you call him Alex?" she demanded, while the countries Prime Minister stared rather coldly at Alex. He knew the Prime Minister was not overly enamoured with the concept of personal security, but Alex hadn't thought his presence would be a problem.

"This is Alex Rider, sweetheart. He works for the government. I called him Alex because that is his name. I'm terribly sorry, but I was just coming to say we've got to stay for at least another forty minutes my sweet; it is after all, my party. Good evening once more, Mr. Rider,"

But his daughter didn't even utter a complaint as her father departed, instead she turned to Alex.

"You work for the government?" she asked incredulously, looking him up and down once more.

"Yes," Alex sighed, figuring that she wouldn't believe the lie.

"Aren't you, well, a bit young? What do you do for them? And why'd you lie to me? I'm the Prime Minister's daughter you know, you can't just go around lying to me because you feel like it,"

"I am so terribly sorry," Alex mimicked, putting on his best Eton bred accent.

She was still looking at him, but her expression had changed.

"Haven't I seen you somewhere before? Your face looks familiar, I'm almost certain I've seen you somewhere!" she announced, and Alex winced.

"I work in the government buildings, I've been around your father, it's possible I guess," Alex replied as vaguely as he could manage.

"No, I really don't think that's it. I've seen you somewhere out before, somewhere unexpected," she replied, still studying him closely, "I certainly don't think I would remember you from anything to do with my father's position, although," she trailed off with a smile.