Russian Roulette (Alex Rider)

by Horowitz, Anthony

  But Hunter wasn’t having any of it. “That’s not what Scorpia wants,” he said. “He has to be killed in his home.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that but I knew better than to ask anything more.

  Our Paris holiday was over. Even the weather had changed. On Sunday morning it rained and the whole city seemed to be sulking, the water spitting off the pavements and forming puddles in the roads. This was the day when Vosque was going to die. If we wanted to find him alone in his flat, it made sense. Monday to Friday he would be in his office, which was situated inside the Interior Ministry. According to his file, most evenings he went out drinking or ate with friends in cheap restaurants around the Gare St-Lazare. Sunday for him was dead time – in more than one sense.

  That morning, Annabelle Finnan, the artist who lived next door to Vosque, received a telephone call from the town of Orléans, telling her that her elderly mother had been run over by a van and was unlikely to survive. This was untrue but Annabelle left at once. We were waiting in the street and saw her flag down a taxi. Then we moved forward.

  We were both wearing cheap suits, white shirts and black ties. We were carrying bibles. The disguise had been Hunter’s idea and it was a brilliant one. We had come as Jehovah’s Witnesses. There had been real ones, apparently, working in the area and nobody would have noticed two more, following in their wake. The gendarme in the porter’s lodge saw us and dismissed us in the same instant. We were the last thing he needed on a wet Sunday morning, two Bible-bashers come to preach to him about the end of the world.

  “Not here!” the gendarme grunted. “Thank you very much, my friends. We’re not interested.”

  “But, monsieur…” Hunter began.

  “Just move along…”

  Hunter was holding his bible at a strange angle and I saw his hand press down on the spine. There was a soft hissing sound and the gendarme jerked backwards and collapsed. The bible must have been supplied by Gordon Ross, all the way from Malagosto. It had fired a knock-out dart. I could see the little tuft sticking out of the man’s neck.

  “And on the seventh day, he rested,” Hunter muttered and I recognized the quotation from the second chapter of Genesis.

  The two of us moved into the office. Hunter had brought rope and tape with him. “Tie him up,” he said. “We’ll be gone long before he wakes up but it’s best not to take chances.”

  I did as I was told, securely fastening his wrists and ankles, and using the tape and a balled-up handkerchief to gag his mouth. After everything Hunter had told me, I was a little surprised that he hadn’t simply shot the policeman. Wouldn’t that have been easier? But perhaps, at the end of the day and despite everything he had said, he preferred not to take a life unless it was really necessary.

  With the gendarme hidden away, we walked across the courtyard, our bibles in our hands. I thought we would go straight to Vosque’s door but instead Hunter steered us over to the artist’s flat and rang the bell there. It was a nice touch. She wasn’t in, of course, but if Vosque happened to be watching out of his window, the fact that we were patiently waiting there would make us look completely innocent. We stood outside for a minute or two, ignoring the thin drizzle that was slanting down onto the cobblestones. Hunter pretended to slip a note through the letterbox. Then we went over to Vosque’s place and rang the bell.

  He must have seen us coming and he didn’t suspect a thing. He was already in a bad mood as he opened the door, wearing a vest and pants with a striped dressing gown falling off his shoulders. He hadn’t shaved yet.

  “Get the hell out of here,” he snarled. “I haven’t—”

  That was as far as he got. Hunter didn’t use another anaesthetic dart. He hit him, very hard, under the chin. It wasn’t a killer blow, although it could have been. He caught the Cop as he fell and dragged him into the apartment. I closed the door behind us. We were in.

  The flat 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. Vosque had quite a collection of ties. I took five of them from his wardrobe and used them to bind 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 signalled 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 off. 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 four or five centimetres long.

  “That’s crazy,” I said. I was clinging to the thought that perhaps this was some sort of joke, although there was 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 was 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 sliver 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 five 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 vest, 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 pleased 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.

  МОЩНОСТЬ ПЛЮС

  POWER PLUS

  We went to the airport, sitting together in the back of a taxi with our luggage in the boot. Hunter was flying to Rome and then to Venice, to report to Julia Rothman. I was heading for Berlin. It would have been madness to take a plane to Moscow or anywhere in Russia. That have provided 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 business-like 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, but 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 hotels, 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 further 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 deadly and, deep down, I had worried that I had no place there. What would my parents have thought of me becoming 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 wouldn’t have recognized the man I had almost become.

  For better or for worse, it was over. That was what I told myself. I had a great deal of money with me. Only that morning I had drawn one hundred and fifty thousand euros from my bank account, knowing that when Scorpia discovered I had gone they would freeze the money. I had my freedom. However I looked at it, my situation was a lot better than it had been three 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.”

  Despite 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 holdall. They were both on the floor and for no good reason I picked up the holdall and placed it on the empty seat next to me. As I did so, I noticed that one of the zips was parti
ally undone. I went back to my magazine. Then I stopped. Something had caught my eye. What was it?

  Moving the holdall 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?