Russian Roulette (21 page)

I was terrified of giving any of this away with Dr. Steiner. I always thought before I answered any of his questions and tried to tell him what he wanted to hear, not what I really thought. I was afraid that if he caught sight of my weakness, my training would be canceled and the next recruit would end up burying me in the woods. The secret was to be completely emotionless. Sometimes he showed me horrible pictures—scenes of war and violence. I tried not to look at the dead and mutilated bodies, but then he would ask me questions about them and I would find myself having to describe everything in detail, trying to keep the quiver out of my voice. And yet I thought I was getting away with it. At the end of each session, he would take my hand—cupping it in both of his own—and purr at me, “Well done, Yassen. That was very, very good.” As far as I could tell, he had no idea at all what was really going on in my head.

And then, at last, the day came when Oliver D’Arc called me to his study. As I entered, he was tuning the cello, which was an instrument he played occasionally. The room was a mess with books everywhere and papers spilling out of drawers. It smelled of tobacco, although I never saw him smoke.

“Ah, Yassen!” he exclaimed. “I’m afraid you’re going to miss evening training. Mrs. Rothman is back in Venice. You’re to have dinner with her. Make sure you wear your best clothes. A launch will pick you up at seven o’clock.”

When I had first come to the island, I might have asked why she wanted to see me, but by now I knew that I would always be given all the information I needed and to ask for more was only to show weakness.

“It looks like you’re going to be leaving us,” he went on.

“My training is finished.”

“Yes.”

He plucked one of the strings. “You’ve done very well, my dear boy,” he said. “And I must say, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed tutoring you. And now your moment has come. Good luck!”

From this, I understood that my final test had arrived . . . the solo kill. My training was over. My life as an assassin was about to begin.

And that night, I met Julia Rothman for the second time. She had sent her personal launch to collect me, a beautiful vessel that was all teak and chrome with a silver scorpion molded into the bow. It carried me beneath the famous Bridge of Sighs—I hoped that was not an omen—and on to the Widow’s Palace where we had first met. She was dressed, once again, in black; this time a very low-cut dress with a zip down one side, which I recognized at once as the work of the designer Gianni Versace. We ate in her private dining room, a long table lit by candles and surrounded by paintings—Picasso, Cézanne, van Gogh—all of them worth millions. We began with soup, then lobster, finally a creamy custard mixed with wine that the Italians call
zabaglione.
The food was delicious, but as I ate I was aware of her examining me, watching every mouthful, and I knew that I was still being tested.

“I’m very pleased with you, Yassen,” she said as the coffee was poured. The whole meal had been served by two men in white jackets and black pants, her personal waiters. “Do you think you’re ready?”

“Yes, Mrs. Rothman,” I replied.

“You can stop calling me that now.” She smiled at me and I was once again struck by her film-star looks. “I prefer Julia.”

There was a file on the table beside her. It hadn’t been there when we started. One of the waiters had brought it in with the coffee. She opened it. First she took out a printed report.

“You’re naturally gifted . . . an excellent marksman. Hatsumi Saburo speaks very highly of your abilities. I see also that you have learned from the Countess. Your manners are faultless. Six months ago you wouldn’t have been able to sit at a table like this without giving yourself away, but you are very different from the street urchin I met back then.”

I nodded but said nothing. Another lesson. Never show gratitude unless you hope to gain something from it.

“But now we must see if you can actually put into practice everything that we have taught you in theory.” She took out a passport and slid it across the table. “This is yours,” she said. “We have kept your family name. There was no reason not to, particularly as your first name had changed anyway. Yassen Gregorovich is what you are now and will always be . . . unless of course we feel the need for you to travel undercover.” An envelope followed. “You’ll find the details of your bank account inside,” she said. “You are a client of the European Finance Group. It’s a private bank based in Geneva. There are fifty thousand American dollars, fifty thousand euros, and fifty thousand pounds in the account, and no matter how much you spend, these figures will always remain the same. Of course, we will be watching your expenses.”

She was enjoying this, sending me out for the first time, almost challenging me to show reluctance or any sign of fear. She took out a second envelope, thicker than the first. This one was sealed with a strip of black tape. There was a scorpion symbol stamped in the middle.

“This envelope contains a return air ticket to New York, which is where your first assignment will take place. There is another thousand dollars in here too, petty cash to get you started. You are flying economy.”

That didn’t surprise me. I was young and I was entering the USA on my own. Traveling in business or first class might draw attention to myself.

“You will be met at the airport and taken to your hotel. You will report back to me here in Venice in one week’s time. Do you want to know who you are going to kill?”

“I’m sure you’ll tell me when you want to,” I said.

“That’s right.” She smiled. “You’ll get all the information that you need once you arrive. A weapon will also be delivered to you. Is that all understood?”

“Yes,” I said. Of course I had questions. Above all I wanted a name, a face. Somewhere on the other side of the world, a man was going about his business with no knowledge that I was on my way. What had he done to anger Scorpia? Why did he have to lose his life? But I stayed silent. I was being very careful not to show any signs of weakness.

“Then I think our evening is almost over,” Mrs. Rothman said. She reached out and, just for a moment, her fingers brushed against the back of my hand. “You know, Yassen,” she said, “you are incredibly good-looking. I thought that the moment I saw you, and your five months on Malagosto have done nothing but improve you.” She sighed and drew her hand away. “Russian boys aren’t quite my thing,” she continued. “Or else who knows what we might get up to? But it will certainly help you in your work. Death should always come smartly dressed.”

She got up as if about to leave. But then she had second thoughts and turned back to me. “You were fond of that girl, Colette, weren’t you?”

“We spent a bit of time together,” I said. “We came into Venice once or twice.” Julia Rothman would know that anyway.

“Yes,” she murmured. “I had a feeling the two of you would hit it off.”

She was daring me to ask. So I did.

“How is she?”

“She’s dead.” Mrs. Rothman brushed some imaginary dust from the sleeve of her dress. “Her first assignment went very wrong. It wasn’t entirely her fault. She took out the target, but she was shot dead by the Argentinian police.”

And that was when I knew what she had done to me. That was when I knew exactly what Scorpia had made me.

I said nothing. If I was sad, I didn’t show it. I simply watched impassively as she left the room.

I
HAD NEVER SPENT SO
long in an airplane.

Nine hours in the air! I found the entire experience fascinating: the size of the plane, the number of people crammed together, the unpleasant food served in plastic trays, night and day refusing to behave as they should outside the small round windows. I also experienced jet lag for the first time. It was a strange sensation, like being dragged backward down a hill. But I was in excellent shape. I was full of excitement about my mission. I was able to fight it off.

I was entering the United States under my own name and with a cover story that Scorpia had supplied. I was a student on a scholarship from Moscow University, studying literature. I was here to attend a series of lectures on famous American writers being given at the New York Public Library. The lectures really were taking place. I carried with me a letter of introduction from my professor, a copy of my thesis, and an NYPL program. I would be staying with my uncle and aunt, a Mr. and Mrs. Kirov, who had an apartment in Brooklyn. I also had a letter from them.

I joined the long queue in the immigration hall and watched the uniformed men and women in their booths stamping the passports of the people in front of me. At last it was my turn. I was annoyed to find that my heart was thumping as I faced a scowling black officer who seemed suspicious of me before I had even opened my mouth.

“What’s your business in the States?” he asked.

“I’m studying American literature. I’m here to attend some lectures.”

“How long are you staying”—he squinted at my name in the passport—“Yassen?”

“Two weeks.”

I thought that would be it. I was waiting for him to pick up the stamp and allow me in. Instead, he suddenly asked: “So how do you like Scott Fitzgerald?”

I knew the name. F. Scott Fitzgerald had been one of the greatest American writers of the twentieth century. “I really enjoyed
The Great Gatsby,
” I said. “I think it’s his best book. Although his next one,
Tender Is the Night,
was fantastic too.”

He nodded. “Enjoy your stay.”

The stamp came down. I was in.

I had one suitcase with me. Both the suitcase and all the clothes inside it had been purchased in Moscow. Of course I carried no weapon. It might have been possible to conceal a pistol somewhere in my luggage, but it wasn’t a risk worth taking. Thanks to America’s absurd gun laws, it would be much easier to arm myself once I arrived. I waited by the carousel for it. I knew at once that nobody had looked inside the case either at Venice airport or here. If the police or airport authorities had opened one of the catches, they would have broken an electrical circuit that ran through the handle. The blue luggage tag attached would have changed color, giving me advance warning of what had happened. The tag was still blue. I grabbed the case and went out.

My contact was waiting for me in the arrivals hall, holding up my name on a piece of white card. He looked like all the other limo drivers: tired and uninterested, dressed in a suit with a white shirt and sunglasses, even though it was early evening and there was little sign of the sun. He had misspelled my name. The card read
YASSEN GREGORIVICH.
This was not a mistake. It was an agreed signal between the two of us. It told me that he was who he said he was and that it was safe for us to meet.

He did not tell me his name. Nor did I ask. I doubted that the two of us would meet again. We walked to the car park—or the parking garage, as the Americans called it—without speaking. He had parked his car, a black Daimler, close to the exit and held the door open for me as I slid into the backseat. He climbed into the front, then handed me another envelope. This one was also marked with a scorpion.

“You’ll find your instructions inside,” he said. “You can read them in the car. The drive is about forty minutes. I’m taking you to the SoHo Plaza Hotel, where a room has been reserved in your name. You are to stay there this evening. There’ll be a delivery at exactly ten o’clock. The man will knock three times and will introduce himself as Marcus. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. There’s a bottle of water in the side pocket if you need it.”

He started the engine and a moment later we set off.

Nothing quite prepares you for the view of New York as you come over the Brooklyn Bridge, the twinkling lights behind thousands and thousands of windows, the skyscrapers presenting themselves to you like toys in a shop window, so much life crammed into so little space. The Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, Rockefeller Center, the Beekman, the Waldorf-Astoria . . . your eye travels from one to the other, but all too soon you’re overwhelmed. You cannot separate them. They merge together to become one island, one city. Every time you return you will be amazed. But the first time you will never forget.

I saw none of it. Of course I looked out as I was carried over the East River, but I couldn’t make the images connect with my brain. It was as if I was sitting in some sort of prison and the tinted glass of the car window was a silent television screen that I was glimpsing out of the corner of my eye. If you had told me a year ago that I would one day arrive here in a chauffeur-driven car, I would have laughed in your face. But the view meant nothing. I had torn open the envelope. I had taken out a few sheets of paper and two photographs. I was looking at the face of the person I had come to kill. My first thoughts had been wrong. My target was not a man.

Her name was Kathryn Davis and she was a lawyer, a senior partner in a firm called Clarke Davenport based on Fifth Avenue. I suspected that the address was an expensive one. The first photograph was in black and white and had been taken as she stood beside a traffic light. She was a serious-looking woman with a square face and light brown hair cut in a fringe. I would have guessed she was in her midthirties. She was wearing glasses that only made her look more severe. There was something quite bullish about her. I could easily imagine her tearing someone apart in court. In the second photograph she was smiling. This one was in color and generally she was more relaxed, waving at someone who was not in the shot. I wondered which Kathryn Davis I would meet. Which one would be easier to kill?

There was a newspaper article attached:

NY LAWYER THREATENED

In Red Knot Valley, Nevada, she’s a hero—but New York lawyer Kathryn Davis claims she has received death threats in Manhattan, where she lives and works.

Ms. Davis represents 212 residents of the Red Knot community who have come together in a class action against the multinational Pacific Ridge Mining Company. They claim that millions of tons of mining waste have seeped into their ecosystem, killing their fish, poisoning their crops, and causing widespread flooding. Pacific Ridge, which has denied the claim, owns several “open pit” gold mines in the area, and when traces of arsenic were found in the food chain, local people were quick to cry foul. It has taken 37-year-old Ms. Davis two years to gather her evidence, but she believes that her clients will be awarded damages in excess of one billion dollars when the case comes to court next month.

It’s not been an easy journey, says Ms. Davis, a mother of two. “My telephone has been bugged. I have been followed in the street. I have received hate mail that makes threats against me and which I have passed to the police. But I am not going to let myself be intimidated. What happened in Red Knot is a national scandal and I am determined to get to the truth.”

I had also been supplied with the woman’s home address—which was on West Eighty-Fifth Street—and a photograph of her house, a handsome-looking building that looked out over a tree-lined street. According to her biography, she was married to a doctor. She had two children and a dog, a spaniel. She was a member of several clubs and a gym. There was a blank card at the bottom of the envelope. It contained just four words.

MUGGING. BEFORE THE WEEKEND.

It is embarrassing to remember this, but I did not understand the word
mugging
—I had simply never come across it—and I spent the rest of the journey worrying that the driver or Marcus would discover that I had no idea what I was meant to do. I looked up the word the next day in a bookshop and realized that Scorpia wanted this to look like a street crime. As well as killing her, I would steal money from her. That way there would be no connection with Scorpia or the gold mines at Pacific Ridge.

The driver barely spoke to me again. He pulled up in front of an old-fashioned hotel where there were porters waiting to lift out my case and help carry it into reception. I showed my passport and handed over the credit card I had been given.

“You have a room for five nights, Mr. Gregorovich,” the receptionist confirmed. That would take me to Saturday. My plane back to Venice left John F. Kennedy airport at eleven o’clock in the morning that day.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You’re in room 605 on the sixth floor. Have a nice day.”

During my training, Oliver D’Arc had told me the story of an Israeli agent working undercover in Dubai. He had gotten into an elevator with seven people. One of them had been his best friend. The others were an elderly French woman who was staying at the hotel, a blind man, a young honeymooning couple, a woman in a burka, and a chambermaid. The elevator doors had closed and that was the moment when he discovered that all of them—including his friend—were working for Al Qaeda. When the elevator doors opened again, he was dead. I took the stairs to my floor and waited for my case to be brought up.

The room was small, clean, functional. I sat on the bed until the case came, tipped the porter, and unpacked. Before I left Malagosto, Gordon Ross had supplied me with a couple of the items that he had shown us during our lessons and he hoped would help me with my work. The first of these was a travel alarm clock. I took it out of my suitcase and flicked a switch concealed in the back. It scanned the entire room, searching for electromagnetic signals . . . in other words, bugs. There weren’t any. The room was clean. Next, I took out a small tape recorder, which I stuck to the back of the fridge. When I left the room, it would record anyone who came in.

At ten o’clock exactly, there were three knocks on the door. I went over and opened it to find an elderly, gray-haired man, smartly dressed in a suit with his coat hanging open. He had a neat beard, also gray. If you had met him in the street, you might have thought he was a professor or perhaps an official in a foreign embassy.

“Mr. Gregorovich?” he asked.

It was all so strange. I was still getting used to being called “Mr.” I nodded. “You’re Marcus?”

He didn’t answer that. “This is for you,” he said, handing me a parcel wrapped in brown paper. “I’ll call back tomorrow night at the same time. By then, I hope, you’ll have everything planned out. Okay?”

“Right,” I said.

“Nice meeting you.”

He left. I took the parcel over to the bed and opened it. The size and weight had already told me what I was going to find inside, and sure enough, there it was—a Smith & Wesson 4546, an ugly but efficient semiautomatic that looked old and well-used. The serial number had been filed off, making it impossible to trace. I checked the clip. It had been delivered with six bullets. So there it was. I had the target. I had the weapon. And I had just four days to make the kill.

The following morning, I stood outside the offices of Clarke Davenport, which were located on the nineteenth floor of a skyscraper in upper Midtown, quite close to the huge white marble structure of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. This was quite useful to me. A church is one of the few places in a city where it is possible to linger without looking out of place. From the steps, I was able to examine the building opposite at leisure, watching the people streaming in and out of the three revolving doors, wondering if I might catch sight of Kathryn Davis among them. I was glad she did not appear. I was not sure if I was ready for this yet. Part of me was worried that I never would be.

The secret of a successful kill is to know your target. That was what I had been taught. You have to learn their movements, their daily routine, the restaurants where they eat, the friends they meet, their tastes, their weaknesses, their secrets. The more you know, the easier it will be to find a time and an opportunity and the less chance there will be of making a mistake. You might not think I would learn a great deal from staring at a building for five hours, but at the end of that time I felt myself connected to it. I had taken note of the security cameras. I had counted how many policemen had walked past on patrol. I had seen the maintenance men go in and had noted which company they worked for.