Russian Roulette (25 page)

“I can lip-read, Cossack. It comes in quite useful sometimes. Maybe you should learn to do the same.”

I hardly slept that night. We retreated back into the undergrowth and hooked up our hammocks once more, but we couldn’t risk the luxury of a campfire and didn’t speak a word. We swallowed down some cold rations and closed our eyes. But I lay there for a long time, all sorts of thoughts running through my head.

I really had hoped that Hunter might let me make the kill. My old psychiatrist, Dr. Steiner, would not have been happy if I had told him this, but I thought it would be much easier to assassinate a drug lord, an obviously evil human being, than a defenseless woman in New York. It would have been a good test for me . . . my first kill. But I could see now that it was out of the question. The position of the helicopter in relation to the main house meant that we would have, at most, ten seconds to make the shot. Just ten steps and the Commander would be safely inside. If I hesitated or, worse still, missed, we would not have a second opportunity. Desmond Nye had already told me. I was here to assist and to observe and I knew I had to accept it. Hunter was the one in charge.

We were in position much earlier than we needed to be—at seven o’clock. Hunter had been carrying the weapon he was going to use ever since we had left Iquitos. It was a .308 Winchester sniper rifle, a very good weapon, perfect for long-range shooting with minimal recoil. I watched as he loaded it with a single cartridge and adjusted the sniper scope. It seemed to me that he and the weapon were one. I had noticed this already on the shooting range at Malagosto. When Hunter held a gun, it became part of him.

The minutes ticked away. I used my field glasses to scan the compound, waiting for the Commander to reappear. The soldiers were in their towers or patrolling the fence, but the atmosphere inside the compound was lazy. They were really only half awake. At ten to eight, the pilot came out of his quarters, yawning and stretching. We watched as he climbed into the helicopter, went through his checks, and started the rotors. Very quickly they began to turn, then disappeared in a blur. All around us, birds and monkeys scattered through the branches, frightened away by the noise. The Commander had still not stepped out at two minutes to eight and I began to wonder if he had changed his mind. I knew the time from the ordinary but efficient watch that I had bought for myself at Rome airport. I was sweating. I wondered if it was nerves or the close, stifling heat of the morning.

Something touched my shoulder.

My first thought was that it was a leaf that had fallen from a tree—but I knew at once that it was too heavy for a leaf.

It moved.

My hand twitched and it was all I could do to stop myself from reaching out and attempting to flick this . . . thing, whatever it was, away. I felt its weight shift as it went from my shoulder onto my neck and I realized that it was alive and that it was moving. It reached the top of my shirt and I shuddered as it legs prickled delicately against my skin. Even without seeing it, I knew that it was some sort of spider, a large one. It had lowered itself onto me while I crouched behind Hunter.

My mouth had gone dry. I could feel the blood pounding in the jugular vein that ran up the side of my neck and knew that the creature would have been drawn to that area, fascinated by the warmth and by the movement. And that was where it remained, clinging to me like some hideous growth. Hunter had not seen what had happened. He was still focused on the compound, his eye pressed against the sniper scope. I didn’t dare call out. I had to keep my breath steady without turning my head. Straining, I looked out of the corner of my eye and saw it. I recognized it at once. A black widow. One of the most venomous spiders in the Amazon.

It still refused to move. Why wouldn’t it continue on its way? I tensed myself, waiting for it to continue its journey across my face and into my hair, but still it stayed where it was. I didn’t know if Hunter had brought antivenom with him but it would make no difference if he had. If it bit me in the neck, I would die very quickly. Maybe it was waiting to strike even now, savoring the moment. The spider was huge. My skin was recoiling, my whole body sending out alarm signals that my brain could not ignore.

I wanted to call to Hunter, but even speaking one word might be enough to alarm the spider. I was filled with rage. After the failure of New York, I had been determined that I would make a good account of myself in Peru, and so far I hadn’t put a foot wrong. I couldn’t believe that this had happened to me . . . and now! I searched desperately for a stick, something I could throw at Hunter. There was no further movement in the compound. Everyone was waiting for the Commander to make his appearance. I knew it would happen at any moment. It was strangely ironic that I might die at exactly the same time as him.

In the end, I whistled. It was such an odd thing to do that it would surely attract Hunter’s attention. It did. He turned and saw me standing there, paralyzed, no color in my face. He saw the spider.

And it was right then that the door of the house opened and the Commander came out, wearing an olive green tunic and carrying a briefcase, followed by two men, with a third walking ahead. I knew at that moment that I was dead. There was nothing Hunter could do for me. He had his instructions from Scorpia and less than ten seconds in which to carry them out. I had almost forgotten about the helicopter, but now the whine of its rotors enveloped me. The Commander was walking steadily toward the cockpit.

Hunter made an instant decision. He sprang to his feet and moved behind me. Was he really going to abort the mission and save my life? Surely it had to be one or the other. Shoot the Commander or get rid of the spider. He couldn’t do both, and after everything he had told me, his choice was obvious.

I didn’t know what he was doing. He had positioned himself behind me. The Commander had almost reached the helicopter, his hand stretching out toward the door. Then, with no warning at all, Hunter fired. I heard the explosion and felt a streak of pain across my neck, as if I had been sliced with a red-hot sword. The Commander grabbed hold of his chest and crumpled, blood oozing over his clenched fingers. He had been shot in the heart. The men surrounding him threw themselves flat, afraid they would be targeted next. I was also bleeding. Blood was pouring down the side of my neck. But the spider was gone.

That was when I understood what had happened. Hunter had aimed through the spider and at the Commander. He had shot them both with the same bullet.

“Let’s move,” he whispered.

There was no time to discuss what had happened. The bodyguards were already panicking, shouting and pointing in our direction. One of them opened fire, sending bullets randomly into the rain forest. The guards in the towers were searching for us. More men were running out of the huts.

We snatched up our equipment and ran, allowing the mass of leaves and branches to swallow us up. We left behind us a dead drug lord with a single bullet and a hundred tiny fragments of black widow in his heart.

• • •

“You saved my life,” I said.

Hunter smiled. “Taking a life and saving a life . . . and with just one bullet. That’s not bad going,” he said.

We had put twenty-five kilometers between ourselves and the compound, following the little red pins until the fading light made it impossible to continue and we had to stop for fear of losing our way. We had reached the Log, the campsite where we had spent the night before, and this time I was careful not to sit on the hollow tree. Hunter spent ten minutes stretching out trip wires all around us. These were almost invisible, connected to little black boxes that he screwed into the trunks of the trees. Once again, we didn’t dare light a fire. After we had hooked up our hammocks, we ate our dinner straight out of the can. It amused me that Hunter insisted on carrying the empty cans with us. He had just killed a man, but he wouldn’t litter the rain forest.

Neither of us was ready for sleep. We set cross-legged on the ground, listening out for the sound of approaching feet. It was a bright night. The moon was shining and everything around us was a strange silver green. To my surprise, Hunter had produced a quarter bottle of malt whiskey. It was the last thing I would have expected him to bring along. I watched him as he held it to his lips.

“It’s a little tradition of mine,” he explained in a low voice. “A good malt whiskey after a kill. This is a twenty-five-year-old Glenmorangie. Older than you!” He held it out to me. “Have some, Cossack. I expect your nerves need it after that little incident. That spider certainly chose its moment.”

“I can’t believe what you did,” I said. There was a bandage around my neck, already stained with sweat and blood. It hurt a lot and I knew that I would always have a scar where Hunter’s bullet had cut me, but in a strange way I was glad. I did not want to forget this night. I sipped the whiskey. It burned the back of my throat but in a good way. “What now?” I asked.

“A slog back to Iquitos and then Paris. At least it’ll be a little cooler over there. And no damn mosquitoes!” He slapped one on the side of his neck.

We were both at peace. The Commander was dead, killed in extraordinary circumstances. We had the whiskey. The moon was shining. And we were alone in the rain forest. That’s the only way that I can explain the conversation that followed. At least, that was how it seemed at the time.

“Hunter,” I said, “why are you with Scorpia?” I would never normally have asked. It was wrong. It was insolent. But out here, it didn’t seem to matter.

I thought he might snap at me, but he reached out for the bottle and answered quietly, “Why does anyone join Scorpia? Why did you?”

“You know why,” I said. “I didn’t really have any choice.”

“We all make choices, Cossack. Who we are in this world, what we do in it. Generous or selfish. Happy or sad. Good or evil. It’s all down to choice.”

“And you chose this?”

“I’m not sure it was the right choice, but I’ve got nobody else to blame, if that’s what you mean.” He paused, holding the bottle in front of him. “I was in a pub,” he said. “It was in the middle of London . . . in Soho. Me and a couple of friends. We were just having a drink, minding our own business. But there was a man in there, a taxi driver as it turned out, a big, fat guy in a sheepskin coat. He overheard us talking, realized we were all army, and began to make obnoxious remarks. Stupid things. I should have just ignored him or walked out. That was what my friends wanted to do.

“But I’d been drinking myself and the two of us got into an argument. It was so bloody stupid. The next thing I knew, I’d knocked him to the ground. Even then, there were a dozen ways I could have hit him. But I’d let my training get the better of me. He didn’t get up and suddenly the police were there and I realized what I’d done.” He paused. “I’d killed him.”

He fell silent. All around us, the insects continued their chatter. There wasn’t a breath of wind.

“I was dismissed from the army and thrown into jail,” he went on. “As it happened, I wasn’t locked up for very long. My old regiment pulled a few strings and I had a good lawyer. He managed to put in a claim of self-defense and I was let out on appeal. But after that I was finished. No one was going to employ me, and even if they did, you think I wanted to spend the rest of my life as a security guard or behind a desk? I didn’t know what to do. And then Scorpia came along and offered me this. And I said yes.”

“Are you married?” I asked.

He nodded. “Yeah. I’ve been married three years and there’s a kid on the way. At least I’m going to have enough money to be able to look after him.” He paused. “If it is a boy. You see what I mean? My choice.”

The whiskey bottle passed between us one last time. It was almost empty.

“Maybe it’s not too late for you to change your mind,” he said.

I was startled. “What do you mean?”

“I’m thinking about New York. I’m thinking about the last few weeks . . . and today. You seem like a nice kid to me, Cossack. Not one of Scorpia’s usual recruits at all. I wonder if you’ve really got it in you to be like me. Marat and Sam . . . they don’t give a damn. They’ve got no imagination. But you?”

“I can do this,” I said.

“But do you really
want
to? I’m not trying to dissuade you. That’s the last thing I want to do. I just want you to be aware that once you start, there’s no going back. After the first kill—that’s it.”

He paused. We both did. I wasn’t sure how to respond.

“If I backed out now, Scorpia would kill me.”

“I rather doubt it. They’d be annoyed, of course. But I think you’re exaggerating your own importance. They’d very quickly forget you. Anyway, you’ve learned enough to keep away from them. You could change your identity, your appearance, start somewhere new. The world is a big place—and there are all sorts of different things you could be doing in it.”

“Is that what you’re advising me?” I asked.

“I’m not advising you anything. I’m just laying out the options.”

I’m not sure what I would have said if the conversation had continued, but just then we heard something: the croaking of a frog at the edge of the clearing. At least, that was what it would have sounded like to anyone approaching, but it wasn’t a frog that was native to the Amazon rain forest. One of the wires that Hunter had set down had just been tripped and what we were hearing was a recording, a warning. Hunter was on his feet instantly, crouching down, signaling to me with an outstretched hand. I had a gun. It had been supplied to me when we were in Iquitos—a Browning 9mm semiautomatic, popular with the Peruvian army and unusual in that it held thirteen rounds of ammunition. It was fully loaded.

I heard something. The single crack of a branch breaking, about twenty meters away. A beam of light flickered between the trees, thrown by a powerful flashlight. There was no time to gather up our things and no point in wondering who they were, how they had followed us here. We had already planned what to do if this happened. We got up and began to move.

They came in from all sides. Six of the Commander’s men had taken it upon themselves to follow us into the rain forest. Why? Their employer was dead and there was going to be no reward for bringing in his killers. Perhaps they were genuinely angry. We had, after all, removed the source of their livelihood. I saw all of them as they arrived. The moon was so bright, they barely had any need of their flashlights. They were high on drugs, dirty and disheveled, with hollow faces, bright eyes, and straggly beards. Two of them had cigarettes dangling from their mouths. They were wearing bits and pieces of military uniforms with machine guns slung over their shoulders. One of them had a dog, a pit bull terrier, on a chain. The dog had brought them here. It began to bark, straining against the leash, knowing we were close.