Russian Roulette (23 page)

The sound of the gunshot was not loud, but it was close, and my first thought was that I had been targeted. But even as I dropped to one knee, drawing out the Smith & Wesson, I knew that the direction was wrong, that the bullet had not come close. At that moment I was helpless. I had lost my focus, the vital self-knowledge—who I am, where I am, what is around me—that Saburo had drummed into me a hundred times. Anyone could have picked me off.

Kathryn Davis was dead. I saw it at once. She had been shot in the back of the head and lay on a circle of dark grass, her arms and legs stretched out in the shape of a star. There was someone walking toward her, wearing a coat and black gloves, a gun in his hand. I recognized the neat beard, the unworried eyes. It was Marcus, the man who had met me at the hotel.

He checked the body, nodded to himself. Then he saw me. He had his gun. I had mine. But I saw at once that there was no question of our firing at each other. He looked at me almost sadly.

“Make sure you’re on that plane tomorrow,” he said.

I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to explain what had happened, how I felt, but he had already turned his back on me and was walking away into the shadows. In the distance I heard the wail of a police siren. It might have nothing to do with what had happened here. Even if someone had heard the shot, they wouldn’t know where it had come from. But it still warned me that it was time to go.

I walked out of the park and all the way to the Hudson River with the darkened mass of New Jersey in front of me. I took out the gun and weighed it in my hand, feeling nothing but loathing . . . for it and for myself. At the same time, I was aware of the first stirrings of fear. I would pay for this.

I threw the gun into the river. Then I went back to the hotel.

The following day, I left for Venice.

“I
HAVE TO SAY, Yassen, we are extremely disappointed with you.”

Desmond Nye was sitting behind the desk in his darkened office, his hands coming together in a peak in front of his face as if he were at prayer. A single light shone above his head, reflecting in the polished brass buttons on the sleeves of his blazer. His heavy white eyes were fixed on me. He was surrounded by photographs of leering pirates, trapped in the headlines of the world news. His family. He was as ruthless as they were and I wondered why I was still alive. In Silver Forest, an assassin sent by Scorpia had made one mistake. He had emptied his gun into Vladimir Sharkovsky but had failed to finish him, and for that he had been executed, instantly, in front of my eyes. But I was still here. Oliver D’Arc was also in the room, his hands folded in his lap. He had chosen a chair close to the door, as if he wanted to keep as far away from me as possible.

“What do you have to say?” Nye asked.

I had prepared for this scene, on the plane to Rome, the train to Venice, the boat across the lagoon. But now that I was actually sitting here, now that it was happening, it was very hard to keep hold of everything I had rehearsed.

“You knew I wasn’t ready,” I said. I was careful to keep my voice very matter-of-fact. I didn’t want them to think I was accusing them. The important thing was to defend myself without seeming to do so. That was my plan. If I tried to make excuses, it would all be over and Marat or Sam would spend the evening burying me in the wood. I was here for a reason. I still had to prove myself. “Your agent followed me,” I went on. “There was no other reason for him to be in Central Park. And I was never needed. He would have done the job . . . which is exactly what happened. I think you knew I would fail.”

D’Arc twitched slightly. Nye said nothing. His eyes were still boring into me. “It is true that Dr. Steiner was not satisfied with your progress,” he intoned at last. “He warned us that there was a seventy percent probability that you would be unable to fulfill your assignment.”

I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. Dr. Steiner had been hired because he knew what he was doing, and despite my attempts to fool him, he had read me like a book. “If I wasn’t ready, why did you let me go?” I asked.

Very slowly, Nye nodded his head. “You have a point, Yassen. Part of the reason we sent you to New York was an experiment. We wanted to see how you would operate under pressure and in some respects you handled yourself quite well. You successfully broke into the offices of Clarke Davenport, although it might have been wise to change your appearance . . . perhaps the color of your hair. Also, you were seen by a junior partner. That was careless. However, we can overlook that. You did well to work out the movements of your target and Central Park was a sensible choice.”

“But you didn’t kill her!” D’Arc muttered. He sounded angry, like an old lady who had been kept waiting for her afternoon tea.

“Why did you fail?” Nye asked me.

I thought for a moment. “I think it was because she spoke to me,” I said. “I had seen her photograph. I had followed her from the office. But when she spoke to me . . . suddenly everything changed. She became human.”

“Do you think you will ever be able to do this work?”

“Of course. Next time will be different.”

“What makes you think there will be a next time?”

Another silence. The two men were making me sweat, but I didn’t think they were going to kill me. I already had a sense of how Scorpia operated. If they had decided I was no use to them, they wouldn’t have bothered bringing me back to the island. Marcus could have shot me down with the same gun he had used on Kathryn Davis. I could have been stabbed or strangled on the boat and dropped overboard. These were people who didn’t waste their time.

Nye could see that I had worked it out. “All right,” he said. “We will draw a red line under this disappointing event. You are very fortunate, Yassen, that Mrs. Rothman has taken a personal liking to you. It’s also to your advantage that you’ve had such excellent reports from your instructors. Even Dr. Steiner believes there is something special about you. We believe that you may one day become the very best in your profession—and whatever the reputation of our organization, we haven’t forgotten that you are very young. Everyone deserves a second chance. Just be aware that there won’t be a third.”

I didn’t thank him. It would only have annoyed him.

“We have decided to take your training up a notch. We are aware that you need to make a mental adjustment, and so we want you to go back out into the field as soon as possible—but this time in the company of another agent, a new recruit. He is a man who has already killed for us on two occasions. By staying close to him, you will learn survival techniques, but more than that, we hope he will be able to provide you with the edge that you seem to lack.”

“He is a remarkable man,” D’Arc added. “A British soldier who has seen action in Ireland and Africa. I think the two of you will get on famously.”

“You will have dinner with him tonight in Venice,” Nye said. “And you will spend a few weeks training with him, here on the island. As soon as he agrees that you are ready, the two of you will leave together. First you will be going to South America, to Peru. He has a target there and we’re just arranging the final details. Assuming that goes well, you will return to Europe and there will be a second assignment, in Paris. The more time you spend together, the better. There’s only so much you can achieve in the classroom. I think you will find this experience to be invaluable.”

“What’s his name?” I asked.

“When you are traveling together, you will address each other using code names only,” Nye replied. “We have chosen a good one for you. You will be Cossack. There was a time when the Cossacks were famous soldiers and they were much feared. I hope it will inspire you.”

I nodded. “And his?”

A man stepped forward. He had been standing in the room, observing me all the time, lost in the shadows. It seemed incredible to me that I hadn’t noticed him, but at the same moment I understood that he must be a master in the ninja techniques taught by Hatsumi Saburo, that he was able to hide in plain sight. He was in his late twenties and still looked like a soldier in his physique, in the way he carried himself, in his close-cut brown hair. His eyes were also brown, watchful and serious, yet with just a hint of humor. He was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. Even as he walked toward me, I saw that he was more relaxed than anyone I had met on the island. Both Nye and Oliver D’Arc seemed almost nervous of him. He was totally in control.

He reached out a hand. I shook it. He had a firm clasp.

“Hello, Yassen,” he said. “I’m John Rider. The code name they’ve given me is Hunter.”

I
DON’T KNOW WHY, BUT I
often think of Alex Rider.

We first crossed paths during the Stormbreaker business, but it sometimes seems to me that our lives were like two mirrors placed opposite each other, reflecting endless possibilities. It’s strange that when I met his father, Alex hadn’t even been born. That was still a few months away. But those months, my time with John Rider, made a huge difference to me. He wasn’t even ten years older than me, but from the very start I knew that he had come from a completely different world and that we would never be on the same level. I would always look up to him.

We had dinner that night at a restaurant he knew near the Arsenale, a dark, quiet place run by a scowling woman who spoke no English and dressed in black. The food was excellent. Hunter had chosen a booth in the corner, tucked away behind a pillar, somewhere we would not be overheard. I call him that because it was the name he told me to use from the very start. He had good reason to hide his identity—there had been stories written about him in the British press—and there was less chance of my letting it slip out if it never once crossed my lips.

He ordered drinks—not alcohol but a red fruit syrup made from pomegranates called grenadine, which I had never tasted before. He spoke good Italian, though with an accent. And just as I had noted at our first meeting, he had an extraordinary ease about him, that quiet confidence. He was the sort of man you couldn’t help liking. Even the elderly owner warmed up a little as she took the order.

“I want you to tell me about yourself,” he said as the first course, pink slivers of prosciutto ham and chilled melon, was served. “I’ve read your file. I know what’s happened to you. But I don’t know you.”

“I don’t know where to start,” I said.

“What was the best present anyone ever gave you?”

The question surprised me. It was the last thing anyone in Malagosto would have asked or would have wanted to know. I had to think for a moment. “I’m not sure,” I said. “Maybe it was the bicycle I was given when I was eleven. It was important to me because everyone in the village had one. It put me on the same level as all the other boys and it set me free.” I thought again. “No. It was this.” I slid back the cuff of my jacket. I was still wearing my Pobeda watch. After the loss of my mother’s ring, it was the only part of my old life that had remained with me. In a way, it was quite extraordinary that I still had it, that I hadn’t been forced to pawn it in Moscow or had it stolen from me by Ivan at the dacha. After everything I had been through, it was still working, ticking away and never losing a minute. “It was my grandfather’s,” I explained. “He’d given it to my father and my father passed it on to me. I was nine years old. I was very proud that he thought I was ready for it, and now, when I look at it, it reminds me of him.”

“Tell me about your grandfather.”

“I don’t really remember him. I only knew him when we were in Moscow and we left when I was two. He only came to Estrov a few times and he died when I was young.” I thought of the wife he had left behind. My grandmother. The last time I had seen her, she had been at the sink, peeling potatoes. Almost certainly she would have been standing there when the flames engulfed the house. “My father said he was a great man,” I recalled. “He was there at Stalingrad in 1943. He fought against the Nazis.”

“You admire him for that?”

“Of course.”

“What is your favorite food?”

I wondered if he was being serious. Was he playing psychological games with me, like Dr. Steiner? “Caviar,” I replied. I had tasted it at dinner parties at the dacha. Vladimir Sharkovsky used to eat mounds of it, washed down with iced vodka.

“Which shoelace do you tie first?”

“Why are you asking me these questions?” I snapped.

“Are you angry?”

I didn’t deny it. “What does it matter which shoelace I tie first?” I said. I glanced briefly at my sneakers. “My right foot. okay? I’m right-handed. Now are you going to explain what exactly that tells you about who I am?”

“Relax, Cossack.” He smiled at me and although I was still puzzled, I found it difficult to be annoyed with him for very long. Perhaps he was playing with me, but there didn’t seem to be anything malicious about it. I waited to hear what he would ask next. Again, he took me by surprise. “Why do you think you were unable to kill that woman in New York?” he asked.

“You already know,” I said. “You were in the study when I told Desmond Nye.”

“You said it was because she spoke to you. But I don’t think I believe you . . . not completely. From what I understand, you could have gunned her down at any time. You could have done it when she turned the corner from the museum. You were certainly close enough to her when you were at Cleopatra’s Needle.”

“I couldn’t do it then. There were two people running, joggers . . .”

“I know. I was one of them.”

“What?” I was startled.

“Don’t worry about it, Cossack. Desmond Nye asked me to take a look at you, so I was there. We actually flew here on the same plane.” He raised his glass as if he was toasting me and drank. “The fact is that you had plenty of opportunities. You know that. You waited until she turned around and talked to you. I think you wanted her to talk to you because it would give you an excuse. I think you’d already made up your mind.”

He wasn’t exactly accusing me. There was nothing in his face that suggested he was doing anything more than stating the obvious. But I found myself reddening. Although I would never have admitted it to Nye or D’Arc, it was possible he was right.

“I won’t fail again,” I said.

“I know,” he replied. “And let’s not talk about it anymore. You’re not being punished. I’m here to try and help. So tell me about Venice. I haven’t had a chance to explore it yet. And I’d be interested to hear what you think about Julia Rothman. Quite a woman, wouldn’t you say?”

The second course arrived, a plate of homemade spaghetti with fresh sardines. In my time at Malagosto, I had come to love Italian food and I said so. Hunter smiled, but I got the strange feeling that, once again, I had said the wrong thing.

For the next hour we talked together, avoiding anything to do with Malagosto, my training, Scorpia, or anything else. He didn’t tell me very much about himself, but he mentioned that he lived in London and I asked him lots of questions about the city, which I had always hoped to visit. The one thing he let slip was that he had been married—although I should have noticed myself. He had a plain gold ring on his third finger. He didn’t say anything about his wife and I wondered if he was divorced.

The bill arrived. “It’s time to go back,” Hunter said as he counted out the cash. “But before we go, I think I should tell you something, Cossack. Scorpia have high hopes for you. They think you have the makings of a first-rate assassin. I don’t agree. I would say you have a long way to go before you’re ready. It’s possible you never will be.”

“How can you say that?” I replied. I was completely thrown. I had enjoyed the evening and thought there was some sort of understanding between the two of us. It was as if he had turned around and slapped me in the face. “You hardly know me,” I said.

“You’ve told me enough.” He leaned toward me and suddenly he was deadly serious. At that moment I knew that he was dangerous, that I could never relax completely when I was with him. “You want to be a contract killer?” he asked. “Every answer you gave me was wrong. You tie your shoelaces with your right hand. You are right-handed. A successful assassin will be as comfortable shooting with his right hand as with his left. He has to be invisible. He has no habits. Everything he does in his life, right down to the smallest detail, he does differently every time. The moment his enemies learn something about him, the easier it is to find him, to profile him, to trap him.

“So that means you can’t have preferences. Not French food, not Italian food. If you have a favorite meal, a favorite drink, a favorite anything, that gives your enemy ammunition. Cossack is fond of caviar. Do you know how many shops there are in London that sell caviar, how many restaurants that serve it? Not many. The intelligence services may not know your name. They may not know what you look like. But if they discover what you like, they’ll be watching, and you’ll have made it that much easier for them to find you.

“You talk to me about your grandfather. Forget him. He’s dead and you have nothing more to do with him. If he’s anything to you, he’s your enemy because if the intelligence services can find him, they’ll dig him up and take his DNA and that will lead them to you. Why are you so proud of the fact that he fought against the Nazis? Is it because they’re the bad guys? Forget it! You’re the bad guy now . . . as bad as any of them. In fact, you’re worse, because you have no beliefs. You kill simply because you’re paid. And while you’re at it, you might as well stop talking about Nazis, Communists, Fascists, the Ku Klux Klan . . . as far as you’re concerned, you have no politics and every political party is the same. You no longer believe in anything, Cossack. You don’t even believe in God. That is the choice you’ve made.”

He paused.

“Why did you blush when I asked you about New York?”

“Because you were right.” What else could I say?

“You showed your feelings to me here, at this table. You’re embarrassed, so you blush. You got angry when I asked you about your laces, and you showed that too. Are you going to cry when you meet your next target? Are you going to tremble when you’re interviewed by the police? If you cannot learn to hide your emotions, you might as well give up now. And then there’s your watch.”

I knew he would come to that. I wished now that I hadn’t mentioned it.

“You are Cossack, the invisible killer. You’ve been successful in New York, in Paris, in Peru. But the police examine the security footage and what do they see? Somebody was there at all three scenes and—guess what?—he was wearing a Russian watch, a Pobeda. You might as well leave a visiting card next to the body.” He shook his head. “If you want to be in this business, sentimentality is the last thing you can afford. Trust me, it will kill you.”

“I understand,” I said.

“I’m glad. Did you enjoy the meal?”

I was about to answer. Then I had second thoughts. “Perhaps it’s better if I don’t tell you,” I said.

Hunter nodded and got to his feet. “Well, you wolfed it down fast enough. Let’s get back to the island. Tomorrow I want to see you fight.”

• • •

He made me fight like no one else.

The next morning, at nine o’clock, we met in the gymnasium. When there were monks on the island, this might have been where they took their meals, sitting in silence and contemplation. The room was long and narrow with walls that curved overhead and windows that were too high up to provide a view. But since then it had been adapted with arc lights, stadium seating, and a fighting area fifteen meters square made up of a tatami mat that offered little comfort when you fell. We were both dressed in
karategi,
the white, loose-fitting tunics and pants used in karate. Hatsumi Saburo was watching from one of the stands. I could tell that he was not happy. He was sitting with his legs apart, his hands on his knees, almost challenging the new arrival to take him on. Marat and Sam were also there, along with a new student who had just arrived, a young Chinese guy who never spoke a word to me and whose name I never learned.

We walked onto the mat together and stood face-to-face. Hunter was about eight centimeters taller than me and heavier, more muscular. I knew he would have an advantage over me both in his physical reach and in the fact that he was more experienced. He began by bowing toward me, the traditional
rei
that is the first thing every combatant learns at judo school. I bowed back. And that was my first mistake. I didn’t even see the move. Something slammed into the side of my face and suddenly I was on my back, tasting blood where I had bitten my tongue.

Hunter leaned over me. “What do you think this is?” he demanded. “You think we’re here to play games, to be polite to each other? That’s your first mistake, Cossack. You shouldn’t trust me. Don’t trust anyone.”

He reached out a hand to help me to my feet. I took it—but instead of getting up, I suddenly changed my grip, pulling him toward me and pressing down on his wrist. I’d adapted a
ninjutsu
move known as
ura gyaku,
or the inside twist, and it should have brought him spinning onto the mat. I thought I heard a grunt of satisfaction from HS, but it might just as well have been derision because Hunter had been expecting my move and slammed his knee into my upper arm. If I hadn’t let go, he’d have broken it. Instantly, I rolled aside, just missing a foot strike that whistled past my head. A second later, I was on my feet. The two of us squared up again, both of us taking the number one posture—arms raised, our bodies turned so as to provide the smallest target possible.

I learned more in the next twenty minutes than I had in my entire time in Malagosto. No. That’s not quite true. With HS and Mr. Nye I had acquired a thorough grounding in judo, karate and
ninjutsu
. In an incredibly short amount of time, they had taken me all the way from novice to third or second
kyu
—which is to say, green or blue belt. I would spend the rest of my life building on what they had given me, and they were both far ahead of Hunter when it came to basic martial arts technique. But he had something they hadn’t. As Oliver D’Arc had told me, he had seen action as a soldier in Africa and Ireland. I would later learn that he had been with the Parachute Regiment, a rapid intervention strike force and one of the toughest outfits in the British army. He knew how to fight in a way that they didn’t. They taught me the rules, but he broke them. In that first fight we had together, he did things that simply shouldn’t have worked but somehow did. Once or twice I glimpsed HS shaking his head in disbelief, watching his own training manual being torn up. I was knocked down half a dozen times and not once did I see the move coming. Nothing I had been taught seemed to work against him.