Russian Roulette (27 page)

The apartment was almost bare. The floor was uncarpeted, the furniture minimal. There were no pictures on the walls. It was private. Net curtains hung over the windows and although there was a glass door leading into a tiny back garden—unusual for a Paris property—nobody could see in. A bedroom led off to one side. There was an open-plan kitchen where, from the looks of it, Vosque hardly ever cooked anything much more than a boiled egg.

Hunter had manhandled the Cop across the floor and onto a wooden chair. “Find something to tie him up with,” he said. “He should have some ties in the bedroom. If you can’t find any, use a sheet off the bed. Tear it into strips.”

I was mystified. What were we doing? Our orders were to kill the man, not threaten or interrogate him. Why wasn’t he already dead? But once again I didn’t argue. In fact, Vosque had quite a collection of ties. I took five of them from his wardrobe and used them to tie his arms and legs, keeping the last one to gag his mouth. Hunter said nothing while I worked. I had already seen that intense concentration of his when we were in the jungle, but this time there was something else. I was aware that he had something in his mind and for some reason it made me afraid.

He checked that the Cop was secure, then went over to the sink, filled a glass of water, and threw it in his face. The Cop’s eyes flickered open. I saw the jolt as he returned to consciousness and the fear as he took in his predicament. He began to struggle violently, rocking back and forth, as if there was any chance of him breaking free. Hunter signaled at him to stop. The Cop swore and shouted at him but the words were muffled, incomprehensible beneath the gag. Eventually, he stopped fighting. He could see it would do no good.

I didn’t dare speak. I wasn’t even sure what language I would be expected to use.

Hunter turned to me.

“You want to be an assassin,” he said, speaking in Russian now. “When you were in the jungle, you told me you killed some of the men who came after us. I’m not so sure about that. It was dark and I have a feeling I was the one who knocked all of them down. But that doesn’t matter. You said you were ready to kill. I didn’t believe you. Well, now’s your chance to prove it. I want you to kill Vosque.”

I looked at him. Then I turned to the Cop. I’m not sure that the Frenchman had understood what we were saying. He was silent, gazing straight ahead as if he was outraged, as if we had no right to be here.

“You want me to kill him,” I said in Russian.

“Yes. With this.”

He held out a knife. He had brought it with him and I stared at it with complete horror. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The knife was razor sharp. There could be no doubt of that. I had never seen anything quite so evil. But it was tiny. The blade was more like an old-fashioned safety razor. It couldn’t have been more than five centimeters long.

“That’s crazy,” I said. I was clinging to the thought that perhaps this was some sort of joke, although there could be no chance of that. Hunter was deadly serious. “Give me a gun. I’ll shoot him.”

“That’s not what I’m asking, Yassen. This is meant to be a punishment killing. I want you to use the knife.”

He had named me in front of the victim. Even though he was speaking in Russian, there could be no going back.

“Why?”

“Why are you arguing? You know how we work. Do as you’re told.”

He pressed the knife into my hand. It was terribly light, barely more than a slither of sharpened metal in a plastic handle. And at that moment I understood the point of all this. If I killed Vosque with this weapon, it would be slow and it would be painful. I would feel every cut that I made. And it might take several cuts. This wasn’t going to be just a quick stab to the heart. However I did it, I would end up drenched in the man’s blood.

A punishment killing. For both of us.

Something deep inside me rose to the surface. I was shocked, disgusted that he could behave this way. We’d just had six amazing days in Paris. In a way, they’d wiped out everything bad that had happened to me before. He’d been almost like a brother to me. Certainly, he had been my friend. And now, suddenly, he was utterly cold. From the way he was standing there, I could see that I meant nothing to him. And he was asking me to do something unspeakable.

Butchery.

And yet he was right. At the end of the day it was a lesson I had to learn if I was going to do this work. Not every assassination would take place from the top of a building or the other side of a perimeter fence. I had to get my hands dirty.

I examined the Cop. He was struggling again, his stomach heaving underneath his shirt, jerking the chair from side to side, whimpering. His whole face had gone red. He had seen the knife. I balanced it in my hand, once again feeling the flimsy weight. Where was I to start? I supposed the only answer was to cut his throat. Gordon Ross had even given us a demonstration once, but he had used a plastic dummy.

“You need to get on with it, Yassen,” Hunter said. “We haven’t got all day.”

“I can’t.”

I had spoken the words without realizing it. They had simply slipped out of my mouth.

“Why can’t you?”

“Because . . .”

I didn’t want to answer. I couldn’t explain. Vosque might not be a good man. He was corrupt. He took bribes. But he was a man nonetheless. Not a paper target. He was right here, in front of me, terrified. I could see the sweat on his forehead and I could smell him. I just didn’t have it in me to take his life . . . and certainly not with this hideous, pathetic knife.

“Are you sure?”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

“All right. Go outside. Wait for me there.”

This time I did what I was told without questioning. If I had stayed there a minute longer, I’d have been sick. As I opened the front door I heard the soft thud of a bullet fired from a silenced pistol and knew that Hunter had taken care of matters himself. I was still holding the knife. I couldn’t leave it behind. It was covered in forensic evidence that might lead the police to me. I carefully slid it into the top pocket of my jacket, where it nestled, the blade over my heart.

Hunter came out. “Let’s go,” he said. He didn’t seem angry. He showed no emotion at all.

Walking back across the city, I told him my decision.

“I’m taking your advice,” I said. “I don’t want to be an assassin. I’m leaving Paris. I’m not coming back to Rome. I’m going to disappear.”

“I didn’t give you that advice,” Hunter said. “But I think it’s a good idea.”

“Scorpia will find me.”

“Go back to Russia, Yassen. It’s a huge country. Russian is your first language and now you have skills. Find somewhere to hide. Start again.”

“Yes.” I felt a sense of sadness and had to express it. “I let you down,” I said.

“No, you didn’t. I’m glad it worked out this way. The moment I first saw you, I had a feeling that you weren’t suited to this sort of work, and I’m glad you’ve proved me right. Don’t be like me, Yassen. Have a life. Start a family. Keep away from the shadows. Forget all this ever happened.”

We came to a bridge. I took out the knife and dropped it into the Seine. Then we walked on together, making our way back to the hotel.

W
E WENT TO THE
airport, sitting together in the back of a taxi with our luggage in the trunk. Hunter was returning to Venice, reporting to Julia Rothman. I was heading for Berlin. It would have been madness to take a plane to Moscow or anywhere in Russia. It would provide Scorpia with a giant arrow pointing in the right direction to come after me. Berlin was at the hub of Europe and gave me a host of different options . . . I could head west to the Netherlands or east to Poland. I would be only a few hours from the Czech Republic. I could travel by train or by bus. I could buy a car. I could even go on foot. There were dozens of border crossing points where I could pass myself off as a student and where they probably wouldn’t even bother to check my ID. It was Hunter who had suggested it. There was no better place from which to disappear.

I was aware of all sorts of different feelings fighting inside me as we drove out through the shabby and depressing suburbs to the north of Paris. I still felt that I had let Hunter down although he had assured me otherwise. He had been friendly but businesslike when we met for breakfast that morning, keen to be on his way. He called me Yassen all the time, as if I had been stripped of my code name, although I was still using his. And that morning he had run by himself. Alone in my room, I had really missed our sprint around the city and felt excluded. It reminded me of the time when I’d broken my leg when I was twelve and had been forced out of a trip with the Young Pioneers.

I wondered if I would miss all this luxury: the five-star hotel, the international travel, buying clothes in high-class boutiques. It was very unlikely that I would be visiting Paris again, and if I did, it certainly wouldn’t have the pleasure and the excitement of the last week. I had thought that I was becoming something, turning into something special. But now it was all over.

I had already begun to consider my future and had even come to a decision. There were still parts of my training that I could put to good use. I had learned languages. My English was excellent. The Countess had shown me how to hold my own with people much wealthier than me. And even Sharkovsky, in his own way, had been helpful. I knew how to iron shirts, polish shoes, make beds. The answer was obvious. I would find work in a hotel just like the George V. New hotels were being built all over Russia and I was certain I’d be able to get a job in one, starting as a bellboy or washing dishes in the kitchen and then working my way up. Moscow was too dangerous for me. It would have to be St. Petersburg or somewhere farther afield. But I would be able to support myself. I had no doubt of it.

I did not tell Hunter this. I would have been too ashamed. Anyway, we had already agreed that we would not discuss my plans. It was better for both of us if he didn’t know.

I was not sorry. I was relieved.

From the moment I had met Julia Rothman in Venice, I had been drawn into something very deadly, and deep down I had worried that I had no place there. What would my parents have said if I had chosen to become a paid killer? It was true that they had not been entirely innocent themselves. They had worked in a factory that produced weapons of death. But they had been forced into it and in a sense they had spent their whole lives protecting me from having to do the same. They had fed the dream of my becoming a university student, a helicopter pilot . . . whatever. Anything to get me out of Estrov. And what of Leo, a boy who had never hurt anyone in his life? He would say I’d had a lucky escape.

For better or for worse, it was over. That was what I told myself. At least I had some cash in my pocket. Only that morning I had drawn a thousand francs out of my bank account, knowing that the moment Scorpia discovered I was gone they would freeze it. I had my freedom. However I looked at it, my situation was a lot better than it had been four and a half years ago. I shouldn’t complain.

We arrived at the airport and checked in. As it happened, my flight was leaving just thirty minutes after Hunter’s, and we had a bit of time to kill. So we went through passport control and sat together in the departure lounge. We did not speak very much. Hunter was reading a paperback book. I had a magazine.

“I fancy a coffee,” Hunter said suddenly. “Can I get you one?”

“No. I’m all right, thanks.”

He got up. “It may take a while. There’s a bit of a queue. Will you keep an eye on my things?”

“Sure.”

After all we had been through, we were like two strangers . . . casual acquaintances at best.

He moved away, disappearing in the direction of the cafeteria. He hadn’t checked in any luggage and was carrying two bags—a small suitcase and a canvas duffel bag. They were both on the floor and for no good reason I picked up the duffel and placed it on the empty seat next to me. As I did so, I noticed that one of the zips was partially undone. I went back to my magazine. Then I stopped. Something had caught my eye. What was it?

Moving the duffel bag had folded back the canvas, causing a side pocket to bulge open. Inside, there was a wallet, a mobile telephone, Hunter’s boarding pass, a battery, and a pair of sunglasses. It was the battery that had caught my attention. The brand was Power Plus. Where had I seen the name before and why did it mean something to me? I remembered. A few months ago, when I was on Malagosto, Gordon Ross had shown us all a number of gadgets supplied by the different intelligence services around the world. One of them had been a Power Plus battery that actually concealed a radio transmitter that agents could use to summon help.

But it was a British gadget, supplied by the British secret service. What was it doing in Hunter’s bag?

I looked around me. There was no sign of Hunter. Quickly, I plucked the battery out and examined it, still hoping that it was perfectly ordinary and that I was making a mistake. I pressed the positive terminal, the little gold button on the top. Sure enough, there was a spring underneath. Pushing it down released a mechanism inside, allowing the battery to separate into two connected parts. If I gave the whole thing a half twist, I would instantly summon British Intelligence to Terminal Two of Charles de Gaulle airport.

British Intelligence . . .

Horrible thoughts were already going through my mind. At the same time, something else occurred to me. Hunter had said he was going to get a coffee. Perhaps I was reading too much into it, but he had left his wallet behind. How was he going to pay?

I got to my feet and moved away from the seats, ignoring the rows of waiting passengers, leaving the luggage behind. I felt light-headed, disconnected, as if I had been torn out of my own body. I turned a corner and saw the cafeteria. There wasn’t a line at all and Hunter certainly wasn’t there. He’d lied to me. Where was he? I looked around and then I saw him. He was some distance away with his back partly turned to me, but I wasn’t mistaken. It was him. He was talking on the telephone . . . an urgent, serious conversation. I might not be able to read his lips, but I could tell that he didn’t want to be overheard.

I turned and went back to my seat, afraid that the luggage would be stolen if I didn’t keep an eye on it—and how would I explain that? I was still holding the battery. I had almost forgotten it was in my hand. I unclicked the terminal and returned it to the duffel, then put the whole thing back on the floor. I didn’t zip it up. Hunter would have spotted a detail like that. But I pressed the canvas with my foot so that the side pocket appeared closed. Then I opened my magazine.

But I didn’t read it.

I knew. Without a shred of doubt. John Rider—Hunter—was a double agent, a spy sent in by MI6. Now that I thought about it, it was obvious and I should have seen it long ago. On that last night in Malagosto, when we had met in Desmond Nye’s office, I had been quite certain he hadn’t followed me in, and I was right. He had arrived
before
me. He had been there all along. Nye hadn’t left his door open. Hunter must have unlocked it moments before I arrived. He had gone in there for exactly the same reason as me—to get access to Nye’s files. But in his case, he had been searching for information about Scorpia to pass on to his bosses. No wonder he had been so keen to get me out of there. He hadn’t reported me to Nye, not because he was protecting me, but because he didn’t want anyone asking questions about him.

Now I understood why he hadn’t killed the young policeman at Vosque’s apartment. A real assassin wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but a British agent couldn’t possibly behave the same way. He had shot the Commander. There was no doubt about that. But Gabriel Sweetman had been a monster, a major drug trafficker, and the British and American governments would have been delighted to see him executed. What of Vosque himself? He was a senior French officer, no matter what his failings. And it suddenly occurred to me that I only had Hunter’s word for it that he was dead. I hadn’t actually been in the room when the shot was fired. Right now, Vosque could be anywhere. In jail, out of the country . . . but alive!

At the same time I saw, with icy clarity, that John Rider had been sent to do more than spy on Scorpia. He had also been sent to sabotage them. He had been deceiving me, almost from the very start. On the one hand he had been pretending to teach me. I couldn’t deny that I had learned from him. But all the time he had been undermining my confidence. In the jungle, everything he had told me about himself was untrue. He hadn’t killed a man in a pub. He hadn’t been in jail. He had used the story to gain my sympathy and then he had twisted it against me, telling me that I wasn’t cut out to be like him. It was John Rider who had planted the idea that I should run away.

He had done the same thing in Paris. The way he had suddenly turned on me when we were in Vosque’s apartment, asking me to do something that nobody in their right mind would ever do whether they were being paid or not. He had given me that hideous little knife. And he had called Vosque by his real name. Not “the victim.” Not “the Cop.” He had wanted me to think about what I was doing so that I wouldn’t be able to do it. And the result? All the training Scorpia had given me would have been wasted. They would have lost their newest recruit.

Of course Scorpia would have tracked me down. Of course they would have killed me. John Rider had tried to convince me otherwise, but he was probably on the telephone to them even now, warning them I was about to abscond. Why would he risk leaving me alive? Scorpia would have someone waiting for me at Berlin airport. After all, Berlin had been his idea. A taxi would pull up. I would get in. And I would never be seen again.

I was barely breathing. My hands were gripping the magazine so tightly that I was almost tearing it in half. What hurt the most, what filled me with a black, unrelenting hatred, was the knowledge that it had all been fake. It had all been lies. After everything I had been through, the loss of everyone I loved, my daily humiliation at the hands of Vladimir Sharkovsky, the poverty, the hopelessness, I thought I had finally found a friend. I had trusted John Rider and I would have done anything for him. But in a way he was worse than any of them. I was nothing to him. He had secretly been laughing at me—all the time.

I looked up. He was walking toward me.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “You didn’t get your coffee?”

“The queue was too long. Anyway, they’ve just called my flight.”

I glanced at the television screen. That, at least, was true. The flight to Venice was blinking.

“Well, it looks as if it’s good-bye, Yassen. I wish you luck . . . wherever you decide to go.”

“Thank you, Hunter. I’ll never forget you.”

We shook hands. My face gave nothing away.

He picked up his bags and I watched him join the queue and board the flight. He didn’t turn around again. As soon as he was gone, I took my own case and left the airport. I didn’t fly to Berlin. Any flight with the passenger’s names listed on a computer screen would be too dangerous for me. I took the train back into Paris and joined a group of students and backpackers on a Magic Bus to Hamburg. From there, I caught a train to Hanover with a connection to Moscow. It was a journey that would take me thirty-six hours, but that didn’t bother me.