Russian Roulette (18 page)

He nodded once. “Very well. Let’s go.”

We left together, back down the corridor, past the room with the dead woman. I was terrified. I was with a man who had just killed three people without even blinking and I knew that he would make me the fourth if I gave him the slightest chance. I made sure I didn’t get too close to him. If he hit out at me or tried to grab me, I would fire the gun. This one wasn’t silenced. The sound of the explosion would act as a general alarm.

Rykov didn’t seem at all concerned. He didn’t speak as we left the house and walked through the half-darkness together, skirting the fountain and making our way across the lawn toward the helicopter. And it had been true, what I had told him. One of the guards saw us but did nothing. The fact that I was walking with him meant that everything had to be okay.

But Zelin was shocked when he saw the two of us together. “What is he doing?” he shouted.

I could barely hear a word he said, but the meaning was obvious. I was struggling to keep the gun steady, feeling the wind from the rotors buffeting my arms. I knew that this was the most dangerous part. As we climbed in, the mechanic could wrench the gun away and kill me with it. He could probably kill me with his bare hands. I wasn’t sure if I should go in first or second. What if he had another gun hidden under one of the seats?

I made my decision. “I’m getting in first!” I shouted. “You follow!”

As I climbed into the backseat, I kept the gun pointed at Zelin, not the mechanic. I knew that Rykov couldn’t fly. If he tried anything, I would shoot the pilot and we would both be stuck. I think he understood my strategy. There was actually something close to a smile on his face as he climbed into the seat next to the pilot.

Zelin shouted something else. The mechanic leaned forward and shouted back into his ear. Again, it was impossible to hear. For all I knew, he was sentencing me to death. I might have the advantage now, but their moment would come while we were flying or perhaps when we landed. I wouldn’t be able to keep them both covered and one of them would get me.

An alarm went off in the house, even louder than the scream of the helicopter. At once, the arc lamps all exploded into life. Two of the guards started running toward us, lifting their weapons. At the same time, a jeep appeared from the gatehouse, its headlights blazing, tearing across the grass. The mechanic slammed the door and Zelin hit the controls. The muzzles of the automatic machine guns were flashing in the darkness. Machine gun bullets were strafing past. One of them hit the cockpit but ricocheted away uselessly, and I realized that, of course, it must be armored glass.

The helicopter rose. It turned. It rocked above the lawn as if anchored there, unable to lift off. Bullets filled the air like fireflies.

And then Zelin jerked the cyclic. The helicopter twisted around one last time, and carrying me with it, it soared away, over the wall, over the forest, and into the darkening sky.

I
HAD DONE IT. FOR
the first time in four long years I was outside the compound. Even if I hadn’t been sitting in a helicopter, I would have felt as if I were flying.

Sharkovsky was dead. It was nothing less than he deserved and I was glad that he would not be able to come after me. Would I be blamed for his death? The guards had seen me leave with Rykov. They knew I was part of what had happened. But I had not been the one who had invited the mechanic into the house. That had been Zelin. With a bit of luck, Sharkovsky’s people would concentrate on the two of them and they would forget about me.

I was not safe yet. Far from it.

Both Zelin and Rykov had put on headphones, and although the blast of the rotors made conversation impossible for me, they were able to talk freely. What were they planning? I knew Zelin had been angry to see me but he was not the one in charge. Everything depended on Rykov. It might well be that he had already radioed ahead. There could be people waiting for me when we landed. I could be dragged out of my seat and shot. I knew already that human life meant nothing to the so-called mechanic. He had killed Nina, Josef, and Sharkovsky without batting an eyelid. It would make no difference to him if he added an unknown teenager to the score.

But I didn’t care. I hated myself at the dacha. I was eighteen years old, still cleaning toilets and sweeping corridors, kneeling in front of Ivan to polish his shoes or, worse, still performing like a trained monkey at his father’s dinner parties. It had been necessary to do these things to live, but what was the point of a life so debased? If I were to die now, at least it would be on my own terms. I had grabbed hold of the opportunity. I had escaped. I had proved to myself that I was not beaten after all.

And there were so many other things I was experiencing for the first time. I had never flown before. Even to sit in the luxurious leather seat of the Bell Jet Ranger was extraordinary. It had once been my dream to fly helicopters and here I was, gazing over Zelin’s shoulder, watching him as he manipulated the controls. I wished I could see more of the countryside, but it was already dark and the outskirts of Moscow were little more than a scattering of electric lights. I didn’t mind if I was being taken to my death. I was happy! Sharkovsky was finished. I had got away. I was flying.

After about ten minutes, Rykov turned around with a plastic bottle of water in his hand. He was offering it to me. I shook my head. At the same time, I retreated into the farthest corner, once again raising the gun. I was afraid of a trick. Rykov shrugged as if to say that I was making a mistake but he understood and turned back again. We continued for another half hour, then began to descend. It was only the pressure in my ears that warned me. Looking out of the window, I got the idea we must be above water; everything seemed to be black. Gently, we touched down. Zelin hit the controls and the engine stopped, the rotors slowing down.

Rykov took off his headphones and hung them up. Then he turned and faced me. “What now?” he asked.

“Where are we?” I demanded.

“On the edge of a town called Boltino. To the north of Moscow.” He unfastened his seat belt. “You have your wish, Yassen. You have escaped from Vladimir Sharkovsky. I’m sure we all agree that the world is a better place without him. As for Arkady and me, we have a plane waiting to take us on the next leg of our journey. I’m afraid we have to say good-bye.”

Ignoring the gun, almost forgetting I was there, Rykov opened the door and let himself out of the helicopter.

Arkady Zelin turned to me. “You shouldn’t have done this,” he hissed. “You don’t know these people.”

“Who are they?” I asked. I remembered the name I had heard. “Scorpia.”

“They will kill you.” He undid his own belt and scrambled out, following the mechanic.

Suddenly, I didn’t want to be left on my own. I went after them. Looking around me, I had no idea why we had landed here. The helicopter was resting on a strip of mud that was so light colored that on second thought I realized it must be sand. An expanse of water stretched out next to it with about thirty sailing boats and cruisers moored to a jetty. There were trees on either side of us and what looked like wooden hangars or warehouses behind. The mechanic had been doing something to himself as I climbed down, and by the time I reached him, I was astonished to see that he had completely changed his appearance. The tangled gray hair was a wig. Underneath, his hair was the same color as mine, short and neatly cut. There had been something in his mouth that had changed the shape of his face, and the folds of flesh around his chin were gone. He was suddenly slimmer and younger. He stripped out of his oily overalls. Underneath he was wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. The man who had come to the dacha in a green van marked MVZ Helicopters had disappeared. Nobody would ever see him again.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“We are leaving the country.”

“In a boat?”

“In a plane, Yassen.”

I looked around me, confused. How could a plane possibly land here?

“A seaplane,” he went on. “Don’t you see it?”

And there it was, sitting flat in the water with a pilot already in the cockpit, waiting to fly them to their next destination. The seaplane was white. It had two propellers perched high up on the wings and a tail that was higher still so that, even without moving, it looked as if it were trying to lift itself into the air.

“Take me with you,” I said.

The mechanic who was no longer a mechanic smiled once again. “Why should I do that?”

I still had the gun. I could have forced him to take me . . . or tried to. But I knew that was a bad idea, that it would only end up getting me killed. Instead, I had to make a gesture, to show them I could be trusted. It was a terrible risk but I knew there was no other way. I turned the gun around in my hand and gave it to him. He looked genuinely surprised. He could shoot me where I stood and no one would be any the wiser. Apart from Zelin and the waiting pilot, there was nobody near.

“I saved your life,” I said. “And I don’t know why you killed Sharkovsky, but you couldn’t have hated him more than I did. We’re on the same side.”

He weighed the gun. Zelin watched the two of us, his face pale.

“I’m not on any side. I was paid to kill him,” Rykov said.

“Then take me with you. It doesn’t matter where you’re going. Maybe I can work for you. I can be useful to you. I’ll do anything you tell me. I speak four languages. I . . .” My voice trailed away.

Rykov was still holding the gun. Perhaps he was amused. Perhaps he was wondering where to fire the next bullet. It was impossible to tell what was going on in his head. Eventually he spoke—but not to me. “What do you think, Arkady?” asked.

“I think we should leave,” Zelin said.

“With or without our extra passenger?”

There was a pause and I knew my life was hanging in the balance. Arkady Zelin had known me for four years. He had played cards with me. I had never been a threat to him. Surely he wouldn’t abandon me now.

At last he made up his mind. “With him, if you like. He’s not so bad. And they treated him like a dog.”

“Very well.” Rykov slid the gun into his waistband. “It may well be that my employers have a use for you. They can make the final decision. But until then, you do exactly as you’re told.”

“Yes, sir.”

“There’s no need to call me that.”

He was already walking down the jetty to the plane. The pilot saw him and flicked on the engine. It sounded like one of the gas lawnmowers at the dacha, and looking at the tiny propellers, the ungainly wings, I wondered how it could possibly separate itself from the water and fly. Arkady Zelin was carrying a travel bag that he had brought from the helicopter. It occurred to me that everything he owned must be inside it. He was leaving Russia, and if he was wise, he would never come back. Sharkovsky’s people might leave me alone but they would certainly be looking for him. It was impossible to say how much Zelin had been paid for his part in all this, but I hoped the price included a completely new identity.

We got into the plane, a four-seater. I was lucky there was room for me. The new pilot ignored me. He knew better than to ask unnecessary questions.

But I had to know. “Where are we going?” I asked for a second time.

“To Venice,” Rykov said.

And to Scorpia,
he might have added. The most dangerous criminal organization in the world.

I was about to walk right into its arms.

I
T WAS NIGHTTIME
when we landed.

Once again we came plunging out of the darkness with only the sound of the engine and the rising feeling in my stomach to tell me we had reached the end of our journey. The seaplane hit the water, bounced, then skimmed along the surface before finally coming to rest. The pilot turned off the engine and we were suddenly sitting in complete silence, rocking gently on the water. Looking out of the window, I could make out a few lights twinkling in the distance. I glanced at Rykov, his face illuminated by the glow of the control panels, trying to work out what was going on in his mind. I was still afraid he would turn around and shoot me. He gave nothing away.

What next?

Although I didn’t know it at the time, Venice was surrounded by water, a perfect destination for those traveling by seaplane, particularly if they wished to arrive without being seen. It is possible, of course, that the Italian police and air traffic control had been bribed, but nobody seemed to have noticed that we had landed. For about two minutes, nobody spoke. Then I heard the deep throb of an engine and, with my face pressed against the window, I saw a motor launch slip out of the darkness and draw up next to us. The captain opened the door and we climbed out.

The motor launch was about ten meters long, made of wood, with a cabin at the front and leather seats behind. There were two men on board, a captain and a deckhand who helped us climb down. If they were surprised to find themselves with an extra passenger, they didn’t show it. They said nothing. Rykov gestured and I sat out in the open at the back of the launch, even though the night was chilly. Zelin sat opposite me. He was clutching his travel bag, deep in thought.

We set off and as we went I heard the seaplane start up and take off again. I was already impressed. Everything about this operation had been well planned and executed down to the last detail. There had only been one mistake . . . and that was me. It took us about ten minutes to make the crossing, pulling into a ramshackle wooden jetty with striped poles slanting in different directions. Rykov dismounted and waited for me to follow, but Zelin stayed where he was and I realized he was not coming with us.

I held out a hand to the helicopter pilot. “Thank you,” I said. “Thank you for letting me come with you.”

“That place was horrible and Sharkovsky was beneath contempt,” Zelin replied. “All those things they did to you . . . I’m sorry I didn’t help.”

“It’s over now.”

“For both of us.” He shook my hand. “I hope it works out for you, Yassen. Take care.”

I climbed onto the jetty and the boat pulled away. Moments later it had disappeared over the lagoon.

Rykov and I continued on foot. He took me to an apartment in the largest quarter of Venice, an area called Castello, near the old dockyards where we had disembarked. Why do I call him Rykov? As I was soon to discover, it was not his name. He was not a mechanic. I’m not even sure that he was Russian, although he spoke my language fluently. He told me nothing about himself in the time I was with him and I was wise enough not to ask. When you are in his sort of business—now my business—you are not defined by who you are but by who you are not. If you want to stay ahead of the police and the investigation agencies, you must never leave a trace of yourself behind.

We reached a doorway between two shops on an anonymous street. Rykov unlocked it and we entered a hallway with a narrow, twisting staircase leading up. His apartment was on the fourth floor. He unlocked a second door and turned on the light. I found myself in a square, whitewashed room with a high ceiling and exposed beams. It had very little personality and I guessed it was merely somewhere he stayed when he was in Venice rather than a home. The furniture looked new. There was a sofa facing a television, a dining table with four chairs, and a small kitchen. The pictures on the wall were views of the city, probably the same views you could see if you opened the shutters. It did not feel as if anyone had been here for some time.

“Are you hungry?” Rykov asked.

I shook my head. “No. I’m okay.”

“There are some cans in the cupboard if you want.”

I was hungry. But I was tired too. In fact, I was exhausted as all the suffering of the last four years suddenly drained out of me. It had all ended so quickly. I still couldn’t quite accept it. “What happens now?” I asked.

Rykov pointed at a door that I hadn’t noticed, next to the fridge. “There’s only one bedroom here,” he said. “You can sleep on the couch. I have to go out but I’ll be back later. Don’t try to leave here. Do you understand me? You’re to stay in this room. And don’t use the telephone either. If you do, I’ll know.”

“I don’t have anyone to call,” I said. “And I don’t have anywhere to go either.”

He nodded. “Good. I’ll get you some blankets before I leave. Help yourself to anything you need.”

A short while later, he left. I drank some water, then made up a bed on the couch and lay down without getting undressed. I was asleep instantly. It was the first time I had slept outside my small wooden cabin in four years.

I didn’t hear Rykov come back, but I was woken up by him the following morning as he folded back the shutters and let in the sun. He had changed once again and it took me a few moments to remember who he was. He was wearing a suit and sunglasses. There was a gold chain around his neck. He looked slim and very fit, ten years younger than the mechanic who had come to mend the Bell Jet Ranger.

“It’s nine o’clock,” he said. “I can’t believe Sharkovsky let you sleep this long. Is that when you started work?”

“No,” I replied. At the dacha, I’d woken every morning at six.

“You can use my shower. I’ve left you a fresh shirt. I think it’s your size. Don’t take too long. I want to get some breakfast.”

Ten minutes later, I was washed and dried, wearing a pale blue T-shirt that fit me well. Rykov took me out and for the first time I saw Venice in the light of an autumn day.

There is simply nowhere in the world like it. Even today, when I am not working, this is somewhere I will come to unwind. I love to sit outside while the sun sets, watching the seagulls circling and the traffic crossing back and forth across the lagoon . . . the water taxis, the water ambulances, the classic speedboats, the vaporettos, and of course the gondolas. I can walk for hours through the streets and alleyways that seem to play cat and mouse with the canals, suddenly bringing you to a church, a fountain, a statue, a tiny humpback bridge . . . or perhaps depositing you in a great square with bands playing, waiters circling, and tourists everywhere. Every corner has another surprise. Every street is a work of art. I am glad I have never killed anyone there.

Rykov took me to a café around the corner from his apartment, an old-fashioned place with a tiled floor, a long counter, and a giant-sized coffee machine that blew out clouds of steam. We sat together at a little antique table and he ordered cappuccinos, orange juice, and
tremezzini
—little sandwiches made out of soft bread with smoked ham and cheese. I hadn’t eaten for about twenty hours and this was my first taste of Italian food. I wolfed them down and didn’t complain when he ordered a second plate. There was a canal running past outside and I was fascinated to see the different boats passing so close to the window.

“So your name is Yassen Gregorovich,” he said. He had been speaking in English ever since we had arrived in Venice. Perhaps he was testing me—although it was more likely that he had decided to leave the Russian language behind, along with the rest of the character he had been. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen,” I said. I thought for a moment. “Almost nineteen.”

“Sharkovsky kidnapped you in Moscow. He kept you his prisoner for more than four years. You were his food taster. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“You’re lucky. We tried to poison him once and we were considering a second attempt. Your parents are dead?”

“Yes.”

“Arkady Zelin told me about you in the helicopter. And about Sharkovsky. I don’t know why you put up with it so long. Why didn’t you just put a knife into the bastard?”

“Because I wanted to live,” I said. “Karl or Josef would have killed me if I’d tried.”

“You were prepared to spend the rest of your life working for him?”

“I did what I had to to survive. Now he’s dead and I’m here.”

“That’s true.”

Rykov took out a cigarette and lit it. He did not offer me one, nor did I want it. This was the one good thing that had come out of my time at the dacha. I had not been allowed to have cigarettes and so I had been forced to give up smoking. I have never smoked since.

“Who are you?” I asked. “And who are Scorpia? Did they pay you to kill Sharkovsky?”

“I’ll give you a piece of advice, Yassen. Don’t ask questions and never mention that name again. Certainly not in public.”

“I’d like to know why I’m here. When we were in Boltino, it would have been easier for you to kill me.”

“Don’t think I wasn’t tempted. As it is, it may be that I’ve made a bad mistake. We’ll see.” He drew on the cigarette. “The only reason I didn’t kill you is because I owed you. It was stupid of me not to see the second bodyguard. I don’t usually make mistakes and I’d be dead if it wasn’t for you. But before you get any fancy ideas, we’re quits. The debt is canceled. From now on, you’re nothing to me. You’re not going to work for me. And whatever happens to you, I don’t really care.”

“So why am I here?”

Because the people I work for want to see you. We’re going there now.”

“There?”

“The Widow’s Palace. We’ll get a boat.”

From the name, I expected somewhere somber, an old, dark building with black curtains drawn across the windows. But in fact the Widow’s Palace was an astonishing place, like something out the storybooks I had read as a child, built out of pink and white bricks, with dozens of windows glittering in the sun. There was a covered walkway on the level of the first floor, stretching from one end to the other, held up by slender pillars with archways below. And the palace wasn’t standing beside the canal. It was actually sinking into it. The water was lapping at the front door with the white marble steps disappearing below the murky surface.

We pulled in and entered. There was a man standing at the entrance, bald with thick shoulders, wearing a white shirt and a black suit. Briefly, he examined us, then nodded for us to continue forward. Already I was regretting this. As I passed from the sunlight to the shadows of the interior, I was thinking of what Zelin had said as he left the helicopter.
“You don’t know these people. They will kill you.”
Maybe four long years taking orders from Vladimir Sharkovsky had clouded my judgment. I was no longer used to making decisions.

A massive spiral staircase—white marble with wrought iron banisters—rose up, twisting over itself. Rykov went first and I followed a few steps behind, neither of us speaking. I was nervous but he was completely at ease, one hand in his pants pocket, taking his time. We came to a corridor lined with paintings: portraits of men and women who must have died centuries before. They stood in their gold frames, watching us pass. We walked down to a pair of doors, and before he opened them, Rykov turned and spoke briefly, quietly.

“Say nothing until you are spoken to. Tell the truth. She will know if you’re lying.”

She? The widow?

He knocked and without waiting for an answer opened the doors and went through.

The woman who was waiting for us was surely too young to have married and lost a husband. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-six or twenty-seven, and my first thought was that she was very beautiful. My second was that she was dangerous. She was quite short, with long, black hair, tied back. It contrasted with the paleness of her skin. She wore no makeup apart from a smear of crimson lipstick that was so bright it was almost cruel. She was dressed in a black silk shirt, open at the neck. A simple gold necklace twisted around her neck. She could have been a model or an actress, but there was something that danced in her eyes and told me she was neither.

She was sitting behind a very elegant, ornate table with a line of windows behind her, looking out on the Grand Canal. Two chairs had been placed in front of her and we took our places without waiting to be told. She had not been doing anything when we came in. It was clear that she had simply been waiting for us.

“Mr. Grant,” she said, and it took me a moment to realize she was talking to Rykov. “How did it go?” Her voice was very young. She spoke English with a strange accent that I couldn’t place.

“There was no problem, Mrs. Rothman,” Rykov—or Grant—replied.

“You killed Sharkovsky?”

“Three bullets. I got into the compound thanks to the helicopter pilot. He flew me out again. Everything went according to plan.”

“Not quite.” She smiled and her eyes were bright, but I knew something bad was coming and I was right. Slowly she turned to face me as if noticing me for the first time. Her eyes lingered on me. I couldn’t tell what was in her mind. “I do not remember asking you to bring me a Russian boy.”