CONTENTS

Prologue–BeforetheKillДома–HomeКрокодилы–CrocodilesЛес–TheForestНочь–NightКирсК–KirskМосква–MoscowТверская–TverskayaФорточник–FortochnikРусскаяpулетка–RussianRouletteСеребряныйбор–SilverForestМеханик–TheMechanicБолтино–BoltinoВенеция–VeniceОстров–TheIslandНью-Йорк–NewYorkВторойшанс–SecondChanceОхотник–HunterКомандир–TheCommanderПариж–ParisМощностьплюс–PowerPlusУбийца–TheAssassinEpilogue–TheKill

ForJ,N&C–butnotL.Fullcircle.

PROLOGUE

BEFORETHEKILL

Hehadchosenthehotelroomverycarefully.Ashecrossedthereceptionareatowardsthelifts,hewasawareofeveryonearoundhim.Two receptionists, one on the phone. A Japanese guest checking in… from his accent,obviouslyfromMiyazakiinthesouth.Aconciergeprintingamapforacoupleoftourists.Asecurityman, Eastern European, bored, standing by the door. He saw everything. If thelights had suddenly gone out, or if he had closed his eyes, he would have been able tocontinueforwardatexactlythesamepace.Nobodynoticedhim.Itwasactuallyaskill,somethinghehadlearned,theartofnotbeingseen.Eventheclotheshewore–expensivejeans,agreycashmerejerseyandaloosecoat–hadbeenchosenbecauseitmadenostatementatall.Theywerewell-knownbrandsbuthehadcutoutthelabels.Intheunlikelyeventthathewasstoppedbythepolice,itwouldbeverydifficultforthemtoknowwheretheoutfithadbeenbought.Hewas inhis thirtiesbut lookedyounger.Hehad fairhair, cut short, and ice-coldeyeswith just the faintest traceofblue.Hewasnot largeorwellbuiltbut therewasasortofsleekness about him. He moved like an athlete – perhaps a sprinter approaching thestartingblocks–buttherewasasenseofdangerabouthim,afeelingthatyoushouldleavewellalone.Hecarriedthreecreditcardsandadrivinglicence,issuedinSwansea,allwiththenameMatthewReddy.Apolice checkwouldhave established thathewas a personaltrainer, thatheworked inaLondongymand lived inBrixton.Noneof thiswas true.HisrealnamewasYassenGregorovich.Hehadbeenaprofessionalassassinforalmosthalfhislife.The hotelwas inKing’s Cross, an area of Londonwith no attractive shops, fewdecentrestaurantsandwherenobodyreallystaysanylongerthantheyhaveto.ItwascalledTheTravelleranditwaspartofachain;comfortablebutnottooexpensive.Itwasthesortofplacethathadnoregularclients.Mostoftheguestswerepassingthroughonbusinessanditwould be their companies that paid the bill. They drank in the bar. They ate the “fullEnglish breakfast” in the brightly lit Beefeater restaurant. But they were too busy tosocializeanditwasunlikelytheywouldreturn.Yassenpreferreditthatway.HecouldhavestayedincentralLondon,intheRitzortheDorchester,butheknewthatthereceptioniststhereweretrainedtorememberthefacesofthepeoplewhopassedthroughtherevolvingdoors.Suchpersonalattentionwasthelastthinghewanted.ACCTVcamerawatchedhimasheapproachedthelifts.Hewasawareofit,blinkingoverhis left shoulder. The camera was annoying but inevitable. London has more of thesedevicesthananycityinEurope,andthepoliceandsecretservicehaveaccesstoallofthem.Yassenmadesurehedidn’t lookup.Ifyoulookatacamera,thatiswhenitseesyou.Hereached the lifts but ignored them, slipping through a fire door that led to the stairs.Hewould never think of confining himself in a small space, ametal boxwith doors that hecouldn’t open, surrounded by strangers. That would bemadness. Hewould have walkedfifteen storeys if it had beennecessary – andwhenhe reached the tophewouldn’t evenhavebeenoutofbreath.Yassenkepthimselfinsuperbcondition,spendingtwohoursinthegym every daywhen that luxurywas available to him,working out on his ownwhen it

wasn’t.His roomwason the second floor.Hehad thoroughlychecked thehotelon the Internetbeforehemadehisreservationandnumber217wasoneofjustfourroomsthatexactlymethisdemands. Itwas toohighup tobe reached fromthe streetbut lowenough forhim tojumpoutofthewindowifhehadto–aftershootingouttheglass.Itwasnotoverlooked.Therewereother buildings aroundbut any formof surveillancewouldbedifficult.WhenYassenwent to bed, he never closed the curtains. He liked to see out, towatch for anymovement in the street. Every cityhas anatural rhythmandanything that breaks it – amanlingeringonacorneroracarpassingthesamewaytwice–mightwarnhimthat itwas time to leaveat once.Andhenever slept formore than fourhours, not even in themostcomfortablebed.ADONOTDISTURBsignhunginfrontofhimasheturnedthecornerandapproachedthedoor. Had it been obeyed? Yassen reached into his trouser pocket and took out a smallsilver device, about the same size and shape as a pen.Hepressed one end, covering thehandlewithathinsprayofdiazafluoren–asimplechemicalreagent.Quickly,hespunthepen round and pressed the other end, activating a fluorescent light. There were nofingerprints.Ifanyonehadbeenintotheroomsincehehadleft,theyhadwipedthehandleclean.Heputthepenaway,thenkneltdownandcheckedthebottomofthedoor.Earlierinthe day, he had placed a single hair across the crack. It was one of the oldest warningsignalsinthebookbutthatdidn’tstopitbeingeffective.Thehairwasstillinplace.Yassenstraightenedupand,usinghiselectronicpasskey,wentin.Ittookhimlessthanaminutetoascertainthateverythingwasexactlyashehadleftit.Hisbriefcasewas4.6centimetresfromtheedgeofthedesk.Hissuitcasewaspositionedata95 degree angle from the wall. There were no fingerprints on either of the locks. Heremoved the digital tape recorder that had been clipped magnetically to the side of hisservice fridge and glanced at the dial. Nothing had been recorded. Nobody had been in.Manypeoplewouldhavefoundalltheseprecautionsannoyingandtime-consumingbutforYassentheywereasmuchapartofhisdailyroutineastyinghisshoelacesorcleaninghisteeth.Itwastwelveminutespastsixwhenhesatdownatthedeskandopenedhiscomputer,anordinary Apple MacBook. His password had seventeen digits and he changed it everymonth.Hetookoffhiswatchandlaiditonthesurfacebesidehim.ThenhewenttoeBay,left-clickedonCollectiblesandscrolledthroughCoins.Hesoonfoundwhathewaslookingfor:agoldcoinshowingtheheadof theemperorCaligulawiththedateAD11.Therehadbeennobidsforthisparticularcoinbecause,asanycollectorwouldknow,itdidnotinfactexist. In AD11, the mad Roman emperor, Caligula, had not even been born. The entirewebsitewas a fake and looked it. Thenameof the coindealer –Mintomatic –hadbeenspecially chosen to put off any casual purchaser. Mintomatic was supposedly based inShanghai anddidnothaveTop-rated Seller status.All the coins it advertisedwere eitherfakeorvalueless.Yassen satquietlyuntil aquarterpast six.At exactly themoment that the secondhandpassedoverthetwelveonhiswatch,hepressedthebuttontoplaceabid,thenenteredhisUserID–false,ofcourse–andpassword.Finally,heenteredabidof£2,518.15.Thefigureswerebasedontheday’sdateandtheexacttime.HepressedENTERandawindowopened

thathadnothingtodowitheBayorwithRomancoins.Nobodyelsecouldhaveseenit.Itwould have been impossible to discover where it had originated. Themessage had beenbouncedaroundadozencountries,travellingthroughananonymitynetwork,beforeithadreachedhim.Thisisknownasonionroutingbecauseofitsmanylayers.Ithadalsopassedthroughanencryptedtunnel,asecureshell,thatensuredthatonlyYassencouldreadwhathadbeenwritten.Ifsomeonehadmanagedtoarriveatthesamescreenbyaccident,theywouldhaveseenonlynonsenseandwithinthreesecondsaviruswouldhaveenteredtheircomputer and obliterated the motherboard. The Apple computer, however, had beenauthorizedtoreceivethemessageandYassensawthreewords:

KILLALEXRIDER

Theywereexactlywhathehadexpected.Yassenhadknownallalongthathisemployerswouldinsistonpunishingtheagentwhohad been involved in the disaster that the Stormbreaker operation had become.He evenwonderedifhehimselfmightnotbemadetoretire…permanently,ofcourse.Itwassimplecommon sense. If people failed, they were eliminated. There were no second chances.Yassenwasluckyinthathehadbeenemployedasasubcontractor.Hedidn’thaveoverallresponsibilityforwhathadhappenedandattheendofthedayhecouldn’tbeblamed.Ontheotherhand,theywouldhavetomakeanexampleofAlexRider.Itdidn’tmatterthathewasjustfourteenyearsold.Tomorrowhewouldhavetodie.Yassen looked at the screen for a few secondsmore, then closed the computer.He hadneverkilledachildbeforebutthethoughtdidnotparticularlytroublehim.AlexRiderhadmadehisownchoices.Heshouldhavebeenatschool,butinstead,forwhateverreason,hehadallowedtheSpecialOperationsDivisionofMI6torecruithim.Fromschoolboytospy.Itwas certainlyunusual –but the truthwas,hehadbeen remarkably successful.Beginner’sluck,maybe,buthehadbroughtanendtoanoperationthathadbeenseveralyearsintheplanning. He was responsible for the deaths of two operatives. He had annoyed someextremelypowerfulpeople.Heverymuchdeservedthedeaththatwascominghisway.Andyet…Yassensatwherehewaswiththecomputerinfrontofhim.Nothinghadchangedinhisexpressionbut therewas,perhaps,somethingflickeringdeep inhiseyes.Outside, thesunwasbeginning to set, the evening sky turningahard,unforgivinggrey.The streetswerefull of commutershurryinghome.Theyweren’t just on theother sideof ahotelwindow.Theywereinanotherworld.Yassenknewthathewouldneverbeoneofthem.Briefly,heclosedhiseyes.Hewasthinkingaboutwhathadhappened.AboutStormbreaker.Howhaditgonesowrong?From Yassen’s point of view, it had been a fairly routine assignment. A LebanesebusinessmanbythenameofHerodSaylehadwantedtobuytwohundredlitresofadeadlysmallpoxviruscalledR5andhehadapproachedtheoneorganizationthatmightbeabletosupply it in suchhugequantities.ThatorganizationwasScorpia.The lettersof thenamestood for sabotage, corruption, intelligence and assassination, which were its mainactivities.R5wasaChineseproduct,manufacturedillegallyinafacilitynearGuiyang,andbychanceoneofthemembersoftheexecutiveboardofScorpiawasChinese.DrThreehadextensivecontactsinEastAsiaandhadusedhisinfluencetoorganizethepurchase.IthadbeenYassen’sjobtooverseedeliverytotheUK.Sixweeksago,hehadflowntoHongKongafewdaysaheadoftheR5,whichhadbeentransported in a private plane, a turbopropXianMA60, fromGuiyang. The planwas toloaditintoacontainershiptoRotterdam–disguisedaspartofashipmentofLuckoftheDragonChinesebeer.SpecialbarrelshadbeenconstructedatawarehouseinKowloon,withreinforcedglasscontainersholdingtheR5suspendedinsidetheliquid.Therearemorethanfive thousand container ships at sea at any one time and around seventeen milliondeliveriesaremadeeveryyear.Thereisn’tacustomsserviceintheworldthatcankeepitseyeoneverycargoandYassenwasconfidentthatthejourneywouldbetrouble-free.He’dbeen given a false passport and papers that identified him as Erik Olsen, a merchant

seamanfromCopenhagen,andhewouldtravelwiththeR5untilitreacheditsdestination.But,asissooftentheway,thingshadnotgoneasplanned.Afewdaysbeforethebarrelsweredue to leave,Yassenhadbecomeaware that thewarehousewasunder surveillance.Hehadbeen lucky.A cigarettebeing lit behindawindow inabuilding that shouldhavebeen empty told him all he needed to know. Slipping through Kowloon under cover ofdarkness,hehadidentifiedateamofthreeagentsoftheAIVD–theAlgemeneInlichtingenenVeiligheidsdienst–theDutchsecretservice.Theremusthavebeenatip-off.Theagentsdidnotknowwhat theywere looking forbut theywereaware that somethingwason itsway to theircountryandYassenhadbeen forced tokillall threeof themwitha silencedBeretta92,apistolheparticularlyfavouredbecauseofitsaccuracyandreliability.Clearly,theR5couldnotleaveinacontainershipafterall.Afallbackhadtobefound.As it happened, therewas aChineseHan class nuclear submarine inHongKong goingthroughfinalrepairsbefore leavingforexercises in theNorthernAtlantic.Yassenmet thecaptain inaprivatecluboverlooking theharbourandofferedhimabribeof twomillionAmericandollars to carry theR5withhimwhenhe left.Hehad informedScorpiaof thisdecisionandtheyknewthatitwoulddigintotheiroperationalprofitbuttherewereatleastsomeadvantages.MovingtheR5fromRotterdamtotheUKwouldhavebeendifficultanddangerous.HerodSaylewasbasedinCornwallwithdirectaccesstothecoast,sothenewapproachwouldmakeforamuchmoresecuredelivery.Two weeks later, on a crisp, cloudless night in April, the submarine surfaced off theCornishcoast.Yassen, stillusing the identityofErikOlsen,had travelledwith it.Hehadquiteenjoyedtheexperienceofcruisingsilentlythroughthedepthsoftheocean,sealedinametal tube.TheChinese crewhadbeenorderednot to speak tohimonanyaccount andthat suitedhim too. Itwas onlywhenhe climbedontodry land that he once again tookcommand, overseeing the transfer of the virus and other supplies that Herod Sayle hadordered.Theworkhadtobedoneswiftly.Thecaptainofthesubmarinehadinsistedthathewouldwaitnomorethanthirtyminutes.HemighthavetwomilliondollarsinaSwissbankaccountbuthehadnowishtoprovokeaninternationalincident…whichwouldcertainlyhavebeenfollowedbyhisowncourtmartialandexecution.Thirtyguardshadhelpedcarrythevariousboxestothewaitingtrucks,scramblingalongtheshorelineinthelightofaperfecthalf-moon,thesubmarinelookingsomehowfantasticandoutofplace,halfsubmergedintheslate-greywateroftheEnglishChannel.Andalmostfrom the start,Yassenhadknown somethingwaswrong.Hewasbeingwatched.Hewassureof it. Somemight call it a sortofanimal instinctbut forYassen itwas simpler thanthat. He had been active in the field for many years. During that time, he had been indangeralmostconstantly.Ithadbeennecessarytofine-tuneallhissensessimplytosurvive.Andalthoughhehadn’t seenorheardanything,a silentvoicewas screamingathim thattherewassomeonehidingabout twentymetresaway,behindaclusterofboulderson theedgeofthebeach.He had been on the point of investigating when one of Sayle’s men, standing on thewoodenjetty,haddroppedoneoftheboxes.ThesoundofmetalhittingwoodshatteredthecalmofthenightandYassenspunonhisheel,everythingelseforgotten.Therewaslimitedspaceon the submarineandso theR5hadbeen transferred fromthebeerbarrels to less-protectivealuminiumboxes.Yassenknewthatiftheglassvialinsidehadbeenshattered,if

therubbersealhadbeencompromised,everyoneonthebeachwouldbedeadbeforethesunhadrisen.Hesprinted forward,crouchingdownto inspect thedamage.Therewasaslightdent inonesideofthebox.Butthesealhadheld.The guard looked at him with a sickly smile. He was quite a lot older than Yassen,probablyanex-convictrecruitedfromalocalprison.Andhewasscared.Hetriedtomakelightofit.“Iwon’tdothatagain!”hesaid.“No,”Yassenreplied.“Youwon’t.”TheBerettawasalreadyinhishand.Heshotthemanin the chest, propellinghimbackwards into the darkness and the sea below. It hadbeennecessarytosetanexample.Therewouldbenofurtherclumsinessthatnight.Sitting in thehotelwith thecomputer in frontofhim,Yassenremembered themoment.HewasalmostcertainnowthatithadbeenAlexRiderbehindtheboulderandifithadn’tbeenfor theaccident,hewouldhavebeendiscoveredthereandthen.AlexhadinfiltratedSayleEnterprises,pretendingtobethewinnerofamagazinecompetition.Somehowhehadslippedoutofhisroom,evadingtheguardsandthesearchlights,andhadjoinedtheconvoymakingitswaydowntothebeach.Therecouldbenootherexplanation.Lateron,AlexhadfollowedHerodSayletoLondon.HehadalreadybeenresponsibleforthedeathsoftwoofSayle’sassociates–NadiaVoleandthedisfiguredservantMrGrin–despite littletrainingandnoexperience.Thiswashisfirstmission.Evenso,hehadsingle-handedlysmashedtheStormbreakeroperation.Saylehadbeenluckytoescape,afewstepsaheadofthepolice.

KILLALEXRIDER

Itwaswhathedeserved.AlexhadinterferedwithaScorpiaassignmentandhewouldhavecost the organization at least five million pounds… the final payment owed by HerodSayle.Worsethanthat,hewouldhavedamagedtheirinternationalreputation.Thelessonhadtobelearnt.Therewasaknockatthedoor.Yassenhadorderedroomservice.Itwasn’tjusteasiertoeatinsidethehotel,itwassafer.Whymakehimselfatargetwhenhedidn’tneedto?“Leaveitoutside,”hecalledout.HespokeEnglishwithnotraceofaRussianaccent.HespokeFrench,GermanandArabicequallywell.The roomwas almost dark now. Yassen’s dinner sat on a tray in the corridor, rapidlygettingcold.Butstillhedidnotmoveawayfromthedeskandthecomputerinfrontofhim.He would kill Alex Rider tomorrow morning. There was no question of his disobeyingorders.Itdidn’tmatterthatthetwoofthemwerelinked,thattheywereconnectedinawayAlexcouldn’tpossiblyknow.JohnRider.Alex’sfather.Theircodenames.HunterandCossack.Yassencouldn’thelphimself.Hereachedintohispocketandtookoutacarkey,thesortthathadtworemotecontrolbuttonstoopenandclosethedoors.Butthiskeydidnotbelongtoanycar.YassenpressedtheOPENbuttontwiceandtheCLOSEbuttonthreetimesandaconcealedmemorysticksprangoutontothepalmofhishand.Heglancedatitbriefly.Heknewthat itwasmadnesstocarry it.Hehadbeentemptedtodestroyitmanytimes.Buteverymanhashisweaknessandthiswashis.Heopenedthecomputeragainandinsertedit.Thefilerequiredanotherpassword.Hekeyeditin.Andthereitwasonthescreeninfrontofhim,notinEnglishlettersbutinCyrillic,theRussianalphabet.Hispersonaldiary.Thestoryofhislife.Hesatbackandbegantoread.

ДОМА

HOME

“Yasha!We’verunoutofwater.Gotothewell!”Icanstillhearmymothercallingtomeanditisstrangetothinkofmyselfasafourteen-year-oldboy,asinglechild,growingupinavillagesixhundredmilesfromMoscow.Icanseemyself, stick-thinwith long, fair hair andblue eyes that always look a little startled.EveryonetellsmethatIamsmallformyageandtheyurgemetoeatmoreprotein…asifIcanevergetmyhandsonanythingthatresemblesfreshmeatorfish.Ihavenotyetspentmanyhundredsofhoursworkingoutandmymusclesareundeveloped.Iamsprawledoutinthelivingroom,watchingtheonlytelevisionwehaveinthehouse.It’sahuge,uglyboxwithapicturethatoftenwaversandtremblesandtherearehardlyanychannelstochoosefrom.Tomakethingsworse,theelectricitysupplyisunreliableandyoucanbefairlysurethatthemomentyougetinterestedinafilmoranewsprogramme,theimagewillsuddenlyflickeranddieandyou’llbeleftalone,sittinginthedark.ButwheneverIcan,Ituneintoadocumentary,whichIdevour.Itismyonlywindowontotheoutsideworld.IamdescribingRussia–abouttenyearsbeforetheendofthetwentiethcentury.Itisnotsolongagoandyetitisalreadysomewherethatnolongerexists.Thechangesthatbeganin themain citiesbecamea tsunami that engulfed the entire country, although they tooktheir time reaching the villagewhere I lived. Therewas no runningwater in any of thehousesandso,threetimesaday,Ihadtomakemywaydowntothewellwithawoodenharnessovermyshouldersandtwometalbucketsdraggingdownmyarms.IsoundlikeapeasantandalotofthetimeImusthavelookedlikeone,dressedinabaggyshirtwithnocollar andawaistcoat.As amatterof fact, I hadonepair ofAmerican jeans,whichhadbeensenttomeasapresentfromarelativeinMoscow,andIcanstillremembereveryonestaringatmewhenIputthemon.Jeans!Theywerelikesomethingfromadistantplanet.AndmynamewasYasha,notYassen.Quitebyaccident,itgotchanged.IfIamgoingtoexplainwhathappenedtomeandwhatIbecame,thenImustbeginhere,in Estrov.Nobody speaks of it anymore. It is not on themap.According to theRussianauthorities,itneverexisted.ButIrememberitwell;avillageofabouteightywoodenhousessurroundedbyfarmlandwithachurch,ashop,apolicestation,abathhouseandariverthatwasbrightblue in the summerbut freezingallyear round.Asingle roadran through themiddleofthevillagebutitwashardlyneeded,astherewereveryfewcars.Ourneighbour,MrVladimov, had a tractorwhich often rumbled past, billowing oily, black smoke, but Iwasmoreusedtobeingwokenupbythesoundofhorses’hooves.Thevillagewaswedgedbetween thick forest in the north and hills to the south andwest so that the view neverreallychanged.SometimesIwouldseeplanesflyingoverheadandIthoughtofthepeopleinside them, travelling to the other side of theworld. If I was working in the garden, Iwouldstandstillandwatchthem–thewingsblinking,thesunlightglintingontheirmetalskin–untiltheyhadgoneoutofsight,leavingonlytheechooftheirenginesbehind.TheyremindedofmewhoandwhatIwas.EstrovwasmyworldandIcertainlydidn’tneedanaeroplanetogetfromonesidetotheother.

Myownhome,where I livedwithmyparents,was small and simple,made of paintedwooden boards with shutters on either side of the windows and a weather vane thatsqueakedall night if therewas toomuchwind. Itwasquite close to the church, setbackfrom themain roadwith similar houses on either side. Flowers and brambles grew rightbesidethewallsandwereslowlycreepingtowardstheroof.Therewerejustfourrooms.Myparentssleptupstairs.IhadaroomatthebackbutIhadtoshareitwheneveranyonecametostay.Mygrandmother,wholivedwithus,hadtheroomnexttominebutshepreferredtosleep ina sortofhole in thewall,above the stove, in thekitchen.Shewasavery small,darkbrownwomanandwhenIwasyoung,Iusedtothinkthatshehadbeencookedbytheflames.TherewasnorailwaystationinEstrov.Itwasnotconsideredimportantenough.Norwasthereabus serviceoranything like that. Iwent to school ina slightly largervillage thatlikedtothinkofitselfasatown,twomilesawaydownatrackthatwasdustyandfullofpotholes in the summer, and thick withmud or covered in snow during the winter. ThetownwascalledRosna.Iwalkedthereeveryday,nomatterwhattheweather,andIwasbeaten if Iwas late.My schoolwas a big, square, brick building on three floors. All theclassrooms were the same size. There were about five hundred children in all, boys andgirls.Someofthemtravelledinbytrain,pouringoutontotheplatformwitheyesthatwerestillhalf-closedwithsleep.Rosnadidhavearailwaystationandtheywereveryproudofit,deckingitwithflowersonpublicholidays.Butactuallyitwasamean,run-downlittleplaceandnineoutoftentrainsdidn’tevenbothertostopthere.Westudentswereallverysmart.Thegirlsworeblackdresseswithgreenapronsandhadtheirhairtiedbackwithribbons.Theboyslookedlikelittlesoldiers,withgreyuniformsandredscarvestiedaroundourneck,andifwedidwellwithourstudies,weweregivenbadgeswith slogans – “For Active Work”, “School Leader”, that sort of thing. I don’t reallyremember much of what I learned at school. Who does? History was important … thehistory of Russia, of course.Wewere always learning poems by heart and had to recitethem, standing to attention beside our desks. There wasmaths and science.Most of theteacherswerewomenbutourheadmasterwasamancalledLavrovandhehada furioustemper.Hewasshortbuthehadhugeshouldersandlongarms,andIwouldoftenseehimpickupaboybythethroatandpinhimagainstthewall.“You’re not doingwell, Leo Tretyakov!” hewould boom. “I’m sick of the sight of you.Buckupyourideasorgetoutofhere!”Even the teachers were terrified of him. But actually, hewas a goodman at heart. InRussia,wewere brought up to respect our teachers and it never occurred tome that histitanicrageswereanythingunusual.IwasveryhappyatschoolandIdidwell.Wehadastarsystem–everytwoweekstheteachersgaveusagrade–andIwasalwaysafive-starstudent,whatwecalledapyatiorka.My best subjectswere physics andmaths, and thesewere very important to the Russianauthorities.Nobodyeverletyouforgetthatwewerethecountrythathadsentthefirstman–YuriGargarin–intospace.Therewasevenaphotographofhiminthefrontentranceandyouweresupposedtosalutehimasyoucamein.IwasalsogoodatsportandIrememberhowthegirlsinmyclassusedtocomealongandcheermewhenIscoredagoal.Iwasn’tallthatinterestedingirlsatthistime,whichistosayIwashappytochattothembutIdidn’t

particularlywanttohangoutwiththemafterschool.MybestfriendwastheLeothatIjustmentionedandthetwoofuswereinseparable.LeoTretyakovwas short and skinnywith jutting out ears, freckles and ginger hair.HeusedtojokethathewastheugliestboyinthedistrictandI foundithardtodisagree.Hewasalso far frombright.Hewasa two-star student, adismaldvoyka andhewasalwaysgetting into trouble with the teachers. In the end they actually gave up punishing himbecauseitdidn’tseemtomakeanydifferenceandhejustsattherequietlydaydreamingatthebackoftheclass.ButatthesametimehewasthestarofourNVP–militarytraining–classes which were compulsory throughout the school. Leo could strip down an AK47automaticmachinegunintwelvesecondsandreassembleitinfifteen.Hewasagreatshot.And twiceayear thereweremilitarygames,whenwehad tocompetewithother schoolsusingamapandacompasstofindourwaythroughthewoods.Leowasalwaysincharge.Andwealwayswon.I liked Leo because he was afraid of nothing and he always made me laugh. We dideverythingtogether.Wewouldeatoursandwichesintheyard,washeddownwithagulpofvodka that he had stolen from home and brought to school in one of his mother’s oldperfumebottles.Wesmokedcigarettesinthewoodlandclosetothemainbuilding,coughinghorriblybecausethetobaccowassorough.Ourschooltoiletshadnocompartmentsandweoftensatnexttoeachotherdoingwhatwehadtodo,whichmaysounddisgustingbutthatwas theway itwas.Youweremeant tobringyourown toiletpaper too,butLeoalwaysforgot and I would watch him guiltily tearing pages out of his exercise books. He wasalwayslosinghishomeworkthatway.ButwithLeo’shomework–andhe’dhavebeenthefirsttoadmitit–thatwasprobablyallitwasworth.Thebesttimewehadtogetherwasinthesummer,whenwewouldgoforendlessbicyclerides, rattling along the country roads, shooting down hills and pedalling backwardsfuriously,whichwastheonlywaytostop.Everyonehadexactlythesamemodelofbicycleandtheywerealldeathtrapswithnosuspension,nolightsandnobrakes.Wehadnowheretogobut in away thatwas the funof it.Weusedour imagination to create aworldofwolves and vampires, ghosts and Cossack warriors – and we chased each other rightthroughthemiddleofthem.Whenwefinallygotbacktothevillage,wewouldswimintheriver, even though there were parasites in the water that could make you sick, and wealwayswenttothebathhousetogether,thrashingeachotherwithbirchleavesinthesteamroomwhichwasmeanttobegoodforyourskin.Leo’s parents worked in the same factory as mine, althoughmy father, who had oncestudiedatMoscowStateUniversity,wasthemoreseniorofthetwo.Thefactoryemployedabout twohundredpeople,whowerecollectedbycoaches fromEstrov,Rosnaand lotsofotherplaces.Ihavetosay,theplacewasasourceofconstantpuzzlementtome.Whywasittuckedawayinthemiddleofnowhere?WhyhadIneverseenit?Therewasabarbedwirefence surrounding it and armedmilitia standing at the gate, and that didn’tmake senseeither.Allitproducedwaspesticidesandotherchemicalsusedbyfarmers.ButwhenIaskedmyparentsabout it, theyalwayschangedthesubject.Leo’s fatherwasthetransportationmanager,inchargeofthecoaches.Myfatherwasaresearchchemist.Mymotherworkedinthemainofficedoingpaperwork.ThatwasaboutasmuchasIknew.At the endof a summer afternoon, Leo and Iwouldoften sit close to the river andwe

wouldtalkaboutourfuture.ThetruthwasthatjustabouteveryonewantedtoleaveEstrov.Outsidework,therewasnothingtodoandhalfthepeoplewholivedtherewereperpetuallydrunk.I’mnotmakingitup.Duringthewintermonths,theyweren’tallowedtoopenthevillage shopbefore teno’clock in themorningorpeoplewould rush inas soonas itwaslighttobuytheirvodka;andduringDecemberandJanuary,itwasn’tunusualtoseesomeofthelocalfarmersflatontheirbacks,halfcoveredwithsnowandprobablyhalfdeadtooafterdowningawholebottle.Wewereallbeingleftbehindinafast-changingworld.Whymyparentshadeverchosentocomeherewasanothermystery.Leodidn’tcare ifheendedupworking inthe factory likeeveryoneelsebut Ihadotherambitions.ForreasonsthatIcouldn’texplain,I’dalwaysthoughtthatIwasdifferentfromeveryone else.Maybe itwas the fact thatmy father had once been a professor in a biguniversity and that he had himself experienced life outside the village. But when I waswatchingthoseplanesdisappearintothedistance,Ialwaysthoughttheyweretryingtotellmesomething.Icouldbeononeofthem.TherewasawholelifeoutsideEstrovthatImightonedayexplore.AlthoughIhadnevertoldanyoneelseexceptLeo,Idreamtofbecomingahelicopterpilot– maybe in the army but if not, in air-sea rescue. I had seen a programme about it ontelevisionandforsomereasonithadcaughtholdofmyimagination.IdevouredeverythingI could about helicopters. I borrowed books from the school library. I cut out articles inmagazines.BythetimeIwasthirteen,Iknewthenameofalmosteverymovingpartofahelicopter.Iknewhowitusedallthedifferentforcesandcontrols,workinginoppositiontoeachothertofly.TheonlythingIhadneverdonewassitinone.“Doyouthinkyou’lleverleave?”Leoaskedmeoneevening,thetwoofussprawledoutinthelonggrass,sharingacigarette.“Goandliveinacitywithyourownflatandacar?”“HowamIsupposedtodothat?”“You’reclever.YoucangotoMoscow.Learnhowtobecomeapilot.”Ishookmyhead.Leowasmybestfriend.WhateverImightsecretlythink,Iwouldnevertalkaboutthetwoofusbeingapart.“Idon’tthinkmyparentswouldletme.Anyway,whywouldIwanttoleave?Thisismyhome.”“Estrovisadump.”“No, it’s not.” I looked at the river, the fast-flowing water chasing over the rocks, thesurroundingwoodland, themuddy track that led through the centreof thevillage. In thedistance, Icouldsee thesteepleofStNicholas.Thevillagehadnopriest.Thechurchwasclosed;butitsshadowstretchedoutalmosttoourfrontdoorandIhadalwaysthoughtofitaspartofmychildhood.MaybeLeowas right.Therewasn’t verymuch to theplace,butevenso,itwasmyhome.“I’mhappyhere,”IsaidandatthatmomentIbelievedit.“It’snotsuchabadplace.”I remember saying those words. I can still smell the smoke coming from a bonfiresomewhereontheothersideofthevillage.Icanhearthewaterrippling.IseeLeo,twirlingapieceofgrassbetweenhisfingers.Ourbicyclesarelying,oneontopoftheother.Thereareafewpuffsofcloudinthesky,floatinglazilypast.Afishsuddenlybreaksthesurfaceofthe riverand I see its scalesglimmer silver in the sunlight. It isawarmafternoonat thestart of October. And in twenty-four hours everythingwill have changed. Estrovwill nolongerexist.

WhenIgothome,mymotherwasalreadymakingthedinner.Foodwasaconstantsubjectofconversationinourvillagebecausetherewassolittleofitandeveryonegrewtheirown.Wewerelucky.Aswellasavegetablepatch,wehadadozenchickens,whichwereallgoodlayersso(unlesstheneighbourscreptinandstolethem)wealwayshadplentyofeggs.Shewasmakingastewwithpotatoes,turnipsandtinnedtomatoesthathadturneduptheweekbeforeintheshopandthathadsoldoutinstantly.Itwasexactlythesamemealaswe’dhadthenightbefore.Shewouldserveitwithslabsofblackbreadand,ofcourse,smalltumblersofvodka.IhadbeendrinkingvodkasinceIwasnineyearsold.Mymotherwasa slenderwomanwithbrightblueeyesandhairwhichmusthaveoncebeenasblondasminebutwhichwasalreadygrey,eventhoughshewasonlyinherthirties.SheworeittiedbacksothatIcouldseethecurveofherneck.Shewasalwayspleasedtoseeme and she always tookmy side. Therewas that time, for example,whenLeo and Iwerealmostarrestedforlettingoffbombsoutsidethepolicestation.Wehadgotupatfirstlight and dug holes in the ground which we’d filled up with drawing pins and thegunpowderstrippedfromaboutfivehundredmatches.Thenwe’dsneakedbehindthewallofthechurchyardandwatched.Itwastwohoursbeforethefirstpolicecardroveoverourboobytrapandset itoff.Therewasabang.Thefronttyrewasshreddedandthecarlostcontrolanddrovethroughabush.Thetwoofusnearlydiedlaughing,butIwasn’tsohappywhenIgothomeandfoundYelchin,thepolicechief,inmyfrontroom.HeaskedmewhereI’dbeenandwhenIsaidI’dbeenrunninganerrandformymother,shebackedmeup,eventhough she knew Iwas lying. Later on, she scoldedmebut I know that shewas secretlyamused.Inourhousehold,mymotherandmygrandmotherdidmostofthetalking.Myfatherwasaverythoughtfulmanwholookedexactlylikethescientistthathewas,withgreyinghair,aserioussortoffaceandglasses.HelivedinEstrovbuthisheartwasstillinMoscow.Hekeptallhisoldbooksaroundhimandwhen letterscame fromthecity,hewoulddisappear toreadthemandatdinnerhewouldbemilesaway.WhydidIneverquestionhimmore?Iaskmyself that now but I suppose nobody ever does.When you are young, you accept yourparentsforwhattheyareandyoubelievethestoriestheytellyou.Conversationatdinnerwasoftendifficultbecausemyparentsdidn’tliketodiscusstheirworkatthefactoryandtherewasonlysomuchIcouldtellthemaboutmydayatschool.Asformygrandmother,shehadsomehowgotstuckinthepast,twentyyearsago,andmuchofwhat she said didn’t connectwith reality at all. But that nightwas different.Apparentlytherehadbeenanaccident,afireatthefactory…nothingserious.Myfatherwasworriedandforoncehespokehismind.“It’sthesenewinvestors,”hesaid.“Alltheythinkaboutismoney.Theywanttoincreaseproduction and to hell with safety measures. Today it was just the generator plant. Butsupposeithadbeenoneofthelaboratories?”“Youshouldtalktothem,”mymothersaid.“Theywon’t listen tome. They’re pulling the strings fromMoscow and they’ve got noidea.”He threwbackhisvodkaand swallowed it inonegulp. “That’s thenewRussia foryou, Eva.We all get wiped out and as long as they get their cheque, they don’t give adamn.”Thisallstruckmeasinsane.Therecouldn’tbeanyrealdanger,nothereinEstrov.How

couldtheproductionoffertilizersandpesticidesdoanyoneanyharm?Mymotherseemedtoagree.“Youworrytoomuch,”shesaid.“Weshouldneverhavegonealongwiththis.Weshouldneverhavebeenpartofit.”Myfatherrefilledhisglass.Hedidn’tdrinkasmuchasalotofthepeopleinthevillagebut,likethem,heusedvodkatodrawdowntheshuttersbetweenhimandtherestoftheworld.“Thesoonerwegetoutofhere,thebetter.We’vebeenherelongenough.”“The swans are back,” my grandmother said. “They’re so beautiful at this time of theyear.”Therewerenoswansinthevillage.AsfarasIknew,thereneverhadbeen.“Arewereallygoingtoleave?”Iasked.“CanwegoandliveinMoscow?”Mymotherreachedoutandputherhandonmine.“Maybeoneday,Yasha.Andyoucangotouniversity,justlikeyourfather.Butyouhavetoworkhard…”Thenext daywas a Sunday and I hadno school.On the other hand, the factoryneverclosedandbothmyparentshaddrawntheweekendshift,workinguntil fourand leavingmetocleanthehouseandtakemygrandmotherherlunch.Leolookedinafterbreakfastbutwebothhadalotofhomework,soweagreedtomeetdownattheriveratsixandperhapskickaballaroundwithsomeotherboys.JustbeforemiddayIwaslyingonmybed,tryingtoploughmywaythroughachapterofCrimeandPunishment,whichwasthishugeRussianmasterpiecewewereallsupposedtoread.AsLeohadsaidtome,noneofusknewwhatourcrimewas,butreadingthebookwascertainlyapunishment.Thestoryhadbegunwithamurderbutsincethennothinghadhappenedandtherewereaboutsixhundredpagestogo.Anyway,Iwaslyingtherewithmyheadclosetothewindow,allowingthesuntoslantinontothepages.Itwasaveryquietmorning.EventhechickensseemedtohaveabandonedtheirusualcluckingandIwasawareofonlytheticksofthewatchonmyleftwrist.ItwasaPobedawith black numerals on awhite face and fifteen jewels that had beenmade justaftertheSecondWorldWarandthathadoncebelongedtomygrandfather.Inevertookitoffandovertheyearsithadbecomepartofme.Iglancedatitandnoticedthetime:fiveminutespasttwelve.AndthatwaswhenIheardtheexplosion.Actually,Iwasn’tevensureitwasanexplosion. It soundedmore likeapaperbagbeing crumpled somewhereoutofsight. I climbedoff thebed andwent and lookedout of the openwindow.A fewpeoplewerewalking across the fields but otherwise therewas nothing to see. I returned to thebook. How could I have so quickly forgotten my parents’ conversation from the nightbefore?I readanother thirtypages. I supposehalfanhourmusthavepassed.And then Iheardanothersound–softandfarawaybutunmistakableallthesame.Itwasgunfire,thesoundofanautomaticweaponbeingemptied.Thatwas impossible.Peoplewenthunting in thewoodssometimes,butnotwithmachineguns,andtherehadneverbeenanyarmyexercisesinthearea.IlookedoutofthewindowasecondtimeandsawsmokerisingintotheairontheothersideofthehillstothesouthofEstrov.ThatwaswhenIknewthatnoneofthiswasmyimagination.Somethinghadhappened.Thesmokewascomingfromthefactory.Ileaptoffthebed,droppingthebook,andrandownthestairsandoutofthehouse.Thevillagewascompletelydeserted.Ourchickenswerestruttingaroundon the front lawnofour house, pecking at the grass. There was a dog barking somewhere. Everything wasridiculouslynormal.ButthenIheardfootstepsandlookedup.MrVladimov,ourneighbour,

wasrunningdownfromhisfrontdoor,wipinghishandsonacloth.“MrVladimov!”Icalledouttohim.“What’shappened?”“Idon’tknow,”hewheezedback.Hehadprobablybeenworkingonhistractor.Hewascoveredinoil.“They’veallgonetosee.I’mgoingwiththem.”“Whatdoyoumean…allofthem?”“Thewholevillage!There’sbeensomesortofaccident!”BeforeIcouldaskanymore,hehaddisappeareddownthemuddytrack.He had no sooner gone than the alarmwent off. It was extraordinary, deafening, likenothingIhadeverheardbefore.Itcouldn’thavebeenmoreurgentifwarhadbrokenout.Andas thenoiseof it resoundedinmyhead, I realizedthat ithadtobecomingfromthefactory,morethanamileaway!Howcoulditbesoloud?Eventhefirealarmatschoolhadbeennothinglikethis.Itwasahigh-pitchedsirenthatseemedtospreadoutfromasinglepointuntilitwaseverywhere–behindtheforest,overthehills,inthesky–andyetatthesametimeitwasrightnexttome, infrontofmyhouse. Iknewnowthattherehadbeenanotheraccident. Ihadheard it,of course, theexplosion.But thathadbeenhalfanhourago.Whyhadtheybeensoslowtoraisethealarm?The siren stopped. And in the sudden silence, the countryside, the village where I hadspentmyentire life,seemedtohavebecomephotographsofthemselvesanditwasas if Iwasontheoutsidelookingin.Therewasnobodyaroundme.Thedoghadstoppedbarking.Thechickenshadscattered.Iheardthesoundofanengine.Acarcamehurtlingtowardsme,bumpingoverthetrack.ThefirstthingIregisteredwasthatitwasablackLada.ThenItookinthebulletholesallover thebodywork and the fact that the frontwindscreenwas shattered.But itwasonlywhenitstoppedthatIsawtheshockingtruth.Myfatherwasinthefrontseat.Mymotherwasbehindthewheel.

КPOКOДИЛЫ

CROCODILES

Ididn’tevenknowmymothercoulddrive.WehardlyeversawanycarsinEstrovbecausenobodycouldaffordtobuyone,andanyway,therewasn’tanywheretogo.TheblackLadaprobablybelongedtooneoftheseniormanagers.Not that Iwas thinking about these things just then. The driver’s door opened andmymothergotout.Straightaway,Isawthefearinhereyes.Sheraisedahandinmydirection,urgingmetostaywhereIwas,thenranroundtotheothersideandhelpedmyfatherout.Hewaswearingaloosewhitecoatthatflappedoverhisnormalclothes,andIsawwithasenseofhorrorthatwaslikeapoolofblackwater,suckingmein,thathehadbeenhurt.Thefabricwascoveredwithhisblood.His leftarmhunglimp.Hewasclutchinghischestwith his right hand.His face looked thin and pale and his eyeswere empty, clouded bypain.Mymotherhadherarmaroundhim,helpinghimtowalk.Sheatleasthadnotbeenhurtbutshestilllookedlikesomeonewhohadescapedfromawarzone.Therewerestreaksrunningdownherface.Herhairwaswild.Noboyshouldeverseehisparentsinthisway.Itis not natural. Everything I had always believed and taken for granted was instantlysmashed.The two of them reached me. My father could go no further and sank to the ground,restinghisbackagainstourgardenfence.AndallthetimeIhadsaidnothing.Therewereamillion questions I wanted to ask but the words simply would not reach my lips. Timeseemed to have fragmented. The first explosion, the gunfire and the smoke, goingdownstairs,seeingthecar…theywerelikefourseparateincidentsthatcouldhavetakenplaceyearsapart.Ineededthemtoexplainitforme.Somehow,perhaps,theycouldmakeitallmakesense.“Yasha!”Myfatherwasthefirsttospeakanditdidn’tsoundlikehimatall.Thepainwasdistortinghisvoice.“What’s happened?What is it?Whohurt you?You’vebeen shot!”Once I hadbegun tospeakIcouldbarelystop,butIwasmakinglittlesense.My father reached out and grabbed hold ofmy arm. “I am so glad you’re here. I wasafraidyou’dbeoutofthehouse.Butyouhavetolistentousverycarefully,Yasha.Wehaveverylittletime.”“Yasha,mydearboy…”Itwasmymotherwhohadspokenandsuddenlythereweretearscoursingdownhercheeks.Itdidn’tmatterwhathadhappenedatthefactory.Itwasseeingmethathadmadehercry.“I will try to explain to you,” my father said. “But you can’t argue with me. Do youunderstandthat?Youhavetoleavethevillageimmediately.”“What?I’mnotleaving!I’mnotgoinganywhere.”“Youhavenochoice.Ifyoustayhere,they’llkillyou.”Hisgriponmetightened.“They’realreadyontheirway.Doyouunderstand?They’llbehere.Verysoon.”“Who?Why?”Myfatherwastooweak,intoomuchpaintosayanythingmore,somymothertookover.

“Wenevertoldyouaboutthefactory,”shesaid.“Weweren’tallowedto.Butitwasn’tjustthat.Wedidn’twantyoutoknow.Wewereashamed.”Shewipedhereyes,pullingherselftogether.“Weweremakingchemicalsandpesticidesforfarmers, likewealwayssaid.Butwewerealsomakingotherthings.Forthemilitary.”“Weapons,”myfathersaid.“Chemicalweapons.DoyouunderstandwhatImean?”Isaidnothingsohewenton.“Wehadnochoice,Yasha.YourmotherandIgotintotroublewiththeauthoritiesalongtimeago,whenwewereinMoscow,andweweresentouthere.Thatwas before you were born. It was all my fault. They stopped us from teaching. Theythreatenedus.Wehadtoearnalivingandtherewasnootherway.”Thewordswerelikeastampedeofhorsesgallopingthroughmyhead.Iwantedthemtostop, to slow down. Surely all thatmatteredwas to get help formy father. The nearesthospitalwasmilesawaybuttherewasadoctorinRosna.Itseemedtomethatmyfatherwasgettingweakerandthatthebloodwasspreading.Butstilltheywenton.“Thismorningtherewasanaccidentinthemainlaboratory,”mymotherexplained.“Andsomethingwasreleasedintotheair.Wehadalreadywarnedthemitmight happen. You heard us talking about it only last night. But theywouldn’t listen.Makingaprofitwasallthatmatteredtothem.Well, it’sovernow.Thewholevillagehasbeencontaminated.Wehavebeencontaminated.Webroughtitwithusinthatcar.Notthatitwouldhavemadeanydifference.It’sintheair.It’severywhere.”“Whatis?Whatareyoutalkingabout?”“Aformofanthrax.”Mymotherspatoutthewords.“It’sasortofbacteriumbutit’sbeenmodifiedsothatit’sverycontagiousandactsveryquickly.Itcouldwipeoutanarmy!Andmaybewedeservethis.Wewereresponsible.Wehelpedtomakeit…”“Do it!”my father said. “Do it now!”Withhis freehand,he fumbled inhis pocket andtook out ametal box, about fifteen centimetres long. Itwas the sort of thing thatmightcontainapen.My mother took it. Her eyes were still fixed on me. “As soon as we knew what hadhappened, our first thoughts were for you,” she said. “Nobodywas allowed to leave thefactory.Thatwastheprotocol.Theyhadtokeepusthere,tocontainus.ButyourfatherandI had already made plans … just in case. We stole a car and we smashed through theperimeterfence.Wehadtoreachyou.”“Thesiren…?”“Thatwasnothingtodowiththeaccident.Theysetitoffafterwards.Theysawweweretrying to escape.” She drew a breath. “The guards fired machine guns at us and theysoundedthealarm.Yourfatherwashit.Weweresofrightenedwewouldn’tbeabletofindyou,thatyouwouldn’tbeatthehouse…”“ThankGodyou’rehere!”myfathersaid.Hewasstillholdingontome.Hewasbreathingwithdifficulty.My mother opened the box. I didn’t know what would be inside or why it was soimportantbutwhen I lookeddown, I saw that it contained the last thing Ihadexpected.Therewassomegreyvelvetpaddingandinthemiddleofthat,ahypodermicsyringe.“Foreveryweapontherehastobeadefence,”mymotherwenton.“Wemadeapoisonbutwewerealsoworkingonanantidote.Thisisit,Yasha.Therewasonlyatinyamountofitbutwestoleitandwebroughtittoyou.Itwillprotectyou…”

“No.Idon’twantit!Youhaveit!”“There isn’t enough forus.This is allwehave.”My father’shandhad tightenedonmyarm,pinningmedown.Hewasusingtheverylastofhisstrength.“Doit,Eva,”heinsisted.Mymotherwasholdingthesyringeuptothelight,tappingitwithherfinger,examiningtheglassvial.Shepressedtheplungerwithherthumbsothatabeadofliquidappearedattheendoftheneedle.Ibegantostruggle.Icouldn’tbelievethatshewasabouttoinjectme.My fatherwouldn’t letmemove.Asweakashewas,hekeptmestillwhilemymotherclosedinonme.Itmustbeeverychild’snightmaretobeattackedbyhisownparentsandatthatmoment I forgot that everything theywere doingwas formyowngood. Theyweresavingme,notkillingme,butthatwasn’thowitseemedtome.Icanstillseemymother’sface, the cold determination as she brought the needle plunging down. She didn’t evenbothertorollupmyshirtsleeve.Thepointwentthroughthematerialandintomyarm.Ithurt.IthinkIactuallyfelttheliquid,theantidote,coursingintomybloodstream.Shepulledouttheneedleanddroppedtheemptyhypodermicontotheground.Ilookeddownandsawmoreblood,myown,formingacircleonmysleeve.Myfatherletgoofme.Mymotherclosedhereyesforamoment.Whensheopenedthemagain,shewassmiling.“Yasha,mydearest,”shesaid.“Wedon’tmindwhathappenstous.Canyouunderstandthat?Rightnow,you’reallwecareabout.You’reallthatmatters.”Thethreeofusstoodthereforamoment.Wewerelikeactorsinaplaywhohadrunoutoflines.Wewerebreathless,shockedbytheviolenceofwhathadtakenplace.Itwaslikebeinginsomesortofwakingdream.Weweresurroundedbysilence.Smokewasstillrisingslowly above the hills. And the villagewas still completely empty. Therewas nobody insight.Itwasmyfatherwhobeganagain.“Youhavetogointothehouse,”hesaid.“Youneedtotakesomeclotheswithyouandanyfoodyoucanfind.Lookinthekitchencupboardandputitallinyourbackpack.Getatorchandacompass.But,mostimportantofall,thereisametal box in the kitchen. You knowwhere it is…beside the fire. Bring it out tome.” Ihesitatedsohewenton,puttingallhisauthorityintohisvoice.“Ifyouarenotoutofthevillageinfiveminutes,Yasha,youwilldiewithus.Evenwiththeantidote.Thegovernmentwillnotallowanyonetotellwhathashappenedhere.Theywillhuntyoudownandtheywillkillyou.Ifyouwanttolive,youmustdoaswesay.”Did I want to live? Right then, I wasn’t even sure. But I knew that I couldn’t let myparents down, not after everything theyhaddone to reachme.Not daring to speak,mymothersilentlyimploredme.Icouldfeelmythroatburning–Ireeledawayandstaggeredintothehouse.Myfatherwasstillsittingonthegroundwithhislegsstretchedoutinfrontofhim.Lookingback,Isawmymothergooverandkneelbesidehim.Almosttrippingovermyself, Iranacrossthegardenandthroughthefrontdoor. Iwentstraightuptomybedroomand,inadaze,pulledouttheuniformIhadwornoncampingtripswiththeYoungPioneers,ourRussianscoutingorganization.Ihadbeengivenadarkgreenanorakandwaterprooftrousers.Iwasn’tsurewhethertocarrythemortowearthem,butintheendIpulledthemonovermyordinaryclothes.Iquicklyputonmyleatherboots,whichwerestillcoveredindriedmudandtookmybackpack,atorchandacompassfromunder thebed. I looked aroundme, at thepictures on thewall – a football club, varioushelicopters,aphotographof theworld taken fromouter space.Thebook that Ihadbeen

readingwasonthefloor.Myschoolclotheswerefoldedonachair.IcouldnotacceptthatIwasleavingallthisbehind,thatIwouldneverseeanyofitagain.Iwentdownstairs.Everyhouse in thevillagehad itsownspecialhidingplaceandourswas in the wall beside the stove. There were two loose bricks and I pulled them out toreveal a hollow opening with a tin box inside. I grabbed it and took it with me. As Istraightenedup,Inoticedmygrandmother,stillstandingatthesink,peelingpotatoes,withheraprontiedtightlyaroundherwaist.Shebeamedatme.“Ican’trememberwhenthere’sbeenabetterharvest,”shesaid.Shehadabsolutelynoideawhatwasgoingon.Iwentover toa cupboardand shoved some tins, tea, sugar, aboxofmatchesand twobarsofchocolate intomybackpack.I filledaglasswithwaterIhadtakenfromthewell.Finally, Ikissedmygrandmotherquicklyonthesideof theheadandhurriedout, leavinghertoherwork.Theskyhaddarkenedwhile Iwas in thehouse.Howcould thathavehappened? Ithadonlybeenafewminutes,surely?Butnowitlookedasthoughitwasgoingtorain,perhapsoneofthoseviolentdownpoursweoftenhadduringthemonthsleadinguptowinter.Myfatherwas sittingwhere I had left him and seemed to be asleep. His handwas clutchedacross thewound in his chest. Iwanted to carry the tin box over to him butmymothermovedroundandstoodinmyway.Iheldouttheglassofwater.“Igotthis.ForFather.”“That’sgoodofyou,Yasha.Buthedoesn’tneedit.”“But…”“No,Yasha.Trytounderstand.”IttookafewmomentsforthesignificanceofwhatshewassayingtosinkinandatonceatrapdooropenedandIplungedthroughit,intoaworldofpain.My mother took the box and lifted the lid. Inside there was a roll of banknotes – ahundred rubles,moremoney than I had ever seen.Myparentsmust have been saving itfrom their salaries, planning for thedaywhen they returned toMoscow.But thatwasn’tgoing to happen, not now. She gave it all to me along with my internal passport, adocument that everyone inRussiawas required toown,even if youdidn’t travel. Finallyshetookoutasmall,blackvelvetbagandhandedittometoo.“Thatiseverything,Yasha,”shesaid.“Youhavetogo.”“Mother…”Ibegan. I felthugetearsswellup inmyeyesandtheburning inmythroatwasworsethanever.“Youheardwhatyourfathersaid.Now,listenverycarefully.YouhavetogotoMoscow.Iknowit’sa longwayawayandyou’venevertravelledonyourownbutyoucanmakeit.Youcantakethetrain.NotfromRosna.They’llbecheckingeveryoneatthestation.GotoKirsk.Youcanreachitthroughtheforest.That’sthesafestway.Findthenewhighwayandfollowit.Doyouunderstand?”Inodded,miserably.“YourememberKirsk.You’vebeenthereafewtimes.There’sastationwithtrainseverydaytoMoscow…oneinthemorning,oneintheevening.Taketheeveningtrain,whenit’sdark. If anyone asks you, sayyou’re visiting anuncle.Never tell anyoneyou came fromEstrov.Neverusethatwordagain.Promisemethat.”

“WherewillIgoinMoscow?”Iasked.Ididn’twanttoleave.Iwantedtostaywithher.She reached out and took me in her arms, hugging me against her. “Don’t be scared,Yasha.WehaveagoodfriendinMoscow.He’sabiologyprofessor.Heworkedwithyourfather and you’ll find him at the university. His name is Misha Dementyev. I’ll try totelephonehimbutIexpectthey’llhavecutthelines.Itdoesn’tmatter.Whenyoutellhimwhoyouare,he’lllookafteryou.”MishaDementyev.Iclungontothetwowords,myonlylifeline.Mymotherwasstillembracingme.Iwaslookingatthecurveofherneck,smellingherscentforthelasttime.“Whycan’tyoucomewithme?”Isobbed.“Itwoulddonogood. I’m infected. Iwant to staywithyour father.But it’snot sobad,knowingyou’vegotaway.”Shemovedmeawayfromher,stillholdingme,lookingstraightintomyeyes. “Now,youhave tobebrave.Youhave to leave.Don’t lookback.Don’t letanyonestopyou.”“Mother…”“Iloveyou,mydearson.Nowgo!”IfI’dspokentoheragain,Iwouldn’thavebeenabletoleaveher.Iknewthat.Webothdid.Ibrokeaway.Iran.The forestwason theother sideof thehouse, to thenorthandspreading to theeastofEstrov. It stretchedon forabout thirtymiles,mainlypine treesbutalso linden,birchandspruce. Itwasadark, tangledplaceandnoneofuseverwent into it,partlybecausewewere afraid of getting lost but also because there were rumoured to be wolves around,particularlyinthewinter.ButsomewhereinsidemeIknewmymotherwasright.Iftherewerepoliceor soldiers in thearea, theywouldconcentrateon themain road. Iwouldbesaferoutofsight.Thehighwaythatshe’dmentionedcutthroughtheforestandtheywerelayinganewwaterpipealongsideit.Tobeginwith,Ifollowedthetrackthatwoundthroughthegardens,tryingtokeepoutofsight,althoughtherewasnobodyaround.Inthedistance,IsawaboyIknew,cyclingpastwithabundleunderhisarm,buthewasalone. Ipassedthevillageshop. Itwasclosed. Icontinued through the allotments where the villagers grew their own food and stoleeveryoneelse’s.Iwasalreadyhot,wearingadoublesetofclothes,andtheairwassuddenlywarm and thick. The clouds were grey and swollen, rolling in from every side. It wasdefinitelygoingtorain.Istillwasn’tsureIwasgoingtodowhatmymotherhadtoldme.DidshereallythinkIcould so easily run off and leave her on her own with my father lying dead beside thefence?Nomatterwhathadhappenedatthefactory,andwhatevershehadsaid,Icouldn’tjustabandonher.Iwouldwaitafewhoursintheforestandseewhathappened.Andthen,onceitwasdark, Iwouldreturn.Shehadtalkedaboutaweapon–anthrax.Shehadsaidthewholevillagewascontaminated.ButIrefusedtobelieveher.Iwasevenangrywithherfortellingmethesethings.Intruth,IdonotthinkIwasactuallyinmyrightmind.And then I saw someone ahead of me, crouching down with their bottom in the air,pullingvegetablesoutoftheground.Evenfromthisangle,Irecognizedhimatonce.ItwasLeo.Hehadbeenworkingonhis family’svegetablepatch,probablyasapunishment fordoingsomethingwrong.Hehadtwoyoungerbrothersandwheneveranyof themfought,their fatherwould take a belt to them and theywould end up eithermending fences or

gardening.Hewascoveredinmudwithabunchofverywrinkledcarrotsdanglingfromhishand,butseeingmeapproach,hebrokeintoagrin.“Hey,Yasha!”hecalledout.Hedidadouble take,noticingmyPioneers clothes. “Whatareyoudoing?”“Leo…”IwassogladtoseehimbutIdidn’tknowwhattosay.HowcouldIexplainwhathadjusthappened?“Didyouhearthesiren?”hesaid.“Andtherewasshooting.Ithinksomething’shappenedoveratthefactory.”“Whereareyourparents?”Iasked.“Dad’sworking.Mum’sathome.”“Leo,youhavetocomewithme.”Thewordscamerushingout. Ihadn’tplannedtoaskhim along but suddenly it was the most important thing in the world. I couldn’t leavewithouthim.“Where are you going?” He lowered the carrots and stood there with his legs slightlyapart,onehandonhiship,hisbootsreachinguptohisthighs.Foramomenthelookedlikeoneofthoseoldposters,thesorttheyhadprintedtogetthepeasantstoworkinthefields.Hegavemeacrookedsmile.“What’sthematter,Yasha?What’swrong?”“Mydad’sdead,”Isaid.“What?”Hadn’theunderstoodanything?Hadn’therealizedthatsomethingwaswrong?But thatwasLeoforyou.Explosions,gunshots,alarms…andhewouldjustcarryonweeding.“He’sbeen shot,” I said. “Thatwaswhat the sirenwasabout. Itwashim.They tried tostop him leaving. But he told me I have to go away and hide. Something terrible hashappenedatthefactory.”Iwaspleadingwithhim.“Please,Leo.Comewithme.”“Ican’t…”Hewasgoingtoargue.NomatterwhatI toldhim,hewouldneverhaveabandonedhisfamily.But just thenwebecameawareofasound, something thatneitherofushadeverheardbefore.Atthesametime,wefeltaslightpulsingintheair,beatingagainstourskin.Welookedroundandsawfiveblackdotsinthesky,swoopinglowoverthehills,headingtowardsthevillage.Theyweremilitaryhelicopters,justliketheonesinthepicturesinmyroom.Theywerestilltoofarawaytoseeproperlybuttheywerelinedupinprecisebattleformation.Itwasthatexactnessthatmadethemsomenacing.SomehowIwascertainthattheyweren’tgoingtoland.Theyweren’tgoingtodisgorgedoctorsandtechnicianswhohadcometohelpus.MyparentshadwarnedmethatpeoplewerecomingtoEstrovtokillmeandIhadnodoubtatallthattheyhadarrived.“Leo!Comeon!Now!”There must have been something in my voice, or perhaps it was the sight of thehelicoptersthemselves,butthistimeLeodroppedhiscarrotsandobeyed.Together,withouta single thought,we began to run up the slope, away from the village. The edge of theforest, an endless line of thick trunks, branches, pineneedles and shadows, stretchedoutbefore us.Wewere still about fiftymetres away andnow I found thatmy legswouldn’twork, that thesoftmudwasdeliberatelydraggingmedown.Behindme, thesoundof thehelicopterswasgettinglouder.Ididn’tdareturnroundbutIcouldfeelthemgettingcloserand closer. And then – another shock – the bells of StNicholas began to ring, the sound

echoingovertherooftops.Thechurchwasempty.Ihadneverheardthebellsbefore.Iwassweating.Mywholebodyfeltasifitweretrappedinsideanoven.SomethinghitmeontheshoulderandforacrazymomentIthoughtoneofthehelicoptershadfiredabullet.Butitwasnothingmorethanafatraindrop.Thestormwasabouttobreak.“Yasha!”We stopped at the very edge of the forest and turned round just in time to see thehelicoptersdelivertheirfirstpayload.Theyfiredfivemissiles,oneaftertheother.Buttheydidn’thitanything…notlikeinanoldwarfilm.Thepilotshadn’tactuallybeenaimingatanyparticularbuildings.Themissilesexplodedrandomly–inlanes, inpeoples’gardens–but the destruction was much, much worse than anything I could have imagined. Hugefireballseruptedatthepointofimpact,spreadingoutinstantlysothattheyjoinedupwithone another, wiping out everything they touched. The flames were a brilliant orange;fiercer andmore intense than any fire I had ever seen. They devouredmy entireworld,burningup thehouses, thewalls, the trees, the roads, thevery soil.Nothing that touchedthose flames could possibly survive. The first five missiles wiped out almost the entirevillagebuttheywerefollowedbyfivemoreandthenanotherfive.Wecouldfeeltheheatreaching out to us, so intense that even thoughwewere somedistance from it, our eyeswateredandwehadtolookaway.Iputupmyhandtoprotectmyfaceandfeltthebackofmyfingersburn.Inseconds,Estrov,thevillagewhereIhadspentmyentirelife,wasturnedintohell.My fatherwasalreadydeadbut Ihadnodoubtatall thatmymotherhadnowjoinedhim.Andmygrandmother.AndLeo’smotherandhisbrothers.Itwasimpossibletoseehishousethroughthecurtainoffirebutbynowitwouldbenothingmorethanash.The helicopters were continuing, heading towards us. Now that they were closer, Irecognizedthematonce.TheywereMilMi-24s,sometimesknownasCrocodiles,developedfor the Russian military for both missile support and troop movements. Each one couldcarry eightmen at speeds of over threehundred and fiftymiles per hour.Aswell as themainandthe tail rotors, theMilhad twowingsstretchingoutof themain fuselage,eachoneequippedwithamissile launcher thatdangledbeneath it. I hadnever seenanythingthat lookedmoredeadly,more likeagiantbirdwithclawsoutstretched, swoopingoutofthe sky to snatch me up. They were getting closer and closer. I could actually see thenearestpilot,verylowdownintheglassbubblethatwasthecockpitwindow.Wherehadhecomefrom?Hadheoncebeenaboylikeme,dreamingofflying?Howcouldhesitthereandberesponsibleforsomuchkilling?Andyethewaswithoutmercy.Therecouldbenodoubtatallthathewasaimingthenextsalvoatme.IswearIsawhimgazingstraightatmeashefired.Isawthespurtofflameasthemissileswerefired.Fortunately,theyfellshort.Awallofflameeruptedaboutthirtymetresbehindme.Evenso, the heatwas so intense that Leo screamed. I could smell the air burning. A cloud ofchemicalsandsmokepouredoverus. Itwasonly laterthat Irealizeditmusthavebrieflyshieldedusfromthepilot.Otherwisehewouldhavefiredagain.Leo and I plunged into the forest. The light was cut out behind us. Instantly weweresurroundedbygreen,withleavesandbrancheseverywhereandsoftmossbeneathourfeet.Wehadreachedthetopofthehill.Theforestslopeddownontheothersideandthisprovedour salvation.We lostour footingand tumbleddown, rollingover rootsandmud. Itwasalreadyrainingharder.Waterwasdrippingdownandmaybethathelpedustoo.Wewere

invisible.Wewereawayfromtheflames.AsIfell,throughthetreesIcaughtaglimpseofthe red and black horror that I had left behind. I heard the roar of helicopter blades.Brancheswerewhippingandshakingallaroundme.ThenIwasattheverybottomofthehollow.Leowasnexttome,staringhelplessly,completelyterrified.Butwewereprotectedbytheforestandbytheearth.Thehelicopterscouldnotreachus.Well,perhaps thepilots couldhave triedagain.Maybe theyhadexhausted theirmissilesupply.Maybe they didn’t think itwasworthwastingmore of their ammunition on twosmallboys.ButevenasIlaythereIknewthatthiswasn’tover.Theyhadseenusandtheywouldradioahead.Otherswouldcometofinishthework.Itwasn’tenoughthatthevillagehad been destroyed. If anybody had managed to survive, they would have to be killed.Theremustbenobodylefttotellwhathadhappened.“Yasha…”Leogasped.Hewascrying.Hisfacewasamessofmudandtears.“Wehavetogo,”Isaid.Westruggledtoourfeetanddroppedintothesafetyoftheforest.Behindus,theskywasred,thehelicoptershoveringasEstrovcontinuedtoburn.

ЛЕС

THEFOREST

WhenIwasasmallboy,Ihadfearedtheforestwithitsghostsanditsdemons.Ithadgivenmenightmares.Myownparentshadcomefromthecityanddidn’tbelievesuchthingsbutLeo’smotherusedtotellmestoriesaboutit,thesamestoriesthathermotherhaddoubtlesstold her. Every child in the village knew themand stayed away. But now Iwanted it todrawme in, to swallowmeup andnever letme go. The deeper Iwent, the safer I felt,surroundedbyhuge, solid trunks thatblottedout the skyandeverythingsilentexcept forthe drip of the rain on the canopy of leaves. The real nightmarewas behindme. Itwasalmostimpossibletothinkofmyvillageandthepeoplewhohadlivedthere.MrVladimovsmokinghiscigarettesuntil the stubsburnthis fingers.MrsBekwhoran thevillage shopandputupwitheveryone’scomplaintswhentherewasnothingontheshelves.Thetwins,IrinaandOlga,soalikethatwecouldnevertellthemapartbutalwaysarguingandateachother’sthroats.Mygrandmother.Myparents.Myfriends.Theyhadallgoneasiftheyhadneverexistedandnothingwouldremainofthem,noteventheirnames.NevertellanyoneyoucamefromEstrov.Neverusethatwordagain.Mymother’swarningtome.Andofcourseshewasright.Theplaceofmybirthhadnowbecomeasentenceofdeath.I was in shock. Somuch had happened and it had happened so quickly thatmy brainsimplywasn’table tocopewith itall. Ihadseenvery fewAmerican films,andcomputergames hadn’t arrived in my corner of Russia yet – so the sort of violence I had justexperienced was completely alien to me. Perhaps it was for the best. If I had reallyconsidered my situation, I might easily have gone mad. I was fourteen years old andsuddenlyIhadnothingexceptahundredrubles,theclothesIwaswearingandthenameofamanIhadnevermetinacityIhadnevervisited.Mybestfriendwaswithmebutitwasas ifhissoulhadflownoutofhim, leavingnothingbutashellbehind.Hewasno longercryingbuthewaswalking likea zombie.For the lasthour,hehad saidnothing.Wehadbeenwalkinginsilencewithonlythesoundofourownfootstepsandtherainhittingtheleaves.Itwasn’toveryet.Wewerebothwaitingforthenextattack.Maybethehelicopterswouldreturn and bomb the forest.Maybe theywould use poison gas next time. They knewwewerehereandtheywouldn’tletusgetaway.“What was it all about, Yasha Gregorovich?” Leo asked. He usedmy full name in theformalwaythatweRussiansdosometimes–whenwewanttomakeapointorwhenweareafraid.HisfacewaspuffyandIcouldseethathiseyeswerebrightwithtears,althoughhewastryinghardnottocryinfrontofme.“Idon’tknow,”Isaid.Butthatwasn’ttrue.Iknewonlytoowell.“Therewasanaccidentatthefactory,”Iwenton.“Ourparentsliedtous.Theyweren’tjustmakingchemicalsforfarmers.Theywerealsomakingweapons.Somethingwentwrongandtheyhadtocloseitdownveryquickly.”“Thehelicopters…”

“I suppose they didn’t want to tell anyonewhat had happened. It’s like that placewelearntabout.Youknow…Chernobyl.”WeallknewaboutChernobylinUkraine.Notsolongago,whenRussiawasstillpartoftheSovietUnion,therehadbeenahugeexplosionatanuclearreactor.Thewholeareahadbeencoveredwithcloudsofradioactivedust–theyhadevenreachedpartsofEurope.Butatthetime,theauthoritieshaddoneeverythingtheycouldtocoverupwhathadhappened.Even now it was uncertain how many people had actually died. That was the way theRussiangovernmentworkedbackthen.Iftheyhadadmittedtherehadbeenacatastrophe,it would have shown they were weak. So it was easy to imagine what they would dofollowinganaccidentatasecretfacilitycreatingbiologicalweapons.Ifahundredorevenfive hundred people were murdered, what would it matter so long as things were keptquiet?Leowasstilltryingtotakeitall in.Ithurtmeseeinghimlikethis.Thiswasaboywhohad been afraid of nothing, who had been rude to all the teachers and who had nevercomplainedwhenhewasbeatenorsentonforcedmarches.Butitwasasifhehadbecomefiveyearsyounger.Hewaslost.“Theykilledeveryone,”hesaid.“They had to keep it a secret, Leo. My mother and father managed to get out of thefactory.Theytoldmetorunawaybecausetheyknewwhatwasgoingtohappen.”Myvoicecracked.“They’rebothdead.”“I’msorry,Yasha.”“Metoo,Leo.”Hewasmybestfriend.HewasallthatIhadleftintheworld.ButIstillwasn’ttellinghimthewholetruth.MyarmwasthrobbingpainfullyandIwassurethathemusthavenoticedthebloodstainonmysleevebutIhadn’tmentionedthesyringe.Mymotherhadinoculatedme with the antidote against whatever had escaped into the air. She had said it wouldprotectme.NoonehaddonethesameforLeo.Didthatmeanhewascarryingtheanthraxsporesonhimevennow?Washedying?Ididn’twanttothinkaboutitand,cowardthatIwas,Icertainlycouldn’tbringmyselftotalktohimaboutit.Wewerestillwalking.Therainwasgettingheavier.Nowitwasmakingitswaythroughtheleavesandsplashingdownallaroundus.Itwasearlyintheafternoonbutmostofthelighthadgone.IhadtakenoutmycompassandgivenittoLeo.IcouldhaveuseditmyselfofcoursebutIthoughtitwouldbebetterforhimtohavehismindoccupied–andanyway,hewasbetteratfindingdirectionsthanme.Notthatthecompassreallyhelped.Everytimewe came to a particularly nasty knot of brambles or found a tangle of undergrowthblockingourpath,wehadtogoanotherway.Itwasasiftheforestitselfwasguidingus.Where?Ifitwasfeelingmerciful,itwouldleadustosafety.Butitmightbejustaslikelytodeliverusintoourenemies’hands.Theforestbegantoslopeupwards,gentlyatfirst, thenmoresteeply,andwefoundourfeetkeptslippingandwetrippedovertheroots.Leolookeddreadful,hisclothesplasteredacrosshim,hisfacedeadlywhite,hishairsoakingwetnow,hanginglifelesslyoverhiseyes.Ifeltguiltyinmywaterproofclothesbutitwastoolatetohandthemover.Aheadofus,thetreesbegantothinout.Thiswasdoublybadnews.First, itmeantthatwewereevenlessprotected from the rain. Itwould also be easier to spot us from the air if thehelicoptersreturned.

“Overthere!”Isaid.Ihadseenanelectricitypylonnottoofaraway,pokingoutabovethetrees,partofthenewconstruction.Theyhadbeen laying all three together – thenewhighway, thewaterpipeandelectricity–allpartofthemodernizationofthearea,beforetheworkhadgroundtoahalt.Butevenwithouttarmacorlighting,theroadwouldleadusstraighttoKirsk.Atleastweknewwhichwaytogo.IhadverylittlememoryofKirsk.ThelasttimeIhadbeentherehadbeenaboutayearago,onaschooltrip.GettingoutofEstrovhadbeenexcitingenoughbutwhenwehadgottherewehadspenthalfthetimeinamuseum,andbytheafternoonIwasboredstiff.WhenIwastwelve,IhadspentaweekinKirskHospitalafterI’dbrokenmyleg.Ihadbeentakenthere by bus and had no idea how to get around. But surely the stationwouldn’t be toodifficulttofindandatleastIwouldhaveenoughmoneytobuytwoticketsforthetrain.Ahundredrubleswasworthagreatdeal. Itwasmore thanamonth’s salary foroneofmyteachers.Wetrudgedforward,makingbetterprogress.Wewerebeginningtothinkthatwehadgotawayafter all, thatnobodywas interested inus anymore.Of course it is justwhenyoubegintothinklikethat,whenyourelaxyourguard,thattheworsthappens.IfIhadbeeninthe same situation now, I would have gone anywhere except towards the new highway.Whenyouareindanger,youmustalwaysoptforwhatisleastexpected.Predictabilitykills.Wereachedthefirstevidenceoftheconstruction;abandonedspoolsofwire,cementslabs,greatpilesofplastictubing.Aheadofus,abrownribbonofdug-upearthstretchedoutintothegloom.ThetownofKirskandtherailwaytoMoscowlayattheotherend.“Howfarisit?”Leoasked.“Idon’tknow,”Isaid.“Abouttwentymiles,Ithink.AreyouOK?”Leonoddedbutthemiseryinhisfacetoldanotherstory.“Wecandoit,”Isaid.“Fiveorsixhours.Anditcan’trainforever.”Itfeltasifitwasgoingtodojustthat.Wecouldactuallyseetheraindropsnow,fatandrelentless,slantingdowninfrontofusandsplatteringontheground.Itwaslikeacurtainhangingbetweenthetreesandwecouldbarelymakeouttheroadontheotherside.Thereweremorepipes scatteredonbothsidesandaftera shortwhilewecame toadeepditchwhichmusthavebeencutaspartofthewaterproject.Wasitreallypossibleforanentirecommunitytoneartheendofthetwentiethcenturywithoutrunningwater?Ihadcarriedenoughbucketsdowntothewelltoknowtheanswertothat.We walked for another ten minutes, neither of us speaking, our feet splashing in thepuddles,andthenwesawthem.Theywereaheadofus,alonglineofsoldiers,spreadoutacross the forest, making steady progress towards us… like detectives looking for cluesafter amurder.Theywere spaced so thatnobodywouldbe able topass through the linewithoutbeingseen.Theyhadnofaces.Theyweredressedinpalesilveranti-chemicalandbiological uniformswith hoods and gasmasks, and they carried semi-automaticmachineguns.Theyhaddogswiththem,scrawnyAlsatians,strainingattheendofmetalleashes.Itwasasiftheyhadwalkedoutofmyworstnightmare.Theydidn’tlookhumanatall.It shouldhavebeenobvious from the start thatwhoeverhad sent thehelicopterswouldfollowthemupwithaninfantrybackup.First,destroythevillage,thenputanoosearoundtheplacetomakesuretherearenosurvivorswhocanspreadthevirus.Thelineofmilitia

men,ifthat’swhattheywere,wouldhaveformedahugecirclearoundEstrov.Theywouldcloseinfromallsides.Andtheywouldhavebeentoldtoshootanystragglers–Leoandme–onsight.Nobodycouldbeallowedtotellwhathadhappened.And,aboveall,theanthraxvirusthatwemightbecarryingmustnotbreakfree.Theywouldhaveseenusatoncebutfortherain.Andthedogstoowouldhavesmeltusifeverything hadn’t been so wet. In the darkness of the forest, the pale colour of theirprotectivegearstoodout,but fora fewprecioussecondswewere invisible. I reachedoutandgrabbedLeo’sarm.Weturnedandranthewaywehadcome.Itwastheworstthingtodo.Sincethattime,longagonow,Ihavebeentaughtsurvivaltechniquesforexactlysuchsituations.Youdonotbreakyourpace.Youdonotpanic.Itistheveryrhythmofyourmovement thatwillalertyourenemy.Weshouldhavemeltedtooneside,foundcoverandthenretreatedasquicklybutassteadilyaswecould.Instead,thesoundofour shoes stampingon thewetgroundsignalled thatwewere there.Oneof thedogs began to bark ferociously, followed immediately by the rest of them. Somebodyshouted. An instant later therewas the deafening clamour ofmachine-gun fire,weaponsspraying bullets that sliced through the trees and the leaves, sending pieces of debrisshowering over our heads. We had been seen. The line began to move forward moreurgently.Wewereperhapsthirtyorfortymetresaheadofthembutwewerealreadyclosetoexhaustion,drenched,unarmed.Wewerechildren.Wehadnochanceatall.Moremachine-gun fire. I sawmud splatteringup inches frommy feet. Leowas slightlyaheadofme.HislegswereshorterthanmineandhehadbeenmoretiredthanmebutIwasdeterminedtokeephiminfrontofme,nottoleavehimbehind.Ifonewentdown,webothwentdown.Thedogsweremakingahideoussound.Theyhadseentheirprey.Theywantedtobereleased.Andwestayedonthehalf-builthighway!Thatwasakillinggroundifevertherewasone,wideandexposed…aneasymatter forasniper topickusoff. I supposewethoughtwecouldrunfasterwithaflatsurfacebeneathourfeet.ButeverystepItook,Iwaswaitingforthebulletthatwouldcomesmashingbetweenmyshoulders.Icouldhearthedogs,theguns,the blast of the whistles. I didn’t look back but I could actually feel the men closing inbehindme.Still,wehadtheadvantageofdistance.Thelineofsoldierswouldmovemoreslowlythanus.Theywouldn’twanttobreakrankandriskthechanceofourdoublingbackandslippingthrough.Ihadperhapsoneminutetoworkoutsomesortofschemebeforetheycaughtupwithus.Climbatree?No,itwouldtaketoolong,andanyway,thedogswouldsniffusout.Continuebackdownthehill?Pointless.Therewereprobablymoresoldierscominguptheother side. I was still running, my heart pounding in my chest, the breath harsh in mythroat.AndthenIsawit…theditchwehadpassedwiththeplastictubesscatteredabout.“Thisway,Leo!”Ishouted.Atthesametime,Ithrewmyselfofftheroad,skiddingdownthedeepbankandlandinginastreamofwaterthatroseovermyankles.“Yasha,whatareyou…?”Leobeganbuthewassensibleenoughnottohesitate,turningbackandfollowingmedown,almost landingontopofme.Andsotherewewere,belowtheleveloftheroad,andIwasalreadymakingmywayback,headingtowardsthelineofsoldiers,lookingforwhatIprayedmustbethere.

Hundredsofmetresofthewaterpipehadalreadybeenlaid.Theopeningwasinfrontofus:aperfectblackcircle,liketheentrancetosomefuturisticcave.Itwassmall.IfIhadn’tbeensothinandLeohadn’tbeensoslight,neitherofuswouldhavefittedintoitanditwasunlikelythatmanyof thesoldierswouldhavebeenable to follow–certainlynot in theirgasmasksandprotectivegear.Theywouldhavebeenmadtotry.Wouldtheyreallyhavebeen prepared to bury themselves alive, plunging into utter darknesswith tons of dampearthabovetheirheads?That was what we did. On our hands and knees, we threw ourselves forward, ourshouldersscrapingagainstthecurveofthepipe.Atleastitwasdryinsidethetunnel.Butitwasalsopitch-black.WhenIlookedbacktoseeifLeowasbehindme,Icaughtaglimmerofsoftlightafewmetresaway.ButwhenIlookedahead…therewasnothing!Ibroughtmyhand up and touched my nose but I couldn’t see my fingers. For a moment, I found itdifficult tobreathe. Ihad to fightoff theclaustrophobia, thesenseofbeingsuffocated,ofbeingsqueezedtodeath.Iwonderedifitwouldbeagoodideatogoanyfurther.Wecouldhavestayedwherewewereandusedthetunnelasahidingplaceuntileveryonehadgone–butthatwasn’tgoodenoughforme.Icouldimagineaburstofmachine-gunfirekillingmeor,worsestill,paralysingmeandleavingmetodieslowlyinthedarkness.IcouldfeeltheAlsatians,sentafterus,snappingandsnarlingtheirwaydownthetunnelandthentearingferociouslyatourlegsandthighs.Ihadtoletthetunnelcarrymeawayanditdidn’tmatterwhereittookme.SoIkeptgoingwithLeobehindme,thetwoofusburrowingeverfurtherbeneaththewood.Tothesoldiersitmusthaveseemedasifwehaddisappearedbymagic.Theywouldhavepassedtheditchbutit’squitelikelythattheydidn’tseethepipeline–or,iftheydid,refusedtobelieve thatwe couldactually fit into it.Onceagain, the rain coveredour tracks.Thedogsfailedtopickupourscent.Anyfootprintswerewashedaway.Andthesoldierswerecompletelyunawarethat,astheymovedforward,wewererightunderneaththem,crawlinglikeinsectsthroughthemud.WhenIlookedbackagain,theentrancewasnolongerthere.Itwasasifashutterhadcomedown,sealingusin.IcouldhearLeoveryclosetome,hisbreathsobbing.Butanysoundinthetunnelwasstrangeandmuted.Ifelttheweightaboveme,pressingdown.Wehadswappedonehellforanother.Wecouldonlygoforward.Therewasn’tenoughroomtoturnround.Isupposewecouldhaveshuffledbackwardsuntilwereached the tunnelentrance,butwhatwas thepointofthat?Thesoldierswouldbelookingforusandonceweemergedthedogswouldbeontousinstantly.Ontheotherhand,thefurtherwewentforward,theworseoursituationbecame.Supposethetunnelsimplyended?Supposeweranoutofair?Everyinchthatwecontinuedwasanotherinchintothegraveandittookallmywillpowertoforcemyselfon.IthinkLeoonly followedbecausehedidn’twant to be left onhis own. Iwas gettingwarmer.Oncemore,Iwassweatinginsidemyclothes.Icouldfeelthesweatmixedwithrainwaterundermyarmpitsandinthepalmsofmyhands.Mykneeswerealreadyhurting.Occasionally,Ipassedrivets,whereonesectionofthepipehadbeenfastenedintothenext,andIfeltthemtugging at my anorak, scratching across my back. And I was blind. It really was as ifsomeonehadswitchedoffmyeyes.Theblacknesswasveryphysical.Itwaslikeasurgicaloperation.

“Yasha…?”Leo’swhisperedvoicecameoutofnowhere.“It’sallright,Leo,”Isaid.Myownvoicedidn’tsoundlikemeatall.“Notmuchfurther.”Butwecontinuedforwhatfeltlikeaneternity.Weweremovinglikerobotswithnosenseof direction, no choice ofwhere to go.Wewere simply functioning – onehand forward,thenthenext,kneesfollowingbehind,utterlyalone.Therewasnothingtohearapartfromourselves. Suppose the tunnelwent all theway toKirsk?Wouldwehave the strength totravelasfarastwentymilesunderground?Ofcoursenot.Betweenus,wehadhalfalitreofwater.Wehadn’teatenforhours.Ihadtostopmyselfimaginingwhatmighthappen.IfIwasn’tcareful,Iwouldscaremyselftodeath.Handandknee,handandknee.Everypartofmewashurting.Iwantedtostandup,andthefactthatIcouldn’talmostmademecryoutwithfrustration.Myshouldershitthecurveofthepipeagainandagain.Myeyeswereclosed.WhatwasthepointofusingthemwhenIcouldn’t see? And then, quite suddenly, I was outside. I felt the breeze brush over myshouldersandtherain,lighternow,patterontomyheadandthebackofmyneck.Iopenedmyeyes.Theworkmenhadconstructedsomesortofinspectionhatchandtheyhadleftthispartofthepipeopen.IwascrouchinginaV-shapedditchwithpiecesofwireandrustingmetalboltsallaround.Ipulledbackmysleeveandlookedatmywatch.Amazingly,itwasfiveo’clock.Ithoughtonlyanhourhadpassedbutthewholedayhadgone.Leoclamberedoutintothehalf-lightandsatthere,blinking.Foramoment,neitherofusdaredspeakbut therewerenosoundsaroundusand it seemedfairlycertainwewereonourown.“We’reOK,”Isaid.“Wewentunderthem.Theydon’tknowwe’rehere.”“Whatnext?”Leoasked.“Wecankeepgoing…followtheroadtoKirsk.”“They’llbelookingforusthere.”“Iknow.Wecanworryaboutthatwhenwegetthere.”Andjustforonemoment,Ithoughtweweregoingtomakeit.Wehadescapedfromthehelicopters.Wehadoutwittedthesoldiers.Ihadahundredrublesinmypocket.Iwouldgetus toMoscow andwewould tell thewholeworldwhat had happened andwewould beheroes.Rightthen,Ireallydidthinkthat,despitewhatwehadbeenthroughandallthatwehadlost,wemightactuallybeallright.ButthenLeospoke.“Yasha,”hesaid.“Idon’tfeelwell.”

НОЧЬ

NIGHT

Wecouldn’tstaywherewewere.Iwasafraidthatthesoldierswouldseetheentrancetothepipeline and realize howwe hadmanaged to slip past them – inwhich case theywoulddoublebackandfindus.Wehadtoputmoredistancebetweenusandthemwhilewestillhadthestrength.Butat thesametimeIsawthatLeocouldn’tgomuchfurther.Hehadaheadacheandhewas finding itdifficult tobreathe.Was it toomuch tohope thathehadsimply caught a cold, that he was in shock? It didn’t have to be contamination by thechemicalsfromthefactory.Itriedtoconvincemyselfthat,likeme,hewasexhaustedandifhecouldjustgetanight’sresthewouldbewellagain.Evenso,IknewIhadtofindhimsomewherewarmtoshelter.Heneededfood.SomehowIhadtodryhisclothes.AsIlookedaroundme,atthespindlytreesthatroseupintoaneverdarkeningsky,Ifeltasenseofcompletehelplessness.HowcouldIpossiblymanageonmyown? Iwantedmyparents and Ihad to remindmyself that theyweren’t going to come,thatIwasnevergoingtoseethemagain.Iwassickwithgrief–butsomethinginsidemetoldmethatIcouldn’tgivein.LeoandIhadn’tescapedfromEstrovsimplytodieouthere,afewmilesaway,inthemiddleofaforest.Wewalkedtogetherforanotherhour,stillfollowingtheroad.They’dbeenabletoaffordasphaltforthissection,whichatleastmadeiteasiertofindourwayinthedark.Iknewitwas dangerous, thatwe hadmore chance of being spotted, but I didn’t dare losemyselfamongthetrees.Andintheenditwastherightdecision.Westumbleduponitquitebychance,awoodenhutwhichmusthavebeenbuiltfortheconstructionteamandabandonedonlyrecently.ThedoorwaspadlockedbutImanagedtokickitin,andoncewewereinsideIwassurprisedtofindtwobunks,atable,cupboardsandevenanironstove.Icheckedthecupboards.Therewasnofoodormedicinebut thealmostemptyshelvesdidoffermea fewrewards.Usingmy torch, I foundsomeoldnewspapers, saucepans, tinmugsanda fork. IwasgladnowthatIhadthoughttotakeaboxofmatchesfrommykitchenandthatmywaterproofclotheshadmanaged tokeep themdry.Therewasno coal or firewood so I toreoff someof thecupboarddoorsandsmashedthemupwithmyfoot,andtenminuteslaterIhadagoodfireblazing.Iwasn’tworriedaboutthesmokebeingseen.ItwastoodarkandIkeptthedoorandtheshuttersclosedtostopthelightescaping.IhelpedLeooutofhiswetclothesandlaidthemonthefloortodry.Hestretchedhimselfout on the nearest bunk and I covered himwith newspaper and a rug from the floor. Itmightnothavebeentoocleanbutatleastitwouldhelptokeephimwarm.IhadthefoodthatIhadbroughtfrommyhomeandItookitout.LeoandIhaddrunkallourwaterbutthatwasn’t aproblem. I carrieda saucepanoutsideand filled it from thegutter that ranround the side of the building. After the rain, it was full to overflowing and boiling thewaterintheflameswouldgetridofanygerms.Iaddedtheteaandthesugar,andbalancedthepanon thestove. Ibroke thechocolatebars intopiecesandexamined the tins.Therewerethreeof themandtheyallcontainedherringbut, fool that Iwas, Ihadforgottento

bringatinopener.WhileLeodriftedinandoutofsleep,Ispentthenexthalf-hourdesperatelytryingtoopenthetins.Inaway,itdidmegoodtohavetofocusonaproblemthatwassosmallandsostupid.Forgetthefactthatyouarealone,inhiding,thattherearesoldierswhowanttokillyou,thatyourbestfriendisill,thateverythinghasbeentakenfromyou.Openthetin!Intheend,ImanageditwiththeforkthatIhadfound,hammeringatitwithaheavystoneandpiercingthelidsomanytimesthateventuallyIwasabletopeelitaway.Theherringwas grey and oily. I’m not sure that anyone eats it anymore, but it had always been aspecial treatwhen I was growing up.Mymotherwould serve it with slabs of dry blackbreadorsometimespotatoes.WhenIsmeltthefish,IthoughtofherandIfeltallthepainwellinguponcemore,eventhoughIwasdoingeverything Icould toblockoutwhathadhappened.ItriedtofeedsometoLeobut,afterallmyefforts,hewastootiredtoeatanditwasallIcouldmanagetoforcehimtosipsometea.Iwassuddenlyveryhungrymyselfandgobbleddownoneof the tins, leaving theother two forhim. Iwas stillhopeful thathewouldbefeeling better in the morning. It seemed to me that now that he was resting, he wasbreathinga littleeasier.Maybeall therainwouldhavewashedawaytheanthraxspores.Hisclotheswerestilldryinginfrontofthefire.Sittingthere,watchinghischestriseandfallbeneaththecovers,Itriedtopersuademyselfthateverythingwouldbeallright.Itwasthebeginningofthelongestnightofmylife. I tookoffmyouterclothesandlaydownonthesecondbunkbutIcouldn’tsleep.Iwasfrightenedthatthefirewouldgoout.Iwas frightened that the soldierswould find thehut andburst in.Actually, Iwas so filledwithfearsofonesortoranotherthatIdidn’tneedtodefinethem.ForhoursI listenedtothe crackle of the flames and the raspof Leo’s breath inhis throat. From time to time, IdriftedintoastatewhereIwasfloating,althoughstillfullyconscious.Severaltimes,Igotupandfedmoreofthefurnitureintothestove,doingmybesttobreakthewoodwithoutmakingtoomuchnoise.Once,Iwentoutsidetourinate.Itwasnolongerrainingbutafewdropsofwaterwerestill fallingfromthetrees. IcouldhearthembutIcouldn’tseethem.Theskywastotallyblack.AsIstoodthere,Iheardthehowlofawolf.Ihadbeenholdingthe torch but at that moment I almost dropped it into the undergrowth. So the wolvesweren’tjustabitofvillagegossip!Thisonecouldhavebeenfaraway,butitseemedtoberightnexttome,thesoundstartingimpossiblylowthenrisinghigherandhigherasifthecreature had somehow flown into the air. I buttoned myself up and ran back inside,determinedthatnothingwouldgetmeoutagainuntilitwaslight.Myownclotheswerestilldamp.Itookthemoffandkneltinfrontofthefire.Ifanythinggot me through that night it was that stove. It kept me warm and without its glow Iwouldn’thavebeenable tosee,whichwouldhavemadeallmy imaginingsevenworse. Itookouttherolloften-rublenotesthathadbeeninthetinandatthesametimeIfoundthelittleblackbagmymotherhadgivenme.Iopenedit.Inside,therewasapairofearrings,anecklaceandaring.Ihadneverseenthembeforeandwonderedwhereshehadgotthemfrom.Weretheyvaluable?Imadeanoathtomyselfthatwhateverhappened,Iwouldneversellthem.Theyweretheonlyremainsofmypastlife.TheywereallIhadleft.Iwrappedthemupagainandclimbedontotheotherbunk.Almostnakedandlyinguncomfortablyonthehardmattress,Idozedoffagain.WhenInextopenedmyeyes,thefirewasalmostout

andwhenIpulledbacktheshutters,theveryfirststreaksofpinkwerevisibleoutside.The sun seemed to take forever to rise.Theycall themthe smallhours, that time fromfouro’clockonwards,andIknowfromexperiencethattheyarealwaysthemostmiserableoftheday.Thatiswhenyoufeelmostvulnerableandalone.Leowassoundasleep.Thehutwasevenmoredesolate thanbefore– Ihad fedalmostanything thatwasmadeofwoodinto the fire. Theworld outsidewaswet, cold and threatening. As I got dressed again, IrememberedthatinafewhoursIshouldhavebeengoingtoschool.Wakeup,Yasha.Comeon!Getyourthingstogether…I had to force my mother’s voice out of my head. She wasn’t there for me any more.Nobodywas.Fromnowon,ifIwastosurvive,Ihadtolookaftermyself.Thetworemainingtinsoffishwerestillwaiting,uneaten,onashelfbesidethefire.Iwastemptedtowolfthemdownmyself,asIwasreallyhungry,butIwaskeepingthemforLeo.Imadesomemoreteaandatealittlechocolate,thenIwentbackoutside.Theskywasnowadirtyoff-white,andthetreesweremoreskeletalthanever.Butatleasttherewasnobodyaround.Thesoldiershadn’tcomeback.Walkingaround,Icameacrossashrubofbrightredlingonberries.TheywerepasttheirbestbutIknewtheywouldbeedible.Weusedtomakethem into adish calledkissel, a sort of jelly, and I stuffed someof them intomymouth.TheywereslightlysourbutIthoughttheywouldkeepmegoingandIplacedseveralmoreinmypockets.“Yasha…?”AsIreturnedtothehut,IheardLeocallmyname.Hehadwokenup.Iwasdelightedtohearhisvoiceandhurriedovertohim.“Howareyoufeeling,Leo?”Iasked.“Wherearewe?”“Wefoundashed.Afterthetunnel.Don’tyouremember?”“I’mverycold,Yasha.”He looked terrible.Asmuchas Iwanted to, I couldn’tpretendotherwise.Therewasnocolouratallinhisface,andhiseyeswereburning,outoffocus.Ididn’tknowwhyhewascold.TheonethingIhadmanagedtodowastokeepthehutreasonablywarmandIhadputplentyofmakeshiftcoversonthebed.“Maybeyoushouldeatsomething,”Isaid.Ibrought theopentinofherringoverbutherecoiledat thesmell.“Idon’twant it,”hesaid.Hisvoicerattledinhischest.Hesoundedlikeanoldman.“Allright.Butyoumusthavesometea.”Itookthemugoverandforcedhimtosipfromit.Ashestrainedhisnecktowardsme,Inoticedaredmarkunderhischinand,veryslowly,tryingnottolethimknowwhatIwasdoing,Ifoldedbackthecoverstoseewhatwasgoingon.IwasshockedbywhatIsaw.Thewhole of Leo’s neck and chest was covered in dreadful, diamond-shaped sores. His skinlookedasifithadbeenburnedinafire.Icouldeasilyimaginethathiswholebodywaslikethis and Ididn’twant to seeanymore.His facewas theonlypart ofhim thathadbeenspared.Underneaththecovershewasarottingcorpse.Iknewthatifithadn’tbeenformyparents,IwouldbeexactlythesameasLeo.Theyhadinjectedmewithsomethingthatprotectedmefromthebiochemicalweaponthattheyhadhelped to build. They had said it acted quickly and herewas the living – or perhaps thedying–proof.Nowondertheauthoritieshadbeensoquicktoquarantinethearea. If the

anthraxhadmanagedtodothistoLeoinjustafewhours,imaginewhatitwoulddototherestofRussiaasitspread.“I’msorry,Yasha,”Leowhispered.“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” I said. I was casting about me, trying to findsomethingtodo.Thefire,untended,hadalmostgoneout.Buttherewasnomorewoodtoputinitanyway.“Ican’tcomewithyou,”Leosaid.“Yes,youcan.We’rejustgoingtohavetowait.That’sall.You’llfeelbetterwhenthesuncomesup.”Heshookhishead.HeknewIwaslyingforhissake.“Idon’tmind.I’mgladyoulookedafterme.Ialwayslikedbeingwithyou,Yasha.”Herestedhisheadback.Despitethemarksonhisbody,hedidn’tseemtobeinpain.Isatbesidehim,andafterafewminuteshebegantomuttersomething.Ileantcloser.Hewasn’tsaying anything.Hewas singing. I recognized thewords. “Close the door afterme… I’mgoing.”Everyoneatschoolwouldhaveknownthesong.ItwasbyarocksingercalledViktorTsoiandithadbeentheragethroughoutthesummer.PerhapsLeodidn’tevenwanttolive–notwithouthisfamily,notwithoutthevillage.Hegot to theendof the lineandhedied.Andthetruth is that,apart fromthesilence, therewasn’t a great deal of difference between Leo alive and Leo dead. He simply stopped. Iclosedhiseyes.Idrewthecoversoverhisface.AndthenIbegantocry.IsitshockingthatIfeltLeo’sdeathevenmore than thatofmyownparents?Maybe itwasbecause theyhadbeensnatchedfrommesosuddenly.Ihadn’tevenbeengivenachancetoreact.Butithadtaken Leo the whole of that long night to die and I was sitting with him even now,rememberingeverythinghehadbeentome.IhadbeenclosetomyparentsbutmuchclosertoLeo.Andhewassoyoung…thesameageasme.Inaway,IthinkIamwritingthisforLeo.IhavedecidedtokeeparecordofmylifebecauseIsuspectmylifewillbeshort.Idonotparticularlywanttoberemembered.Beingunknownhasbeenessentialtomywork.ButIsometimesthinkofhimandIwouldlikehimtounderstandwhatitwasthatmademewhatI am. After all, living as a boy of fourteen in a Russian village, it had never been myintentiontobecomeacontractkiller.Leo’sdeathmayhavebeenonesteponmy journey. Itwasnotamajorstep. Itdidnotchangeme.Thathappenedmuchlater.IsetfiretothehutwithLeostillinsideit.Irememberedthehelicoptersandknewthattheflamesmightattracttheirattention,butitwastheonlywayIcouldthinkoftopreventthediseasespreading.Andifthesoldiersweredrawnhere,perhapsitwasn’tsuchabadthing.Theyhadtheirgasmasksandprotectivesuits.Theywouldknowhowtodecontaminatethearea.But that didn’tmean I was going to hang aroundwaiting for them to come.With thesmokebillowingbehindme,carryingLeooutofthisworld,Ihurriedaway,alongtheroadtoKirsk.

КИРСК

KIRSK

IenteredKirskonlegsthatweretiredandfeetthatweresoreandrememberedthatthelasttimeIhadbeenthere,ithadbeenonaschooltriptothemuseum.LeninhadoncevisitedKirsk.ThegreatSovietleaderhadstoppedbrieflyinthetownonhiswaytosomewheremoreimportantbecausetherewasaproblemwithhistrain.Hemadea short speechon the stationplatform, thenwent to the local café for a cupof tea and,happeningtoglanceinthemirror,decidedthathisbeardandmoustacheneededatrim.Notsurprisingly,thelocalbarberalmosthadaheartattackwhenthemostpowerfulmanintheSovietUnionwalkedintohisshop.ThecupthathedrankfromandtheclippingsofblackhairwerestillondisplayintheHistoryandFolkloreMuseumofKirsk.Itwasalarge,reddish-brownbuildingwithroomsthatwerefilledwithobjectsandafteronly an hour my head had already been pounding. From the outside, it looked like arailway station. Curiously, Kirsk railway station looked quite like a museum, with widestairs, pillars and huge bronze doors that should have opened onto something moreimportant than ticketoffices,platformsandwaitingrooms. Ihadseen iton that last tripbutIcouldn’trememberwhereitwas.Whenyou’vebeentakentoaplaceinacoachandmarched around shoulder to shoulder in a long line with no talking allowed, you don’treallylookwhereyou’regoing.Thathadn’tbeenmyonlyvisit.Myfatherhadtakenmetothecinemahereonce.Andthentherehadbeenmyvisittothehospital.Butalltheseplacescould have been on different planets. I had no ideawhere theywere in relation to oneanother.After Estrov, the place felt enormous. I had forgotten howmany buildings therewere,howmanyshops,howmanycarsandbusesracingupanddownthewide,cobbledstreets.Everywhere seemed to have electricity. There were wires zigzagging from pole to pole,crossing each other like a disastrous cat’s cradle. But I’m not suggesting that Kirsk wasanythingspecial.I’dspentmywholelifeinatinyvillagesoIwaseasilyimpressed.Ididn’tnotice thecrumblingplasteronthebuildings, theemptyconstructionsites, thepits in theroadandthedirtywaterrunningthroughthegutters.Itwas late afternoonwhen I arrived and the lightwas already fading.Mymother hadsaidthereweretwotrainsadaytoMoscowandIhopedIwasintimetocatchtheeveningone.IhadneverspentanightinahotelbeforeandeventhoughIhadmoneyinmypocket,theideaoffindingoneandbookingaroomfilledmewithfear.HowmuchwouldIhavetopay?Would they even give a room to a boy on his own? I had beenwalking non-stop,leavingtheforestbehindmejustaftermidday.Iwasstarvinghungry.SinceIhadlefttheshed,allI’dhadtoeatwerethelingonberriesI’dcollected.Istillhadahandfuloftheminmypocketbut Icouldn’teatanymorebecause theyweregivingmestomachcramps.Myfeetwere aching and soakingwet. Iwaswearingmy leather boots,which had suddenlydecidedtoleak.Ifeltfilthyandwonderediftheywouldletmeontothetrain.Andwhatiftheydidn’t?Ihadonlyoneplan–togettoMoscow–andeventhatseemeddaunting.Ihadseenpicturesofthecityatschool,ofcourse,butIhadnorealideawhatitwouldbelike.

Findingthestationwasn’tsodifficultintheend.SomehowIstumbledacrossthecentreofthe town…I supposeevery road led there ifyouwalkedenough. Itwasa spaciousareawithanemptyfountainandaSecondWorldWarmonument,aslabofgraniteshapedlikeaslice of cake with the inscription: WE SALUTE THE GLORIOUS DEAD OF KIRSK. I hadalwaysbeenbroughtuptorespectallthosewhohadlosttheirlivesinthewar,butIknownow that there is nothing glorious about being dead. Themonumentwas surrounded bystatuesofgeneralsandsoldiers,manyofthemonhorseback.WasthathowtheyhadsetofftofacetheGermantanks?Thestationwasright in frontofme,at theendofawide,verystraightboulevardwithtreesonboth sides. I recognized itatonce. Itwas surroundedby stalls sellingeverythingfromsuitcases,blanketsandcushionstoallsortsoffoodanddrink.Icouldsmellshashlyk–skewersofmeat–cookingoncharcoalfiresanditmademymouthwater.Iwasdesperateto buy something but thatwaswhen I realized I had a problem.Although I had a lot ofmoneyinmypocket,itwasallinlargenotes.Ihadnocoins.IfIweretohandoveraten-ruble note for a snack thatwould cost nomore than a few kopecks, I would only drawattention to myself. The stallholder would assume I was a thief. Better to wait until I’dboughtmytrainticket.AtleastthenIwouldhavechange.Withthesethoughtsinmymind,Iwalkedtowardsthemainentranceofthestation.Iwasso relieved to have got here and so anxious to be onmyway that Iwas careless. Iwaskeepingmyheaddown, tryingnot to catchanyone’s eye. I shouldhavebeen lookingallaroundme. In fact, if Ihadbeen sensible, Iwouldhave tried toenter the station fromacompletelydifferentdirection…aroundthesideortheback.Asitwas,Ihadn’ttakenmorethanfiveorsixstepsbeforeI foundthatmywaywasblocked.Iglancedupandsawtwopolicemen standing in front ofme, dressed in long grey coatswith insignia around theircollars and military caps. They were both young, in their twenties. They had revolvershangingfromtheirbelts.“Whereareyougoing?”oneofthemasked.Hehadbadskin,veryraw,asifhehadonlystartedshavingrecentlyandhadusedabluntrazor.“Tothestation.”Ipointed,tryingtosoundcasual.“Why?”“Iworkthere.Afterschool.Ihelpcleantheplatforms.”IwasmakingthingsupasIwentalong.“Wherehaveyoucomefrom?”“Overthere…”IpointedtooneoftheapartmentblocksIhadpassedonmywayintothetown.“Yourname?”“LeoTretyakov.”Mypoordeadfriend.WhyhadIchosenhim?ThetwopolicemenhesitatedandforamomentIthoughttheyweregoingtoletmepass.Surely therewasnoreason to stopme. Iwas justaboy,doingodd jobsafter school.Butthenthesecondpolicemanspoke.“Youridentitypapers,”hedemanded.Hiseyeswerecold.IhadusedafalsenamebecauseIwasafraidtheauthoritieswouldknowwhoIwas.Afterall,ithadbeenmyparents,AntonandEvaGregorovich,whohadescapedfromthefactory.ButnowIwas trapped.Themoment they lookedatmypassport, theywouldknowIhadlied to them. I shouldhavebeenwatchingout for themfromthestart.Nowthat I looked

aroundme,Irealizedthatthestationwascrawlingwithpolicemen.Obviously.ThepolicewouldknowwhathadhappenedatEstrov.Theywouldhavebeentoldthattwoboyshadescaped.Theyhadbeenwarnedtokeepaneyeout forusateverystation in thearea…andIhadsimplywalkedintotheirarms.“Idon’thavethem,”Istammered.Iputastupidlookonmyface,asifIdidn’trealizehowseriousitwastobeoutwithoutID.“They’reathome.”Itmighthaveworked.Iwasonlyfourteenandlookedyoungformyage.Butmaybethepolicemenhadbeengivenmydescription.Maybeoneofthehelicopterpilotshadmanagedtotakemyphotographasheflewoverhead.Eitherway,theyknew.Icouldseeitintheireyes,thewaytheyglancedateachother.Theywereonlyatthestartoftheircareers,andthiswasahugemomentforthem.Itcouldleadtopromotion,apayrise,theirnamesinthenewspaper.Theyhadjustscoredbigtime.Theyhadme.“Youwillcomewithus,”thefirstpolicemansaid.“But I’vedonenothingwrong.Mymotherwillbeworried.”Whywas Ievenbothering?Neitherofthembelievedme.“Noarguments,”thesecondmansnapped.Ihadnochoice.If Iargued, if I triedtorun,theywouldgrabmeandcall forbackup.IwouldbebundledintoapolicevanbeforeIcouldblink.Itwasbetter,forthemoment,tostickwith them. If theywere determined to bringme into the police station themselves,theremightstillbeanopportunityformetogetaway.Thebuildingcouldbeontheothersideoftown.Bygoingwiththem,Iwouldatleastbuymyselfalittletimetoplanawayoutofthis.WewalkedslowlyandallthetimeIwasthinking,myeyesdartingabout,addingupthepossibilities.Therewereplentyofpeoplearound.Theworkingdaywascomingtoanendandtheywereontheirwayhome.Buttheywouldn’thelpme.Theywouldn’twanttogetinvolved. Iglancedbackat the twopolicemenwhowerewalkingabout twostepsbehindme.Whatwas it that I hadnoticed about them?Theyhad clearlybeenpleased theyhadcaughtme,noquestionof that–butat the same time theywerenervous.Well, thatwasunderstandable.Thiswasabigdealforthem.Buttherewassomethingelse.Theywerenervousforanotherreason.Isawitnow.Theywerewalkingverycarefully,closeenoughtograbmeif I triedtoescapebutnotsoclosethat they could actually touchme.Why the distance betweenme and them?Why hadn’ttheyputhandcuffsonme?Whyweretheygivingmeeventhesmallestchancetorunaway?Itmadenosense.Unlesstheyknew.Thatwasit.Ithadtobe.Ihadsupposedlybeeninfectedwithavirussodeadlythatithadforcedtheauthoritiestowipe outmy village. It had killed Leo in less than twenty-four hours. The soldiers in theforest had all been dressed in biochemical protective gear. The police in Kirsk – and inRosna,forthatmatter–musthavebeentoldthatIwasdangerous,infected.Noneofthemcouldhaveguessedthatmyparentshadriskedeverythingtoinoculateme.Theyprobablydidn’tknowthatanantidoteexistedatall.Therewasnothingtoprotecttheyoungofficerswho had arrestedme. As far as theywere concerned, Iwas awalking time bomb. Theywantedtobringmein.Buttheyweren’tgoingtocometooclose.

Wecontinuedwalking,away fromthestation.A fewpeoplepassedusbut saidnothingand looked the otherway. Thepolicemenwere still hanging back andnow I knewwhy.Althoughitdidn’t looklikeit, Ihadtheupperhand.Theywereafraidofme!AndIcouldusethat.Casually,Islippedmyhandintomypocket.Becausethetwomenwerebehindme,theydidn’tseethemovement.Itookitoutandwipedmymouth.Isensedthatweweredrawingclosetothepolicestationfromthepolicecarsparkedahead.“Downthere…!”oneofthepolicemensnapped.Weweregoingtoenterthepolicestationthe back way, down a wide alleyway and across a deserted car park with overflowingdustbinslinedupalongarustingfence.Weturnedoffandsuddenlywewereonourown.ItwasexactlywhatIwanted.I stumbled slightly and let out a groan, clutching hold of my stomach. Neither of thepolicemen spoke. I stopped. One of them prodded me in the back. Just one finger. Nocontactwithmyskin.“Keepmoving,”hecommanded.“Ican’t,”Isaid,puttingasmuchpainasIcouldmanageintomyvoice.Itwistedround.Atthesametime,Ibegantocough,makinghorribleretchingnoisesasifmy lungs were tearing themselves apart. I sucked in, gasping for air, still holding mystomach.Thepolicemenstaredatmeinhorror.Therewasbrightbloodallaroundmylips,tricklingdownmychin.Icoughedagainanddropsofbloodsplatteredintheirdirection.Iwatchedthemfallbackasiftheyhadcomefacetofacewithapoisonoussnake.Andasfarastheyknew,mybloodwaspoison.Ifanyofittouchedthem,theywouldenduplikeme.Butitwasn’tblood.Justaminuteago,Ihadslippedsomeofthelingonberriesfromtheforestintomymouthandchewedthemup.WhatIwasspittingwasredberryjuicemixedwithmyownsaliva.“Pleasehelpme,”Isaid.“I’mnotwell.”Thetwopolicemenhadcometoadeadhalt,caughtbetweentwoconflictingdesires:oneto hold ontome, the other to be as far away fromme as possible. Iwas overacting likecrazy, grimacing and staggering about like a drunk, but it didn’t matter. Just as I’dsuspected,they’dbeentoldhowdangerousIwas.Theyknewthestakes.Theirimaginationwasdoinghalftheworkforme.“Everyone died,” I went on. “They all died. Please… I don’t want to be like them.” Ireached out imploringly. My hand was stained red. The two men stepped back. Theyweren’t coming anywhere near. “Somuch pain!” I sobbed. I fell tomy knees. The juicedrippedontomyjacket.Thepolicemenmadetheirdecision.Iftheystayedwheretheywere,iftheytriedtoforceme to my feet, it would kill them… quickly and unpleasantly. Yes, they wanted theirpromotion.Buttheirlivesmatteredmore.Maybeitoccurredtothemthattheveryfactthattheyhadcomeclose tomemeant theythemselveswouldhavetobeeliminated.As farastheycouldsee,Iwasdyinganyway.Iwaslyingonmysidenow,writhingontheground,sobbing.Mywhole facewas covered in blood.One of them spoke briefly to the other. Ididn’thearwhathesaidbuthiscolleaguemusthaveagreedbecauseamoment later theyhadgone,hurryingbackthewaytheyhadcome.Iwatchedthemturnacorner.Iverymuchdoubtedthattheywouldreportwhathadjusthappened.Afterall,derelictionofdutywould

notbesomethingtheywouldwishtoadvertise.Theywouldprobablyspendtherestofthedayatthebathhouse,hopingthatthesteamandhotwaterwouldwashawaythedisease.IwaiteduntilIwassuretheyhadgone,thengottomyfeetandwipedmyfacewithmysleeve.Atleasttheencounterhadgivenmeanadvancewarning.TherewasnowayIwasgoing towalk into the railwaystationatKirsk.Themoment I tried tobuya train ticket,therewouldbesomeonetheretoarrestmeandIverymuchdoubtedthesametrickwouldworkasecondtime.IfIwasgoingtogetontoatraintoMoscow,Iwasgoingtohavetothinkofsomethingelse.AndIalreadyhadanidea.TherehadbeenquiteafewpassengersarrivingintaxisandcomingoffbusesjustbeforeIhadbeenarrestedandthatsuggestedthattheeveningtrainmightbecomingsoon.Atthesametime,I’dseenanumberofportersrunningforwardtohelpthemwiththeirluggage.Someofthemhadbeenboys,dressedinloose-fittinggreyjacketswithredpipingdownthesleeves. Idon’t think theywereemployedofficially.Theywere just trying tomakea fewkopecksontheside.Imademywaybacktowardsthestation–onlythistimeIstayedbehindthetrees,closeto thebuildings, keeping an eyeout for anypolicemen,minglingwith the crowd. I soonfound what I was looking for. One of the porters was sitting outside a café, smoking acigarette.Hewas aboutmy age, even if hewas trying to disguise itwith a beard and amoustache.Theywerebothmadeofthathorriblewispyhairthatdoesn’treallybelongonaface.Hisjacketwashangingopen.Hiscapsatcrookedlyonhishead.I sidled up next to him and sat down.After awhile, he noticedme and nodded inmydirectionwithoutsmiling.Itwasenough.“When’sthenexttraintoMoscow?”Iasked.Heglancedathiswatch.“Twentyminutes.”I pretended to consider this piece of information. “How would you like to make fiverubles?”Iasked.Hiseyesnarrowed.Fiverubleswasprobablyasmuchasheearnedinaweek.“I’ll be honest with you, friend,” I said. “I’m in trouble with the police. I was almostarrestedjustnow.Ineedtogetonthattrainandifyou’llsellmeyourjacketandyourcap,I’llgiveyouthecash.”It was not such a big gamble. Somehow, I knew that this boy would be greedy. Andanyway,most people inRussiawould help you if youwere trying to get away from theauthorities.Thatwashowwewere.“Whydothepolicewantyou?”heasked.“I’mathief.”Hesuckedlazilyonhiscigarette.“Iwillgiveyoumyjacketandcap,”hesaid.“Butitwillcostyoutenrubles.”“Agreed.”Itookoutthemoney,takingcarenottoshowhimhowmuchIhad,andhandedoverasingle note. Tonight, this porter would drink himself into a stupor. He might invite hisfriends to joinhim.Hehandedmehis coatandhis cap–but Ididnotgo straight to thestation.Istoppedatoneofthestallsandusedanotherfourrublestobuyapairofsecond-handsuitcasesfromanoldmanwhohadawholepileofthem.Quickly,Itookoffmyouter

clothesandslippedthemintooneofthecases.Iputonthejacketandcap.Then,carryingthesuitcases,Imademywaytothestation.It seemednow that thepolicewere everywhere.Was it possible that theoneswhohadarrestedmehadtalkedafterall?Theyhadthrownaringaroundtheentirebuilding.Theywereinfrontoftheticketoffice,ontheplatform.Butnotoneofthemnoticedme.Iwaiteduntilasmart-lookingcouple–somesortoflocalgovernmentofficialandhiswife–gotoutofa taxiand I followed theminto thestation.Theydidnot lookround.But to thepoliceandtoanyoneelsewhoglancedourway,itsimplylookedasiftheyhadhiredaporterandthatthetwoalmostemptycasesIwascarryingweretheirs.Ihadtimeditperfectly.Wehadnosoonerarrivedattheplatformthanatraindrewin.TheeveningtraintoMoscow.Ifollowedmyclientstotheircarriageandclimbedinbehindthem.TheywerecompletelyunawareofmypresenceandalthoughIwasoutthere,inplainsight,nobodychallengedme.This is something that has not changed to this day. People look at the clothes you arewearingwithouteverthinkingaboutthepersonwhoisinside.Amanwithaback-to-frontcollarisavicar.Awomaninawhitecoatwithastethoscopearoundherneckisadoctor.Itisassimpleasthat.YoudonotaskthemforID.I stayed on the train and a few minutes later it left, very quickly picking up speed,carryingmeintothedarkness.IknewIwouldneverreturn.

МОСКВА

MOSCOW

KazanskyStation.Moscow.Itishardtoremembermyfeelingsasthetraindrewneartoitsfinaldestination.Ontheonehand,Iwaselated.Ihadmadeit.Ihadtravelledsixhundredmiles,leavingthepoliceandallmyotherproblemsbehindme.ButwhatofthisnewworldinwhichIwasabouttofindmyself?Thetrainwouldstop.Thedoorswouldopen.Andwhatthen?ThroughthewindowsIhadalreadyseenapartmentblocks,oneafteranother,thatmusthavebeenhometotensofthousandsofpeople.Howcouldtheylivelikethat,somanyofthem,piledupontopofeachother?Thentherewerethechurchesandtheirgoldendomes,ten times the size of poor StNicholas. The factories billowing smoke into a sky thatwascloudless,sunless,asinglesheetofgrey.Butalloftheseweredwarfedbytheskyscraperswiththeirspiresandglitteringneedles,thousandsofwindows,millionsofbricks,risingupasiffromsomecrazydream.OfcourseIhadbeenshownpicturesofthematschool.IknewtheyhadbeenbuiltbyStalinbackinthe1940sand1950s.Butseeingthemformyselfwasdifferent. Somehow I was shocked that they did actually exist and that they really werehere,scatteredaroundthecity,watchingoverit.I had been fortunate on the train. Therewas an empty compartment right at the backwithabunkbedthatfoldeddown.ThatwaswhereIslept–notonthebunkbutunderneathitonthefloor,outofsightoftheticketcollectors.ThestrangethingwasthatImanagedtosleepatall,butthenIsupposeIwasexhausted.Iwokeuponceortwiceinthenightandlistened to the train rumbling through thedarkness and I could almost feel thememoriesslippingaway…Estrov,Leo,myparents,myschool.IknewthatbythetimeIarrivedinMoscow,Iwouldbelittlemorethananemptyshell,afourteen-year-oldboywithnopastand perhaps no future. Therewas even a small part ofme thatwished I hadn’t escapedfromthepolice.Atleast,thatway,Iwouldn’thavetomakeanydecisions.Iwouldn’tbeonmyown.One name stayed with me, turning over and over in my head. Misha Dementyev. HeworkedinthebiologydepartmentofMoscowStateUniversityandmymotherhadinsistedthat hewould look afterme. Surely itwouldn’t be sohard to findhim.Theworst ofmytroublesmightalreadybeover.ThatwaswhatItriedtotellmyself.The stationwas jammed. I had never seen somany people in one place. As I steppeddownfromthetrain,Ifoundmyselfonaplatformthatseemedtostretchonforever,withpassengersmillingabouteverywhere,carryingsuitcases,packages,bundlesofclothes,someof themchewingonsandwiches,othersemptyingtheirhip-flasks.Everyonewastiredandgrimy.TherewerepolicementoobutIdidn’tthinktheywerelookingforme.Ihadtakenofftheporter’scapandjacketandabandonedthesuitcases.OnceagainIwaswearingmyYoungPioneersoutfit,although I thoughtofgettingridof that too. ItwasquitewarminMoscow.Theairfeltheavyandsmeltofoilandsmoke.Iallowedmyselftobesweptalong,followingthecrowdthroughavasttickethall,largerthananyroomIhadeverseen,andoutintothestreet.Ifoundmyselfstandingontheedge

ofasquare.Again,itwasthesizethatstruckmefirst.Tomyeyes,thisonesinglespacewasasbigas thewholeofKirsk. Ithad lanesof trafficandcars,buses, tramsroaringpast ineverydirection.Traffic– theverynotionofa traffic jam–wasanewexperience formeand Iwas overwhelmed by the noise and the stench of the exhaust fumes. Even today itsometimessurprisesmethatpeoplearewillingtoputupwithit.Thecarswereeverycolourimaginable.IhadseenofficialChaikasandLadasbutitwasasifthesevehicleshaddrivenhere fromeverycountry in theworld.Grey taxiswithchessboardpatternson theirhoodsdodgedinandoutofthedifferentlines.Subwayshadbeenbuiltforpedestrians,whichwasjustaswell.Tryingtocrossonthesurfacewouldhavebeensuicide.Therewere three separate railway stations in the square, each one trying to outdo theother with soaring pillars, archways and towers. Travellers were arriving from differentpartsofRussiaandassoonas theyemergedtheyweregreetedbyall sortsof foodstalls,mainlyrunbywrinkledoldwomen inwhiteapronsandhats. In factpeopleweresellingeverything…meat, vegetables, Chinese jeans and padded jackets, electrical goods, theirownfurniture.Someofthemmusthavecomeoffthetrainfornootherreason.Nobodyhadanymoney.Thiswaswhereyouhadtostart.My own needs were simple and immediate. I was dizzy with hunger. I headed to thenearest foodstallandstartedwithasmallpiefilledwithcabbageandmeat. I followeditwithacurrantbun–wecalledthemkalerikasandtheywerespeciallymadetofillyouup.ThenIboughtadrinkfromamachinethatsquirtedsyrupandfizzywater intoaglass. Itstillwasn’tenough. Ihadanotherandthenaraspberry icecreamthat Ibought forsevenkopecks.Theladybeamedatmeasshehandeditover…asifsheknewitwassomethingspecial.Irememberthetasteofittothisday.ItwasasIfinishedthelastspoonfulthatIrealizedIwasbeingwatched.Therewasaboyof about seventeen or eighteen leaning against a lamp-post, examiningme. He was thesameheight asme butmore thickly setwithmuddy eyes and long, very straight, almostcolourlesshair.Hewouldhavebeenhandsomebutatsometimehisnosehadbeenbrokenandithadsetunevenly,givinghiswholefaceanunnaturalslant.Hewaswearingablackleatherjacketwhichwasmuchtoobigforhim,thesleevesrolledbacksothattheywouldn’tcoverhishands.Perhapshehadstolenit.Nobodywascominganywherenearhim.Eventhetravellers seemedtoavoidhim.Fromthewayhewasstanding there,youwould thinkheownedthepavementandperhapshalfthecity.Iquitelikedthat,thewayhehadnothingbutpretendedotherwise.AsIgazedaroundme,IrealizedthattherewerequitealotofchildrenoutsideKazanskystation,mostofthemhuddlingtogetheringroupsclosetotheentrancewithoutdaringtogoinside. These children looked much less well off than the boy in the leather jacket;emaciated with pale skin and hollow eyes. Some of them were trying to beg from thearrivingpassengersbuttheyweredoingithalf-heartedly,asiftheywerenervousofbeingseen.Isawacoupleoftinyboyswhocouldn’thavebeenmorethantenyearsold,homelessandhalfstarved.Ifeltashamed.Whatwouldtheyhavebeenthinkingastheywatchedmegorgemyself? Iwas tempted to goover andgive thema fewkopecksbutbefore I couldmove, the older boy suddenly walked forward and stood in front of me. There wassomethingabouthismanner thatunnervedme.He seemed tobe smilingat someprivatejoke. Did he know who I was, where I had come from? I got the feeing that he knew

everythingaboutme,eventhoughwehadnevermet.“Hello,soldier,”hesaid.Hewasreferring,ofcourse,tomyYoungPioneersoutfit.“Wherehaveyoucomefrom?”“FromKirsk,”Isaid.“Neverheardofit.Niceplace?”“It’sallright.”“FirsttimeinMoscow?”“No.I’vebeenherebefore.”IhadafeelingheknewstraightawaythatIwaslying,likethepolicemeninKirsk.Buthejustsmiledinthatoddwayofhis.“Yougotsomewheretostay?”“Ihaveafriend…”“It’sgoodtohaveafriend.Weallneedfriends.”Helookedaroundthesquare.“ButIdon’tseeanyone.”“He’snothere.”Itremindedmeofmyfirstdayatseniorschool.IwastryingtosoundconfidentbutIwascompletelydefencelessandheknewit.Heexaminedmemoreclosely,weighingupvariouspossibilities,thensuddenlyhestraightenedupandstretchedoutahand.“Relax,soldier,”hesaid.“Idon’twanttogiveyouanyhassle.I’mDimitry.YoucancallmeDima.”Itookhishand.Icouldn’treallyrefuseit.“I’mYasha,”Isaid.Weshook.“Welcome to Moscow,” he said. “Welcome back, I should say. So when were you lasthere?”“Itwasawhileago,”Isaid.IknewthatthemoreIspoke,themoreIwouldgiveaway.“Itwaswithmyparents,”Iadded.“Butthistimeyou’reonyourown.”“Yes.”Thesinglewordhungintheair.Itwashard tomakeoutwhatDimahad inmind.On theonehandhe seemed friendlyenough,butontheother,Icouldsensehimunravellingme.Itwasthatbrokennoseofhis.Itmadeitverydifficulttoreadhisface.“ThispersonI’msupposedtobemeeting…”Isaid.“He’sa friendofmyparents.Heworksat theUniversityofMoscow. Idon’t supposeyouknowhowtogetthere?”“Theuniversity?It’sa longwayfromthispartoftownbutit’squiteeasy.YoucantaketheMetro.”Hishandslippedovermyshoulder.BeforeIknewit,wewerewalkingtogether.“Theentranceisoverhere.There’sadirectlinethatrunsallthewaythere.ThestationyouwantiscalledUniversitet.Doyouhaveanymoney?”“Notmuch,”Isaid.“Itdoesn’tmatter.TheMetro’scheap.Infact,I’lltellyouwhat…”Hereachedoutandacoinappearedathisfingertipsasifhehadpluckeditoutoftheair.“Here’sfivekopecks.It’sallyouneed.Anddon’tworryaboutpayingmeback.Alwayshappytohelpsomeonenewtotown.”Wehadarrivedatastaircaseleadingundergroundandtomysurprisehebegantowalkdownwithme.Washegoing tocomethewholeway?Hishandwasstillonmyshoulderandaswewenthewastellingmeaboutthejourney.

“Ninestops,maybeten.Juststayonthetrainandyou’llbethereinnotime…”As he spoke, a set of swing doors opened in front of us and twomore boys appeared,coming up the steps. Theywere about the same age asDima, one dark, the other fair. Iexpected them tomoveaside–but theydidn’t.Theybarged intomeand foramoment IwassandwichedbetweenthemwithDimastillbehindtome.Ithoughttheyweregoingtoattackmebuttheyweregoneassuddenlyasthey’darrived.“Watchout!”Dimashouted.Hetwistedroundandcalledoutafterthem.“Whydon’tyoulook where you’re going?” He turned back to me. “That’s how people are in this city.Alwaysinahurryandtohellwitheveryoneelse.”Theboyshadgoneandwe saidnomoreabout it.Dima tookmeas faras thebarriers.“Goodluck,soldier,”hesaid.“Ihopeyoufindwhoyou’relookingfor.”Weshookhandsagain.“Remember – Universitet.”With a cheerful wave, he ambled away, leavingme onmyown.Iwalkedforwardandstoppedinfrontoftheescalator.Ihadneverseenanythinglikeit.Stairsthatmoved,thatcarriedpeopleupanddowninanendless stream.They seemed togoonandon, and I couldn’tbelieve that the railwaylineshadbeenlaidsodeep.Cautiously,Isteppedontoitandfoundmyselfclingingontothehandrail,beingcarrieddownas if into thebowelsof theearth.At theverybottom, therewas a uniformedwoman in a glass box.Her jobwas simply towatch the passengers, tomakesurethatnobodytrippedoverandhurtthemselves.Icouldn’timaginewhatitmustbeliketoworkhereallday,buriedunderground,neverseeingthesun.TheMoscowMetrowasfamousalloverRussia.Ithadbeenbuiltbyworkersfromeverypartofthecountryandfamousartistshadbeenbroughtintodecorateit.Eachstationwasspectacular in its ownway. This one had gold-coloured pillars, amosaic floor and glassspheres hanging from the ceiling blazingwith light. To the thousands of passengerswhousedit,itwasnothing–simplyawayofgettingaround–butIwasamazed.Atraincameroaring out of the tunnel almost immediately. I got on and a moment later the doorsslammedshut.Withajolt,thetrainmovedoff.Itookaspareseat–anditwasasIsatdownthatIknewthatsomethingwaswrong.Ireachedbackandpattedmytrouserpocket.Itwasempty.Ihadbeenrobbed.Allmymoneyhadgoneapartfromafewcoins.IplayedbackwhathadhappenedandrealizedthatIhadbeen set up from the start.Dimahad seenmepaying for the food.He knew I had cash.Somehow he must have signalled to the two other boys and sent them into the stationthrough another entrance. He’d kept me talking just long enough and then he’d led medown the steps and straight into their arms. Itwas a professional job and one they hadprobablydoneahundredtimesbefore.Myangerwasasblackasthetunnelwe’dplungedinto. I had lost more than seventy rubles! My parents had saved that money. They hadthoughtitwouldsaveme.ButIhadstupidly,blindlyallowedittobetakenawayfromme.WhatafoolIwas!Ididn’tdeservetosurvive.But sitting there, being swept along beneath the city, I decided that perhaps it didn’tmatterafterall.Evenasthetrainwascarryingmeforward,Icouldputitallbehindme.IwasgoingtomeetMishaDementyevandhewouldlookafterme.Ididn’tactuallyneedthemoney anymore. Looking back now, Iwould say that thiswas one of the first valuablelessonsIlearnt,andonethatwouldbeusefulinmyfuturelineofwork.Sometimesthings

gowrong. It is inevitable. But it is amistake towaste time and energyworrying abouteventsthatyoucannotinfluence.Oncetheyhavehappened,letthemgo.WhatwasIexpectingtheuniversitytobelike?Inmymind,Ihadseenasinglebuildinglikemy school, only bigger. But instead, when I came out of the station, I found a citywithin the city, anentireneighbourhooddevoted to learning. Itwasmuchmore spaciousandelegantthananythingIhadsofarseenofMoscow.Therewereboulevardsandparks,specialbuses tocarry thestudents inandout, lawnsand fountains,andnotonebuildingbutdozensof them,evenly spaced, eachone in itsowndomain. ItwasalldominatedbyoneofStalin’sskyscrapers,andasIstoodinfrontofitIsawhowithadbeendesignedtomakeyoufeel tiny, toremindyouof thepowerandthemajestyof thestate.Standing infrontofthestepsthatledtothefrontdoors–hiddenbehindarowofcolumns–Ifeltliketheworld’sworstsinnerabouttoenterachurch.Butatthesametime,thebuildinghadamagnetic attraction. I had no idea where the biology department was. But this was theheartof theuniversity. IwouldfindMishaDementyevhere. Iclimbedthestepsandwentin.Theinsideofthebuildingdidn’tseemtofitwhatIhadseenoutside.Itwaslikesteppingintoasubmarineorashipwithnowindows,noviews.Theceilingswere low. Itwas toowarm.Corridorsledtomorecorridors.Doorsopenedontootherdoors.Staircasessproutedin every direction. Studentsmarched pastme on all sides, carrying their books and theirbackpacks,andIforcedmyselftokeepmoving,knowingthatifIstoppedandlookedlostitwouldbe a sureway to get noticed. It seemed tome that if therewas an administrativearea, an office with the names of all the people working at the university, it would besomewhere close to the entrance. Surely the university wouldn’t want casual visitors toplungetoofarintothebuildingortotakeoneoftheliftsuptothefortiethorfiftiethfloor?Itriedadoor.Itwaslocked.Thenextoneopenedintoatoilet.Nexttoittherewasabareroom,occupiedbyacleanerwithamopandacigarette.“Whatdoyouwant?”sheasked.“Theadministrationoffice.”Shelookedatmebalefully.“Thatway.Ontheleft.Room1117.”The corridor went on for about a hundredmetres but the doormarked 1117was onlyhalfwaydown.Iknockedandwentin.Thereweretwomorewomensittingatdeskswhichwerefartoosmallforthetypewriters,pilesofpaper,filesandashtraysthatcoveredthem.Oneofthewomenwaspluggedintoanold-fashionedtelephonesystem,thesortwithwiresloopingeverywhere,butsheglancedupasIcamein.“Yes?”shedemanded.“Canyouhelpme?”Iasked.“I’mlookingforsomeone.”“Youneedthestudentoffice.That’sroom1301.”“I’m not looking for a student. I need to speak to a professor. His name is MishaDementyev.”“Room2425–thetwenty-fourthfloor.Taketheliftattheendofthecorridor.”Ifeltasurgeofrelief.Hewashere!Hewasinhisoffice!Atthatmoment,Isawtheendofmy journeyand the startof anew life.Thismanhadknownmyparents.Nowhewouldhelpme.

Itookthelifttothetwenty-fourthfloor,sharingitwithdifferentgroupsofstudentswhoall looked purposefully grubby and dishevelled. I had been in a lift before and this old-fashionedsteelbox,whichshudderedandstoppedat leastadozentimes,hadnoneof thewondersoftheescalatorontheMetro.FinallyIarrivedatthefloorIwanted.Isteppedoutand followed a cream-coloured corridor that, like the ground floor, had no windows. AtleasttheofficeswereclearlylabelledandIfoundtheoneIwantedrightatthecorner.ThedoorwasopenasIapproachedandIheardamanspeakingonthetelephone.“Yes,ofcourse,MrSharkovsky,”hewassaying.“Yes,sir.Thankyou,sir.”Iknockedonthedoor.“Comein!”Ienteredasmall,clutteredroomwithasingle,squarewindowlookingoutoverthemainavenueandthestepsthathadfirstbroughtmeintothebuilding.Theremusthavebeenfiveorsixhundredbooksthere,notjustlinedupalongtheshelvesbutstackeduponthefloorandeveryavailablesurface.Theywerefightingforspacewithawholerangeoflaboratoryequipment,different-sized flasks, twomicroscopes, scales,Bunsenburners,andboxes thatlookedlikeminiatureovensor fridges.Mostunnervingofall,acompletehumanskeletonstood ina frame inonecorneras if itwerehere toguardall thisparaphernaliawhile itsownerwasaway.Themanwassittingathisdesk.HehadjustputdownthephoneasIcamein.Myfirstimpressionwasthathewasaboutthesameageasmyfather,withthickblackhairthatonlyemphasized the round bald patch in themiddle of his head. The skin herewas stretchedtightandpolished,reflectingtheceilinglight.Hehadaheavybeardandmoustache,andasheexaminedmefrombehindapairofglasses,Isawsmall,anxiouseyesblinkingatmeasifhehadneverseenaboybefore–orhadcertainlyneverallowedoneintohisoffice.Actually,Iwaswrongaboutthis.HewasnervousbecauseheknewwhoIwas.Hespokemynameimmediately.“Yasha?”“AreyouMrDementyev?”Iasked.“ProfessorDementyev,”hereplied.“Please,comein.Closethedoor.Doesanyoneknowyou’rehere?”“Iaskedintheadministrationroomdownstairs,”Isaid.“YouspoketoAnna?”Ihadnoideawhatthewoman’snamewas.Hedidn’tletmereply.“That’sagreatpity.Itwouldhavebeenmuchbetterifyouhadtelephonedmebeforeyoucame.Howdidyougethere?”“Icamebytrain.Myparents—”“Iknowwhathashappened inEstrov.”Hewasagitated. Suddenly therewerebeadsofsweatonthecrownofhishead.Icouldseethemglistening.“Youcannotstayhere,Yasha,”hesaid.“It’stoodangerous.”Icouldn’tbelievewhatIwashearing.“Myparentssaidyou’dlookafterme!”“AndIwill!OfcourseIwill!”Hetriedtosmileatmebuthewasfullofnervousenergyandhewasallowinghisdifferentthoughtprocessestotumbleovereachother.“Sitdown,Yasha, please!” He pointed to a chair. “I’m sorry but you’ve taken me completely bysurprise. Are you hungry? Are you thirsty? Can I get you something?” Before I couldanswer,hesnatchedup the telephoneagain.“There’s somebody Iknow,”heexplained tome.“He’safriend.Hecanhelpyou.I’mgoingtoaskhimtocome.”

HedialledanumberandasIsatdownfacinghim,uncomfortablyclosetotheskeleton,hespokequicklyintothereceiver.“It’s Dementyev. The boy is here. Yes… here at the university.” He paused while thepersonattheotherendspoketohim.“Wehaven’thadachancetospeakyet. I thoughtIshouldletyouknowatonce.”HewasansweringaquestionIhadn’theard.“Heseemsallright.Unharmed,yes.We’llwaitforyouhere.”Heputthephonedownanditseemedtomethathewassuddenlylessagitatedthanhehad been when I had arrived – as if he had done what was expected of him. For somereason,Iwasfeelinguneasy.Bythelookofit,ProfessorDementyevwasn’tpleasedtoseeme. I was a danger to him. This was my parents’ closest friend but I was beginning towonderhowmuchthatfriendshipwasworth.“HowdidyouknowwhoIwas?”Iasked.“I’vebeenexpectingyou,eversinceIheardaboutwhathappened.AndIrecognizedyou,Yasha.You look verymuch like yourmother. I saw the twoof you together a few timeswhen you were very young. You won’t remember me. It was before your parents leftMoscow.”“Whydidtheyleave?Whathappened?Youworkedwiththem.”“Iworkedwithyourfather.Yes.”“Doyouknowthathe’sdead?”“Ididn’tknowforcertain.I’msorrytohearit.HeandIwerefriends.”“Sotellme—”“AreyousureIcan’tgetyousomething?”IhadeatenanddrunkeverythingIneededatKazanskyStation.WhatIreallywantedwastobeawayfromhere.IhavetosaythatIwasdisappointedbyMishaDementyev.I’mnotsurewhatI’dbeenexpecting,butmaybehecouldhavebeenmoreaffectionate,likealong-lostuncleorsomething?Hehadn’tevencomeoutfrombehindhisdesk.“Whathappened?”Iaskedagain.“WhywasmyfathersenttoworkinEstrov?”“Ican’tgothroughallthatnow.”Hewasflusteredagain.“Later…”“Please,ProfessorDementyev!”“Allright.Allright.”Helookedatmeasifhewaswonderingifhecouldtrustme.Thenhebegan.“Your fatherwasagenius.Heand Iworkedhere together in thisdepartment.Wewere young students; idealists, excited. We were researching endospores … and one inparticular.Anthrax.Idon’tsupposeyouknowverymuchaboutthat.”“Iknowaboutanthrax,”Isaid.“Wethoughtwecouldchangetheworld…yourfatherespecially.Hewaslookingatwaysto prevent the infection of sheep and cattle. But there was an accident.Working in thelaboratorytogether,wecreatedaformofanthraxthatwasmuchfasteranddeadlierthananythinganyonehadeverknown.Ithadnocure.Antibioticswereuselessagainstit.”“Itwasaweapon?”“Thatwasn’t our intention. Thatwasn’twhatwewanted. But – yes. Itwas the perfectbiological weapon. And of course the government found out about it. Everything thathappens in thisplace theyknowabout. Itwas true then. It’s truenow.Theyheardaboutour work here and they came to us and ordered us to develop it for military use.”Dementyev tookoutahandkerchiefandused it topolish the lensesofhisglasses.Heput

thembackon.“Yourfatherrefused.Itwasthelastthinghewanted.Sotheystartedtoputthepressureon.Theythreatenedhim.Andthatwaswhenhedidsomethingincrediblybrave… or incredibly stupid. He went to a journalist and tried to get the story into thenewspapers.“Hewasarrestedatonce. Iwashere, in the laboratory,when theymarchedhimaway.Theyarrestedyourmothertoo.”“HowoldwasI?”Iasked.“Youweretwo.And–I’msorry,Yasha–theyusedyoutogetatyourparents.Thatwashowtheyworked. Itwasverysimple. Ifyourparentsdidn’tdowhattheyweretold, theywouldneverseeyouagain.Whatchoicedidtheyhave?TheyweresenttoEstrov,toworkinthefactory.Theywereforcedtoproducethenewanthrax.Thatwasthedeal.Staysilent.Andlive.”Soeverything–myparents’lifeortheirnon-lifeasprisonersinaremotevillage,thelittlehouse, theboredomand thepoverty–hadbeen forme. Iwasn’t surehow thatmademefeel.WasItoblameforeverythingthathadhappened?WasItheonewhohaddestroyedtheirlives?“Yasha…” Dementyev stood up and came over to me. He was much taller than I hadexpected now that he was on his feet. He loomed over me. “Were you inoculated?” heasked.I nodded. “My parentswere shot atwhen they escaped. But they stole a syringe. Theyinjectedme.”“Iknewyour fatherhadbeenworkingonanantidote.ThankGod!But I guessed it themomentIsawyou.Otherwiseyouwouldhavebeendeadalongtimeago.”“Mybestfrienddied,”Isaid.“I’msosorry.AntonandEva–yourparents–weremyfriendstoo.”Wefellsilent.Hewasstillstandingthere,onehandonthebackofmychair.“Whatwillhappentome?”Iasked.“Youdon’tneedtoworryanymore,Yasha.You’llbewelllookedafter.”“Whowasthatyoucalled?”“Itwasafriend.Someonewecantrust.He’llbehereverysoon.”Therewassomethingwrong.Thingsthathe’dtoldmejustdidn’taddup.IwasabouttospeakwhenIheardthesoundofsirens,policecarsapproaching,stillfarawaybutdrawingnearer.AndIknewinstantlythattherewasnofriend,thatDementyevhadcalledthem.Itwasn’t detectivework. I could have asked himwhymy parents had been sent to live inEstrovwhilehehadbeenallowedtostayhere.Icouldhaveplayedbacktheconversationhe’dhadonthetelephone,howhehadreferredtomesimplyas“theboy”.NotYasha.NotAnton’sson.ThepeopleattheotherendknewwhoIwasbecausethey’dbeenexpectingmetoshowup,waitingforme.IcouldhaveworkeditoutbutIdidn’tneedto.Isawitallinhiseyes.“Why?”Iasked.Hedidn’teventrytodenyit.“I’msorry,Yasha,”hesaid.“Butnobodycanknow.Wehavetokeepitsecret.”We. The factory managers. The helicopter pilots. The militia. The government. AndDementyev.Theywereallinittogether.

Iscrabbledtomyfeet–ortriedto.ButDementyevwasaheadofme.Hepounceddown,hishandsonmyshoulders,usinghisweighttopinmetotheseat.Foramomenthis facewasclosetomine,theeyesstaringatmethroughthethicklenses.“There’snowhereyoucango!”hehissed.“Ipromiseyou…theywon’ttreatyoubadly.”“They’llkillme!”Ishoutedback.“Theykilledeveryone!”“I’lltalktothem.They’lltakeyousomewheresafe…”Yes.Isawitalready.Aprisonoramentalasylum,somewhereI’dneverbeseenagain.I couldn’t move. Dementyev was too strong for me. And the police cars were gettingcloser.Wewere twenty-four floorsupbut I couldhear the sirens cutting through the air.AndthenIhadanidea.Iforcedmyselftorelax.“Youcan’tdo this!” Iexclaimed.“Myfathergavemesomething foryou.Hesaid itwasveryvaluable.HesaidifIgaveittoyou,you’dhavetohelpme.”“Whatisit?”“Idon’tknow.It’sinabag.It’sinmypocket!”“Showme.”Heletgoofoneofmyshoulders…butonlyoneofthem.Istillcouldn’twrenchmyselffree.Iwassittingdown.Hewasstandingovermeandhewastwicemysize.“Takeitout,”hesaid.Thepolicemusthaveturnedintothemainuniversitydrive.Iheardcardoorsslamshut.Usingmyonefreearm,Idrewouttheblackbagthatmymotherhadgivenme.AtleastDimaandhisfriendshadn’tstolenitwhentheytookmymoney.Iplaceditonthedesk.AnditworkedjustasI’dhoped.Dementyevstilldidn’tletgoofmebuthisgriploosenedashereachedoutandopenedthebag.Isawhisfacechangeashetippedoutthecontents.“What…?”hebegan.Ijerkedmyselffree,throwingthechairbackwards.Asittoppledover,Imanagedtogettomyfeet.Dementyevswungroundbuthewastoolatetostopmelashingoutwithmyfist.Iknockedtheglassesoffhisface.Hefellbackagainstthedeskbutthenrecoveredandseizedholdofmeagain.IneededaweaponandtherewasonlyonethatIcouldsee.Ireachedoutandgrabbedthearmoftheskeleton,wrenchingitfreefromtheshoulder.ThehandandthewristdangleddownbutIhungontotheupperbone–thehumerus–anduseditasaclub,smashing itagainstDementyev’sheadagainandagainuntil,withahowl,he fellback. Itwistedaway.Dementyevhadcrumpledoverthedesk.Therewasbloodstreamingdownhisface.“It’stoolate…”hestammered.“Youwon’tgetaway.”I snatchedback the jewellery and tumbledoutof theoffice.Therewasnobodyoutside.Surelysomeonemusthaveheardwhathadhappened?Ididn’twanttoknow.Irantothelift.Itwasalreadyonthewayupandittookmeafewsecondstoworkoutthatthepolicewerealmostcertainlyinside,travellingtowardsme.AndImighthavebeencaughtstandingthere,waiting for them! I continueddown the corridorand founda fire exit – leading totwenty-four flightsof stairs. Ididn’t stopuntil I reached thebottomand itwasonly thenthat I realized Iwas still carrying the skeleton’s arm. I found a dustbin, picked up someloosepapersanddroppedthearmin.As Iwalkeddownthestepsat the frontdoor, I sawthreepolicecarsparked therewiththeir lights flashing. Ipretended tobe immersed in thepapers Ihad taken. If therewere

anypolicemenoutside,Iwouldlooklikeonemoreofthecountlessstudentscominginandout.Butnobodystoppedme.Ihurriedbacktothestationwithjustonethoughtinmyhead.IwasaloneinMoscowwithnomoney.

ТВЕРСКАЯ

TVERSKAYA

IwentbacktoKazanskyStation.In a way, it was a mad decision. The police knew I was in Moscow and they wouldcertainly bewatching all themajor stations – just as theyhad inRosna andKirsk. But Iwasn’tleaving.ThetruthwasthatinthewholeofRussia,Ihadnowheretogoandnooneto lookafterme. I couldn’t goback toEstrov,obviously, andalthough I rememberedmymotheroncetellingmethatshehadrelationsinacitycalledKazan,Ihadnoideawhereitwasorhowtogetthere.No, it wasmuch better to stay inMoscow, but first of all I would need to changemyappearance.Thatwaseasyenough.IstrippedoffmyPioneeruniformanddumpeditinabin.ThenIgotmyhaircutshort.Althoughthebulkofmymoneyhadgone,IhadmanagedtofindeighteenkopecksscatteredthroughmypocketsandIusednineofthematabarber’sshop,adanklittleplaceinabackstreetwitholdhairstrewnoverthefloor.AsIsteppedoutagain, feeling the unfamiliar cool of the breeze onmyhead and the back ofmyneck, apolicecarrushedpast–butIwasn’tworried.Eventoday,Iamawareofhowlittleyouneedtochangetoloseyourselfinacity.Ahaircut,differentclothes,perhapsapairofsunglasses…itisenough.IstillhadenoughkopecksforthereturnjourneyandasIsatonceagainintheMetro,Itried to work out some sort of plan. The most immediate problem was accommodation.WherewouldIsleepwhennightcame?IfIstayedoutonthestreet,Iwouldbeatmymostvulnerable. And then there was the question of food.Without money, I couldn’t eat. Ofcourse,IcouldstealbuttheonethingImostdreadedwasfallingbackintothehandsofthepolice. If theyrecognizedme, Iwas finished.Andevenif theydidn’t, IhadheardenoughstoriesabouttheprisoncampsalloverRussia,builtspeciallyforchildren.DidIwanttoendupwiththerestofmyhairshavedoff,stuckbehindbarbedwireinthemiddleofnowhere?TherewerethousandsofRussianboyswhoseliveswereexactlythat.ThistimeIbarelyevennoticedthestations,nomatterhowsuperblytheyweredecorated.Iwasutterlymiserable.MyparentshadbelievedinMishaDementyevandtheyhadsentmeto him, even though it had cost them their lives. But themoment I hadwalked into hisoffice,hehadthoughtonlyofsavinghisownskin.ItseemedtomethattherewasnobodyintheworldIcouldtrust.EvenDima,theboyIhadmetwhenIgotoffthetrain,hadonlybeeninterestedinrobbingme.ButperhapsDimawastheanswer.ThemoreIthoughtaboutit,themoreIdecidedhemightnotbeallbad.Certainly,whenwe hadmet, he had been pleasant enough, smiling and friendly, even if he was simplysettingme up for his friends. Butmaybe Iwas partly to blame forwhat had happened,comingoffthetrainandflashingmymoneyaroundallthedifferentstalls.Dimawaslivingonthestreet.Hehadtosurvive.I’dmademyselfanobvioustargetandhe’ddonewhathehadto.Atthesametime,Irememberedwhathe’dsaidtome.It’sgoodtohaveafriend.Weallneed

friends.Coulditbepossiblethatheactuallymeant it?Hewas,afterall,onlyafewyearsolderthanmeandwewerebothinthesamesituation.PartofmeknewthatIwasfoolingmyself.Dimawasprobablymilesawaybynow,laughingatmeforbeingsuchafool.Butattheendoftheday,hewastheonlypersoninthecityIactuallyknew.IfIcouldfindhimagain,perhapsIcouldpersuadehimtohelpme.Andtherewassomethingelse.Istillhadmymother’sjewels.Halfanhourlater,IclimbeduptostreetlevelandfoundmyselfbackwhereIhadbegun.Thewomenwerestill thereattheirfoodstallsbuttheyalmostseemedtobetauntingme.Before,theyhadbeenwelcoming.Now,alltheirpiesandicecreamswerebeyondmyreach.Ifoundabenchandsatdown,watchingthecrowdsaroundme.Stationsarestrangeplaces.Whenyoupass throughthem,travellingsomewhere,youbarelynotice them.Theysimplyhelp you on your way. But stand outside with nowhere to go and they make you feelworthless.Youshouldnotbehere,theyshoutatyou.Ifyouarenotapassenger,youdonotbelonghere.To startwith, I did nothing at all. I just sat there, staring at the traffic, letting peoplestream past me on all sides. The children I had seen were still dotted around and Iwonderedwhat theywoulddowith themselveswhennight fell.Thatcouldonlybea fewhours away. The lightwas barely changing, the sun trapped behind unbroken cloud, buttherewere already commuters arriving at the station, on theirway home. Therewas nosignofDima.Intheend,Iwentovertoacoupleofboys,theten-year-oldsthatIhadseenbefore.“Excuseme,”Isaid.Twopairs of very sly andmalevolent eyes turnedonme.Oneof the childrenhad snotrunningoutofhisnose.Bothofthemlookedwornout,unhealthy.“I’mlookingforsomeoneIwastalkingtoearlier,” Iwenton.“Hewaswearingablackleatherjacket.HisnameisDima.”Theboysglancedateachother.“Yougotanymoney?”oneofthemasked.“No.”“Thengetlost!”Thoseweren’thisactualwords.Thislittleboy,whosevoicehadn’tevenbroken,usedthefilthiestlanguageI’deverheard.Isawthathehadterribleteethwithgapswhere half of them had fallen out. His friend hissed at me like an animal and at thatmomentthetwoofthemweren’tchildrenatall.Theywerelikehorribleoldmen,notevenhuman.Iwasgladtoleavethemontheirown.I triedtoasksomeof theotherstreetkids thesamequestionbutas Iapproachedthem,theymovedaway.ItwasasiftheyallknewthatIwasfromoutoftown,thatIwasn’toneof them, and for that reason theywouldhavenothing todowithme.Andnow the lightreallywasbeginning todisappear. Iwasstarting to feel the threatofnightfallandknewthat I couldn’t stayhere formuch longer. Iwouldhave to findadoorway–orperhaps Icouldsleepinoneofthesubwaysbeneaththestreets.Ihadfourkopecksleftinmypocket.Barelyenoughforacupofhottea.Andthen,quiteunexpectedly,Isawhim.Dima–withhisoversizedleatherjacketandhishalf-handsome,half-ugly face–had turned thecorner, smokingacigarette, flickingawaythematch.TherewasanotherboywithhimandIrecognizedhimtoo.Hehadbeenoneofthe twowhohad robbedme.Dima said somethingand they laughed. It lookedas if they

wereheadingfortheMetro,presumablyontheirwayhome.Ididn’thesitate.Itwasnowornever.Icrossedtheconcourseinfrontofthestationandstoodintheirpath.Dimasawmefirstandstoppedwiththecigarettehalfwaytohislips.IhadtakenhimbysurpriseandhethoughtIwasgoingtomaketrouble.Icouldseeitatonce.Hewastense,wary.ButIwascompletelyrelaxed.I’dalreadyworkeditout.He’dtrickedme.He’drobbedme.ButIhadtotreathimasmyfriend.“Hi,Dima.”Igreetedhimasifthethreeofushadarrangedtomeethereforcoffee.Hesmiledalittlebuthewasstillsuspicious.Andtherewassomethingelse.Iwasn’tquitesurewhatitwasbuthewaslookingatmealmostasifhehadexpectedmetocomeback,asiftherewassomethingheknewthatIdidn’t.“Soldier!”heexclaimed.“Howareyoudoing?Whathappenedtoyourhair?”“Igotitcut.”“Didyoumeetyourfriend?”“No.Hewasn’tthere.Itseemshe’sleftMoscow.”“That’stoobad.”Inodded.“In fact, I’vegotarealproblem.Hewasgoing toputmeupbutnowIdon’thaveanywheretogo.”I was hoping he might offer to help. That was the idea, anyway. Why not? He wasseventyrublesricherthanme.Thankstohim,Ihadnothing.Hecouldatleasthaveofferedmeabedforthenight.Buthedidn’tspeakandIrealizedIwaswastingmytime.Hewasstreet-hardened, the sort of personwhowould have never helped anyone in his life. Hisfriendmutteredsomethingandpushedpastme,disappearingintotheMetro,butIstoodmyground.“Canyouhelpme?”Isaid.“Ijustneedsomewheretostayforafewnights.”Andthen–mylastchance.“Icanpayyou.”“You’vegotmoney?”Thatsurprisedhim.Hethoughthe’dtakenitallalready.“Not anymore,” I said. I shrugged as if to let him know that it didn’tmatter, that I’dalreadyforgottenaboutit.“ButI’vegotthis.”Iwenton.ItookouttheblackvelvetbagthatmymotherhadgivenmeandthatI’dusedtotrickDementyev.Iopeneditandpouredthecontents – the necklace, the ring and the earrings – into my hand. “There must be apawnshopsomewhere.I’llsellthemandthenIcanpayyouforaroom.”Dimaexaminedthejewellery,thebrightlycolouredstonesintheirsilverandgoldsettings,andIcouldalreadyseethelightstirringinhiseyesashemadethecalculations.Howmuchweretheyworthandhowwashegoingtoseparatethemfromme?Hedroppedhiscigaretteandreachedout,pickinguponeoftheearrings.Heletithangfromhisfingerandthumb.“Thiswon’tgetyoumuch,”hesaid.“It’scheap.”Rightthen,IthoughtofmymotherandIcouldfeeltheangerrisinginmyblood.IwantedtopunchhimbutstillIforcedmyselftostaycalm.“Iwastoldtheywerevaluable,”Isaid.“That’sgold.Andthosestonesareemeralds.Takemetoapawnshopandwecanfindout.”“Idon’tknow…”Hewaspretendingotherwisebutheknew that the jewelswereworthmore than the money he had already stolen. “Give me the stuff and I’ll take it to apawnbrokerforyou.ButIdon’tthinkyou’llgetmorethanfiverubles.”He’dgetfifty.I’dgetfive…ifIwaslucky.Icouldseehowhismindworked.Iheldoutmyhandand,reluctantly,hegavemetheearringback.“Icanfindapawnbrokeronmyown,”

Isaid.“There’snoneedtobelikethat,soldier!I’monlytryingtohelp.”Hegavemeacrookedsmile,madeall themorecrookedbyhisbrokennose.“Listen, I’vegota roomandyou’rewelcometostaywithme.Youknow…we’reallfriends,hereinMoscow,right?Butyou’llhavetopayrent.”“Howmuchrent?”“Tworublesaweek.”Ipretendedtoconsider.“I’llhavetoseeitfirst.”“Whateveryousay.Wecangotherenowifyoulike.”“Sure.Whynot?”HetookmebackdownintotheMetro.Heevenpaidmyfareagain.IknewIwastakingarisk.Hecouldleadmetosomefarawaycornerofthecity,takemeintoanalleyway,putaknifeintomeandstealthejewels.ButIhadafeelingthatwasn’tthewayheworked.Dimawasahustler,athief–butattheendoftheday,hejustdidn’thavethelookofsomeonewhowasreadytokill.Hewouldgetthejewelleryintheendanyway.Iwouldpayittohimas rent or hewould steal it frommewhile I slept.My planwas simply tomakemyselfusefultohim,tobecomepartofhisgang.IfIcoulddothisquicklyenough,hemightletmestaywithhim,evenwhenIhadnothingmoretogive.Thatwasmyhope.HetookmetoaplacejustoffTverskayaStreet,oneofthemainthoroughfaresinMoscow,whichleadsallthewaydowntotheKremlinandRedSquare.Today,thereisahotelonthatsamecorner–thenine-storeyMarriottGrand,whereAmericantouristsstayintotalluxury.ButwhenIcamethere,followingDimaandstillwonderingifIwasn’tmakinganotherbadmistake, itwas very different.Moscow has changed somuch, so quickly. Itwas anotherworldbackthen.Dima lived inwhathadoncebeenablockof flatsbutwhichhad longbeenabandonedandlefttorot.Allthecolourhadfadedfromthebrickwork,whichwasdampandmouldy,andcoveredwithgraffiti–notartworkbutpoliticalslogans,swearwords,andthenamesofcity football teams. Thewindowswere so dirty that they lookedmore like rustingmetalthanglass.Thebuildingroseuptwelvefloors,threemorethanthehotelthatwouldonedayreplace it, and whole thing seemed to be sagging in on itself, hardly bothering to stayupright. Itwas surroundedbyotherblocks thatwere similar… they looked likeoldmenstandingoutinthecold,havingalastcigarettetogetherbeforetheydied.Thestreetsherewere very narrow; more like alleyways, twisting together in the darkness, covered withrubbishandmud.Theblockofflatshadshopsonthegroundfloor–anemptygrocerystore,a chemist and a massage parlour – but the further up you went, the more desolate itbecame.Ithadnolifts,ofcourse.Justaconcretestaircasethathadbeenusedasatoiletsomanytimesthatitstank.Bythetimeyougottothetop,therewasnoelectricity,noproperheating.Theonlywatercamedribbling,cold,outofthetaps.Weclimbeduptogether.InoticedthatDimawaswheezingwhenwegottothetopandIwonderedifhewasill–althoughitcouldjusthavebeenallthosecigarettes.Ontheway,we passed a couple of people, a man and a woman, lying on top of each other,unconscious.Icouldn’tevenbesuretheywereactuallyalive.DimajuststeppedoverthemandIdidthesame,wonderingwhatIwasgettingmyselfinto.Myvillagehadbeenaplaceofpovertyandhardshipbutitwassomehowmoreshockinghere,inthemiddleofacity.

Dima’sroomwasontheeighthfloor.Sincetherewasnolighting,hehadtakenoutatorchand used it to find theway.Wewent down a corridor that wasmissing its carpet withgapingholes showing thepipeworkandwiring.Thereweredoorsoneither side,mostofthem locked, one or two reinforcedwithmetal plating. Somewhere, I could hear a babycrying.Amanshoutedoutaswearword.Anotherlaughed.Thesoundsthatechoedaroundmeonlyadded to thenightmare, thesense that Iwasbeingsucked intoadarkandalienworld.“Thisisme,”Dimasaid.We’dcometoadoormarkedwithanumber83.SomebodyhadaddedDIMA’SPLACEinbright red letters but the paint hadn’t been allowed to dry and it had trickled down likeblood.Perhapstheeffectwasdeliberate.Therewasaholewherethelockshouldhavebeenbut Dima used a padlock and a chain to keep the place secure. At the moment, it washangingopen.Hisfriendshadarrivedaheadofus.“Welcomehome!”hesaidtome.“Thisismyplace.Comeinandmeetmymates…”Hepushedthedooropen.Wewentin.Theflatwastiny.Mostofitwasinasingleroom,whichhesharedwiththetwoboyswhohad robbedme. On the floor were threemattresses and some filthy pillows on a carpetwhichwasmouldyandcolourless.Theplacewas lit by candles andmy first thoughtwasthatifoneofthemtoppledoverinthenight,wewouldallburntodeath.Asingletableandfourchairs stoodononeside.Otherwise therewasno furnitureofanydescription.A fewbitsofthekitchenwerestill inplacebutIcouldtellataglancethatthesinkhadn’tbeenusedforyearsandwithoutelectricitythefridgewasnomorethananoversizedcupboard.Thesmell in theroomwasunpleasant;amixtureofhumansweat,unwashedclothes,dirtanddecay.Dima waved me over to the table. “This is Yasha,” he announced. “He’s going to bestayingwithusforawhile.”HistwofriendswerealreadysittingthereplayingSnapwithadeckthatwassowornthatthecardshunglimpintheirhands.Theydidn’tlookpleasedasIjoinedthem.“He’sgoingtopay,”Dimaadded.“Tworublesaweek.”Dimaopenedthefridgeandtookoutabottleofvodkaandsomeblackbread.Hefoundsomedirtyglasses in the sinkandpoureddrinks forusall.He lit a cigarette forhimself,thenofferedmeone,whichIacceptedgratefully.Itwasn’tjustthatIwantedtosmoke.ItwasagestureoffriendshipandthatwaswhatImostneeded.Dimaintroducedthetwoboys.“ThisisRoman.That’sGrigory.”Romanwastallandthin.Helookedasifhehadbeendeliberatelystretched.Grigorywasround-faced,pock-markedwithoily,blackhair.Allthreeofthemlookednotjustadultbutold,asiftheyhadforgottentheir true age … which was about seventeen. Roman collected the cards and put themaway. It was obvious whowas the leader here. So long as Dima said I could stay, theyweren’tgoingtoargue.“Tell us about yourself, soldier,” Dima said. “I’d like to know what brought you toMoscow.” He winked at me. “And I’d particularly like to know why the police are sointerestedinyou.”“What?”So I’d been right. When I’d got back to the station I’d thought the children had beenbehavingstrangelyandnowIknewwhy.Thepolicehadbeenthere,lookingforme.

“That’sright.Tellhim,Grig.”GrigorysaidnothingsoDimawenton.“They’relookingforsomeonenewto town.Someonewhomighthavecome intoKazanskyStation,dresseduplikeaYoungPioneer.They’vebeenaskingeveryone.”He tappedash.“They’reofferingarewardforinformation.”Myheartsank.IwonderedifIhadwalkedintoanothertrap.HadDimainvitedmehereto have me arrested? But there was no sound coming from outside; no footsteps in thecorridor,nosirensinthestreet.“Don’tworry,soldier!Noone’sgoingtoturnyouin.Notevenforthemoney.Theyneverpayupanyway.“Ihatethep–p–p–police.”Romanhadastutter.Iwatchedhisfacecontortashetriedtospitoutthelastword.“Whatdotheywantwithyou?”Grigoryasked.Hesoundedhostile.MaybehewasafraidthatIwasbringingmoretroubleintohislife.Heprobablyhadenoughalready.Iwasn’tsurehowtoanswer.Ididn’twanttoliebutIwasafraidoftellingthetruth.Inthe end, I kept it as short as I could. “They killed my parents,” I said. “My dad knewsomethinghewasn’tmeanttoknow.Theywantedtokillmetoo.Iescaped.”“Whataboutyourfriendattheuniversity?”Dimaasked.“He wasn’t my friend.” I was on safer ground here. I told them everything that hadhappenedinMishaDementyev’soffice.WhenIdescribedhowIhadbeatenDementyevoffusingthearmoftheskeleton,Dimalaughedoutloud.“IwishI’dseenthat,”hesaid.“Youcertainlygavehimtheelbow!”Itwasaweakjokebutwealllaughed.DimarefilledourglassesandonceagainwedranktheRussianway,throwingtheliquidbackinasinglegulp.Itdidn’ttakeuslongtofinishthebottle andabout anhour laterweallwent tobed… if you can call beda squareofcarpetwithapileofoldclothesasapillow. Iwas justgladtohavearoofovermyheadand,helpedbythevodka,Iwasasleepalmostatonce.Thenextmorning,Dimatookmetothepawnbrokerhehadmentioned.Itwasatinyshopwithacrackedfrontwindowandanold,half-shavenmansittingbehindacounterthatwasstackedwithwatchesandjewellery.Ihandedacrossmymother’searringsandstoodthere,watchinghimexaminethembrieflythroughaneyeglasswhichhescrewedintohisfaceasifitwaspartofhim.Rightthen,alittlepartofmedied.IthadbeenapawnbrokerthattheherohadmurderedinCrimeandPunishment,thebookIhadbeenforcedtoreadatschool.Icouldalmosthavedonethesame.HewantedtogivemeeightrublesfortheearringsbutDimatalkedhimuptotwelve.Thetwoofthemkneweachotherwell.“You’reacrook,Reznik,”Dimascowled.“Andyou’reathief,Dima,”Reznikreplied.“Onedaysomeonewillstickaknifeinyou.”“Idon’tmind.Solongastheybuyitfrommefirst.”Dimatookthemoneyandwewentbackoutintothesunlight.Hegavemethreerubles,keepingnineforhimself,andwhenIlookeddownreproachfullyatthecrumplednotesheclappedmeontheback.“That’sthreeweeks’rent,soldier,”hesaid.“Whatabouttheotherthreerubles?”“That’smycommission.Ifyouhadn’thadmewithyou,thatoldcrookwouldhaveripped

youoff.”I’dbeenrippedoffanywaybutIdidn’tcomplain.DimahadsaidIcouldstaywithhimforthreeweeks.ItwasexactlywhatIwantedtohear.“Let’sgetsomebreakfast!”hesaid.We ate breakfast in the smallest, grimiest restaurant it would be possible to imagine.Somehow,Iendeduppayingforthattoo.SobeganmystayinMoscow.Iadaptedveryquicklytothewayoflife.Thetruthisthatnobody did anything very much. They stole, they ate, they survived. I spent long hoursoutside the stationwithDima,RomanandGrigory.The twoboysdidn’twarm tomebutgraduallytheybegantoacceptthatIwasthere.Atthesametime,Dimahadmademehisspecialproject.Iwonderedifhemighthavehadayoungerbrotheratsometime.Heneverspokeabouthispast lifebutthatwashowhetreatedme.WhenIwriteabouthimnow,Istillseehimwiththesleevesofhispreciousleatherjacketfallingoverhishands,hissmile,the way he swaggered along the street, and I wonder if he is alive or dead. Deadmostprobably.HomelesskidsinMoscowneversurvivedlong.Dima taughtme how to beg. You had to be careful because if the police saw you theywouldpickyouupandthrowyouintojail.Butmyfairhair,andthefactthatIlookedsoyoung,helped.IfIstoodoutsidetheBolshoiTheatreatnight,Icouldearnasmuchasfiverubles from the rich people coming out. There were tourists in Red Square and I wouldposition myself outside St Basil’s Cathedral with its towers and twisting, multicoloureddomes.Ididn’tevenhavetospeak.Once,anAmericangavemefivedollars,whichIpassedontoDima.Hegavemefiftykopecksbackbutthatwashisownspecialexchangerate. Iknewitwasworthalotmore.I gotused to the city. Streets thathad seemedhuge and threateningbecame familiar. IcouldfindmywayaroundontheMetro.IvisitedLenin, lyingdeadinhistomb,althoughDimatoldmethatmostofthebodywasmadeofwax.IalsosawthegraveofYuriGagarin,the firstman inspace.Not thathemeantanything tomenow. Iwent to thebigshops–GUMdepartmentstoreandYeliseev’sFoodHallandstaredatalltheamazingfoodIwouldneverbeable toafford.Justonce, Ivisitedabathhousenear theBolshoiandenjoyedthetotalluxuryofsittinginthesteam,breathinginthescentofeucalyptusleavesandfeelingwarmandclean.AndIstole.Weneededtobuyfood,cigarettesand–mostimportantly–vodka.Itsometimesseemedthat it was impossible to live in Tverskaya without alcohol and every night there wereterrible argumentswhen somebody’sbottlewas finished.Wewouldhear the screamsandtheknifefights,andthenextdaytherewouldoftenbefreshbloodonthestairs.Thosewhocouldn’taffordvodkagothighonshoepolish.I’mnotlying.Theywouldspreaditonbreadandplaceitonahotpipe,thenbreatheinthefumes.Nomatter howmuch time I spent begging,we never had enoughmoney and Iwasn’tsurprised to findmyself back at Reznik’s, the pawnshop.With Dima’s help, I got fifteenrubles for my mother’s necklace; more than the earrings but less than I’d hoped. I wasdeterminednottopartwithherring.ItwastheonlymemoryofherthatIhadleft.Andso,inevitably,Iturnedtocrime.OneofDima’sfavouritetrickswastohangaroundoutside an expensive shop, watching as the customers came out with their groceries. He

wouldwaitwhile they loaded up their car, then either Roman or Grigorywould distractthemwhilehesnatchedasmuchashecouldoutofthebootandthenranforit.Iwatchedtheoperationacoupleof timesbeforeDima letmeplay thepartof thedecoy.Because Iwas somuchyounger than theother twoboys,peopleweremore sympathetic – and lesssuspicious.IwouldgouptothemandpretendtobelostwhileDimasneakeduptothebackoftheircar.Thefirstthreetimes,itworkedperfectlyandwefoundourselveseatingallsortsofthingsthat we’d never tasted before. Roman and Grigory were getting used to me now. We’dbegun playing cards together – a game that every Russian knows, calledDurak or Fool.They’devenfoundamattressforme.Itwasn’talotsofterthantheflooranditwasinfestedwithinsects,butIstillappreciatedthegesture.Thefourthtime,however,wasalmostadisaster.Anditchangedeverything.Itwastheusualset-up.Wewereoutsideashopinaquietstreet.Itwasanareawehadn’tbeen tobefore.Our targetwas a chauffeur, obviouslyworking for somebigbusinessmanwhocouldaffordtoentertain.HiscarwasaDaimlerandtherewasenoughfoodinthebacktokeepusgoingforamonth.Asusual,Iwentuptothemanand,lookingasinnocentaspossible,triedtoengagehiminconversation.“Canyouhelpme?I’mlookingforPushkinSquare…”Outofthecornerofmyeye,IsawDimascurryupthepavementanddisappearbehindtheraiseddooroftheboot.Thechauffeurglaredatme.“Getlost!”“Iamlost!IneedtogettoPushkinSquare…”AllIhadtodowaskeepuptheconversationforaboutthirtyseconds.Bytheendofthattime, Dima would have gone and two or three bags would have gone with him. Butsuddenly I heard him cry out and I saw, with complete horror, that a policeman hadappearedoutofnowhere.To thisday Idon’tknowwherehehadcome frombecausewealwayscheckedtheimmediateareafirst,butIcanonlyassumethathe’dbeenexpectingus,thatthepolicemusthavedecidedtocrackdownonthissortofstreettheftandthathehadbeen lying in wait all along. He was a hugemanwith the neck and the shoulders of aprofessionalweightlifter.Dimawassquirminginhisjacketbuthewaslikeafishcaughtinanet.IsawthechauffeurmakingagrabformebutIduckedunderhisarmsandranroundthebackofthecar.TherewasnothingIcoulddoforDima.TheonlysensiblethingwastorunawayandleavehimandjustbethankfulI’dhadaluckyescape.ButIcouldn’tdoit.Despiteeverything, I was grateful to him. I had been with him for six weeks now and he hadprotectedme.Icouldn’thavesurvivedwithouthim.Iowedhimsomething.I threwmyselfat thepoliceman,who reacted inastonishment. Iwashonestly less thanhalf his size and I barely even knocked him off balance. He didn’t let go of Dima… ifanythinghetightenedhisgrip,bellowingatthechauffeurtocomeandjoinin.Dimalashedoutwithafistbutthepolicemandidn’tfeelit.Withhissparehand,hegrabbedholdofmyshirtsothatwewerebothheldcaptiveand,seeingusunarmedandhelpless,thechauffeurlumberedforwardtohelp.Wewouldcertainlyhavebeen takenprisonerand thatwouldhavebeen theendofmyMoscowadventure. Indeed, if Iwere recognized, itmight be the endofmy life. But as I

struggled, I saw that one of the shopping bags had fallen over, spilling out its contents.Therewasaplasticbagofredpowderonthetop.Isnatcheditup,splititopenandhurleditintothepoliceman’sface,allinasinglemovement.Itwaschillipowder.Thepolicemanwasinstantlyblindedandhowledinpain,bothhandsrushing to cover his eyes. Dima was forgotten. In fact everything was forgotten. Thepoliceman’sheadwascoveredinredpowder.Hewasspinningroundonhisfeet.IgrabbedDimaandthetwoofusbegantorun.Atthesamemoment,apolicecarappearedatthefarendofthestreet,speedingtowardsus,itslightsblazing.Weranacrossthepavementanddownanarrowalleywaybetweentwoshops.Itwasacul-de-sac,blockedatthefarendbyawall.Wedidn’tletitstopus,notforasecond.Wesimplysprintedupthebrickworkandover the top, crashing down onto an assortment of dustbins and cardboard boxes on theother side.Dimarolledover thengotbackonhis feet.Wecouldhear the sirenbehindusand knew that the police were only seconds away. We kept running – down anotheralleywayandacrossamainroadwithsixlanesoftrafficandcars,trucks,motorbikesandbusesbearingdownonusfromeverydirection.It’samiracleweweren’tkilled.Asitwas,one car swerved out of ourway and therewas a screech and a crumpling ofmetal as asecondcarcrashed into it.Wedidn’t slowdown.Wedidn’t lookback.Wemusthave runhalf a mile across Moscow, ducking into side roads, chasing behind buildings, doingeverything we could to keep out of sight. Eventually we came to aMetro entrance anddarted into it, disappearingunderground.Therewas a trainwaiting at the platform.Wedidn’tcarewhereitwasgoing.Wedivedinandsank,exhausted,intotwoseats.Neitherofusspokeagainuntilwegotbacktoourownstationandclimbedbackuptoourfamiliarstreets.Wedidn’tgototheflatstraightaway.Dimatookmetoacoffeehouseandweboughtacoupleofglassesofkvass,asweet,waterydrinkmadefrombread.Wesatnext to thewindow.Wewereboth stilloutofbreath. I couldhearDima’s lungsrattling.Climbingthestairswasenoughexerciseforhimandhehadjustrunamarathon.“Thankyou,soldier,”hesaideventually.“Wewereunlucky,”Isaid.“Iwasluckyyouwerethere.Youcouldhavejustleftme.”Ididn’tsayanything.“Ihatethisstupidcity,”Dimasaid.“Ineverwantedtocomehere.”“Whydidyou?”“I don’t know.”He shrugged, then pointed to his broken nose. “My dad did this tomewhenIwassixyearsold.HethrewmeoutwhenIwasseven.IendedupinanorphanageinYaroslavandthatwasahorribleplace…horrible.Youdon’twanttoknow.”Hetookoutacigaretteandlitit.“Theyusedtotiethekidsdowntothebeds,thetroublemakers.Theyleftthemthereuntiltheywerecoveredintheirowndirt.Andthenoise!Thescreaming,thecrying…Itneverstopped.Ithinkhalfofthemweremad.”“Wereyouadopted?”Iasked.“Nobodywantedme.NotthewayIlooked.Iranaway.GotoutofYaroslavandendeduponatraintoMoscow…justlikeyou.”Hefellsilent.“There’s something Iwant you to know,” he said. “That first daywemet, at KazanskyStation.”Hetookadragonhiscigaretteandexhaledbluesmoke.“Wetookyourmoney.It

wasRoman,Grigandme.Wesetyouup.”“Iknow,”Isaid.Helookedatme.“Ithoughtyoumusthave.ButnowI’madmittingit…OK?”“Itdoesn’tmatter,”Iwenton.“I’dhavedonethesame.”“Idon’tthinkso,soldier.You’renotthesameasus.”“Ilikebeingwithyou,”Isaid.“Butthere’ssomethingIwanttoask.”“Goahead.”“Doyoumindnotcallingme‘soldier’?”Henodded.“Whateveryousay,Yasha.”Hepattedmeon theshoulder.We finishedourdrinks, stoodupandwenthome.And itseemedtomethatI’dactuallydonewhatI’dsetouttodo.Thetwoofuswerefriends.

ФОРТОЧНИК

FORTOCHNIK

Forthenextfewdays,webarelylefttheflat.Dimawasworriedthepolicewouldbelookingfor us and I also had my concerns. Forget Estrov. I was now wanted for theft and forassaultingapoliceofficer.Itwasbetterforusnottoshowourfacesinthestreetandsoweate,drank,playedcards…andwewerebored.Wewerealsorunningoutofcash.IneveraskedDimawhathehaddonewiththerubleshehadtakenfrommeanditwasn’tasifwewere spendinga lotofmoneybut somehow therewasnever enough forourbasicneeds.RomanandGrigorybrought ina fewrublesnowandthenbut thetruth is that theyweretoounattractivetohavemuchsuccessbeggingandRoman’sstuttermadeithardforhimtoaskformoney.Evenso,itwasRomanwhosuggesteditonenight.“Weshouldtryb–b–b–burglary.”Weweresittingaroundthetablewithvodkaandcards.Allwehadeatenthatdaywasacoupleofslicesofblackbread.Thefourofuswerelookingill.Weneededproperfoodandsunlight.Ihadgotusedtothesmellintheroombynow–infactIwaspartofit.Buttheplacewaslookinggrimierthaneverandwelongedtobeoutside.“Whoarewegoingtob–b–burgle?”Dimaasked.Romanshrugged.“It’s a good idea,” Grigory said. He slapped down an attack card – we were havinganotherboutofDurak.“Yashaissmallenough.Hecouldbeourfortochnik.”“What’safortochnik?”Iasked.Dimarolledhiseyes.“It’ssomeonewhobreaksinthroughafortochka,”heexplained.That, at least, I understood. A fortochka was a type of window. Many apartments inMoscowhadthembeforeairconditioning tookover.Therewouldbea largewindowandthenamuchsmalleroneset insideit,abit likeacat flap. Inthesummermonths,peoplewouldopen the fortochkas to let in thebreezeand,of course, theywerean invitation forthieves…providedtheyweresmallenough.Grigorywasright.HewastoofatandRomanwastooungainlytocrawlthrough,butIcouldmakeiteasily.Iwassmallformyage–andI’dlostsomuchweightthatIwasstick-thin.“Itisagoodidea,”Dimaagreed.“Butweneedanaddress.There’snopointjustbreakinginanywhere,andanyway,it’stoodangerous.Hiseyesbrightened.“WecantalktoFagin!”Faginwasanoldsoldierwholivedthreefloorsdowninaroomonhisown.HehadbeeninAfghanistanandhadlostoneeyeandhalfhisleftarm–inaction,heclaimed,althoughtherewas a rumour he had been run over by a trolleybuswhile hewas home on leave.Faginwasn’thisrealname,ofcoursebuteveryonecalledhimthatafteracharacterinanEnglishbook,OliverTwist.And the thingaboutFaginwas thathekneweverythingabouteverything.Ineverfoundouthowhegothisinformationbutifabankwasabouttomoveaload ofmoney or a diamondmerchantwas about to visit a smart hotel, somehow Faginwouldcatchwindofitandhewouldpasstheinformationon–ataprice.Everyoneintheblock respected him. I had seen him a couple of times, a short, plumpmanwith a hugebeard bristling around his chin, shuffling along the corridors in a dirty coat, and I had

thoughthelookedmorelikeatrampthanamastercriminal.ButnowthatDimahadthoughtofhim,thedecisionhadbeenmadeandthefollowingdaywegatheredinhisflat,whichwasthesamesizeasoursbutatleastfurnishedwithasofaanda fewpicturesonthewall.Hehadelectricity too.Faginhimselfwasadisgustingoldman.Thewayhelookedatus,youdidn’treallywanttothinkaboutwhatwasgoingoninhishead.IfSantaClaushadtakenadiveintoasewerhewouldhavecomeuplookingmuchthesame.“Youwanttobefortochniks?”heasked,smilingtohimself.“Thenyouwanttodoitsoonbefore thewinter comesandall thewindowsareclosed!Butyouneedanaddress.That’swhatyouneed,myboys.Somewhereworththepickings!”Heproducedaleathernotebookwitholdbusticketsandreceiptsstickingoutofthepages.Heopeneditandbegantothumbthrough.“Howmuchisyourshare?”Dimaasked.“Always straight to the point, Dimitry. That’s what I like about you.” Fagin smiled.“Whateveryoutake,youbringtome.Nolying!IknowaliewhenIhearoneand,believeme,I’llcutoutyourtongue.”Heleeredatus,showingtheyellowslabsthatwerehisteeth.“Sixtypercent forme, forty foryou.Pleasedon’targuewithme,Dimitry,dearboy.Youwon’tgetbetteranywhereelse.AndIhavetheaddresses.Iknowalltheplaceswhereyouwon’thaveanydifficulty.Nice,slimboys,slippinginatnight…”“Fifty-fifty,”Dimasaid.“Fagindoesn’tnegotiate.”He foundapage inhisnotebook.“Nowhere’sanaddressoffLubyankaSquare.Ground-floorflat.”Helookedup.“ShallIgoon?”Dimanodded.Hehadacceptedthedeal.“Whereisit?”“MashkovaStreet.Numberseven.It’sownedbyarichbanker.Hecollectsstamps.Manyofthemvaluable.”Heflickedthepageover.“Maybeyou’dpreferahouseintheOldArbat.Lotsofantiques.Mindyou,itwasdoneoverlastspringandI’dsayitwasabitearlyforareturn visit.”Another page. “Ah yes. I’ve hadmy eye on this place for awhile. It’s nearGorky Park … fourth floor and quite an easy climb. Mind you, it’s owned by VladimirSharkovsky.Mightbetoomuchofarisk.HowaboutIlinkaStreet?Ahyes!That’sperfect.Niceandeasy.Numbersixteen.Plentyofcash,jewellery…”“TellmeabouttheflatinGorkyPark,”Isaid.Dima turned tome, surprised.But itwas thename thathaddone it. Sharkovsky. I hadhearditbefore.IrememberedthetimewhenIenteredDementyev’sofficeatMoscowStateUniversity.Ihadheardhimtalkingonthetelephone.Yes,ofcourse,MrSharkovsky.Yes,sir.Thankyou,sir.“WhoisSharkovsky?”Iasked.“He’sabusinessman,”Faginsaid.“Butrich.Very,veryrich.Andquitedangerous,soI’mtold.Notthesortofmanyou’dwanttomeetonadarknightandcertainlynotifyouwerestealingfromhim.”“Iwanttogothere,”Isaid.“Why?”Dimaasked.“BecauseIknowhim.Atleast…Iheardhisname.”At thatmoment, it seemedalmost likeagift.MishaDementyevwasmyenemy.Hehadtriedtohandmeovertothepolice.Hehadliedtomyparents.Anditsoundedasifhewas

working for thisman,Sharkovsky–assuming itwas thesameSharkovsky.Sorobbinghisflatmadeperfectsense.Itwaslikeaminiaturerevenge.Faginsnappedthenotebookshut.Wehadmadeourdecisionanditdidn’tmatterwhichaddress we chose. “It won’t be so difficult,” he muttered. “Fourth floor. Quiet street.Sharkovsky doesn’t actually live there. He keeps the place for a friend, an actress.” Heleeredatusinawaythatsuggestedshewasmuchmorethanafriend.“She’sawayalot.Itcouldbeempty.I’llcheck.”Faginwasasgoodashisword.Thefollowingdayheprovideduswiththeinformationweneeded.Theactresswasperforming in aplay calledTheCherryOrchard andwouldn’t beback inMoscow until the end of themonth. The flatwas deserted but the fortochka wasopen.“Goforthethingsyoucancarry,”hesuggested.“Jewellery.Furs.Minkandsableareeasytoshift.TVsandstufflikethat…leavethembehind.”Wesetoffthatsamenight,skirtingroundthewallsoftheKremlinandcrossingtheriverontheKrymskyBridge. I thoughtIwouldbenervous.Thiswasmyfirstrealcrime–verydifferent from the antics that Leo and I had got up to during the summer, setting offschoolboybombsoutside thepolice stationorpinching cigarettes. Even stealing from theback of parked cars wasn’t in the same league. But the strange thing was that I wascompletelycalm.ItstruckmethatImighthavefoundmydestiny.IfIcouldlearntosurviveinMoscowbybeingathief,thatwasthewayitwouldhavetobe.GorkyParkisahugeareaontheedgeoftheMoscowRiver.Withafairground,boatinglakesandevenanopen-airtheatre,it’salwaysbeenafavouriteplaceforthepeopleinthecity.Anyonewhohadaflatherewouldhavetoberich.Theairwascleanerandifyouwerehigh enough you’d get views across the trees and over to the river, where barges andpleasure boats cruised slowly past, and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, another Stalinskyscraper,inthefardistance.TheflatthatFaginhadidentifiedwasrightnexttotheparkin a quiet street that hardly seemed to belong to the city at all. Itwas too elegant. Tooexpensive.WegottherejustbeforemidnightbutallthestreetlampswerelitandIwasabletomakeout a very attractive building,made of cream-coloured stone,with arched doorways andwindows and lots of decoration over the walls. It was smaller and neater than ourapartmentblock,justfourstoreyshigh,withaslantingorange-tiledroof.“That’sthewindow–upthere.”Dimapointed.The flatwas on the top floor, just as Faginhad said, and sure enough Icouldmakeoutthefortochka,whichwasactuallyslightlyajar.Thewomanwholivedtheremight have thought she was safe, being so high up, but I saw at once that it would bepossible to climb in, using the building’s adornments as footholds. There were ledges,windowsills,carvedpillarsandevenadrainpipethatwouldactasonesideofaladder.Itwouldn’tbeeasy formebutonce Iwas inside Iwouldgobackdownandopen the frontdoor.I’dlettheothersinandthewholeplacewouldbeours.Therewereno lightson inside thebuilding.Theother residentsmusthavebeenasleep.Nor was there anyone in the street. We crossed as quickly as we could and groupedourselvesintheshadows,rightupagainstthewall.“Whatdoyouthink,Yasha?”Dimaasked.

Ilookedupandnodded.“Icandoit.”ButstillIhesitated.“Areyousureshe’saway?”“EveryonesaysFaginisreliable.”“OK.”“We’llbewaitingforyouatthedoor.Makesureyoudon’tmakeanynoisecomingdownthestairs.”“Right.Goodluck.”DimacuppedhishandstohelpmeclimbuptothefirstlevelandasIraisedmyfoot,oureyesmetandhesmiledatme.ButatthatmomentIsuddenlyfelttroubled.Thismightbemydestinybutwhatwouldmyparentshave said if they couldhave seenmenow?Theywerehonestpeople.ThatwasthewayI’dbeenbroughtup.IwasamazedathowquicklyI’dbecomeaburglar,athief.AndifIstayedinMoscowmuchlonger?IwonderedwhatImightbecomenext.Ibegantheclimb.Thethreeboysscattered.We’dagreedthatifapolicemanhappenedtocomealongonpatrol,Grigorywouldwarnmebyhooting likeanowl.But rightnowwewerealoneandatfirstitwaseasy.Ihadthedrainpipeononesideandtherewereplentyofbricksandswirlingplasterworktogivemeafoothold.Thearchitectortheartistwhohadbuilt thisplacemighthavehadplentyof ideasabout styleandelegancebuthehadbeenlessbrilliantwhenitcametosecurity.Evenso,thehigherIwent,themoredangerousitbecame.Thepipewasquiteloose.IfIput toomuchweight onto it, I risked tearing it out of thewall. Some of the decorationsweredampandhadbeguntorot.Irestedmyfootbrieflyonadiamond-shapedbrick,partofarunningpattern,andtomyhorroritcrumbledaway.First,therewasthesoundoflooseplaster hitting the pavement. Then I found myself scrabbling against the face of thebuilding,desperatelytryingtostopmyselfplungingdown.IfI’dfallenfromthefirstfloor,I’dhavebrokenanankle.Fromthisheight itwasmore likely tobemyneck.SomehowImanaged to steadymyself. I lookeddownand sawDima standingunderneathoneof thestreetlamps.Hehadseenwhathadhappenedandwavedahand–eitherspurringmeonorwarningmetobemorecareful.Itookadeepbreathtosteadymynerves,thencontinuedup–pastthethirdflooranduptothefourth.AtonestageIwasrightnexttoawindowand,peepingin,Isawthevagueshapeoftwopeoplelyinginbedunderafurcover.Iwasluckytheywereheavysleepers.Ipulledmyself up as quickly as possible and finally reached the ledge that ran along thewholebuildingjustbelowthetopfloor.ItwasnomorethanfifteencentimetreswideandIhad to squeeze flatagainst thewall, shufflingalongwithmy toes touching thebrickworkandmyheelshanging in theair. If Ihad leanedbackevenslightly Iwouldhave lostmybalanceandfallen.ButIhadcomethisfarwithoutkillingmyself.Iwasdeterminedtoseeitthrough.IgottothewindowwiththesmallerwindowsetinsideitandnowIsawthatIhadtwomoreproblems.ItwasgoingtobeaneventighterfitthanIhadimagined.Anditwasgoingtobeawkwardtoo.SomehowIhadtolevermyselfupandin,butthatwouldmeanputtingallmyweightonthemainsheetofglass.ThewindowswereonlyseparatedbyanarrowframeandunlessIwascarefultherewasarealchancetheywouldshatterbeneathmeandIwouldendupbeingcut inhalf.Onceagain I looked forDimabut this timetherewasnosignofhim.

I reached out and held onto the edge with one hand. The fortochka was definitelyunlocked.The roomon theother sidewasdarkbut seemed tobea loungewithadiningareaandakitchenattached.Igrabbedtheglasswithmyotherhand.IsawnowthatIwasgoing to have to go in head first. It just wasn’t possible to lever up my leg. Using myforehead, Ipushed the littlewindowopen. I leant forward,pushingmyhead inside.Nowtheglasswasrestingagainstthebackofmyneck,makingmethinkofaprisonerintheolddays,about tobedecapitatedbyguillotine.Trying tokeepasmuchofmyweightoff theglassas I could, Iarched forwardand in.The fitwasvery tight.Theopeningwasbarelymore than forty centimetres square… a cat flap indeed. My shoulders only just passedthroughandIfeltthelooseendoftheglassscrapingagainstmyback.Ipushedharderandfoundmyselfwedgedwiththelowerrimofthefortochkapressingintomybackjustabovemy buttocks. Suddenly I was trapped! I couldn’t move in either direction and I had anightmarevisionofbeingstuckthereallnight,waitingforsomeonetodiscovermeandcallthepoliceinthemorning.Theglasswascreakingunderneathme.Iwassureitwasgoingtobreak. I pushed again. Itwas like givingbirth tomyself. The edge cut intomebut then,somehow,gravitytookover.Iplungedforwardintothedarknessandhitthefloor.Iwasin!If it hadn’t been for the carpet, Iwould have definitely brokenmy nose and ended uplookinglikeDima.Iftherewasanyoneintheflat,theywouldcertainlyhaveheardmeandI lay there for amoment,waiting for thedoor to open and the lights to go on. It didn’thappen. I remembered the people I had seen beneath their fur cover in the flat below.Surelytheywouldhaveheardthethumpandwonderedwhatitwas.Buttherewasnosoundfrombeloweither. Iwaited anotherminute.Myarmwas stickingout at a strange angleandIwasworriedthatIhaddislocatedmyshoulder,butwhenIshiftedmyweightandgotbackintoasensibleposition,itseemedallright.Dimaandtheotherswouldhaveseenmegoin.Theywouldbewaitingformetocomedownandopenthefrontdoor.Itwastimetomove.FirstIexaminedmysurroundings.Asmyeyesgotusedtothehalf-light,IsawthatIwasinthemainlivingareaandthattheownermusthavebeenaswealthyasFaginhadsaid.Ihadneverbeenanywherelikethis.Thefurniturewasmodernandlookedbrandnew.Livinginawoodenhouseinavillage,Ihadneverseen–Ihadneverevenimagined–glassandsilver tables, leather sofas, and beautiful cabinets with rings hanging off the drawers.EverythingIhadeversatonorsleptinhadbeenoldandshabby.Therewasagorgeousruginfrontofafireplaceandeventostealthatwouldmakethisadventureworthwhile.Howmuchmore comfortable Iwould be lying on a luxurious rug than on the lumpymattressbackattheTverskayaStreetapartment!Paintingsingoldframeshungonthewalls.Ididn’treallyunderstandthem.Theyseemedto be splashes of paint with no subject matter at all. There had been a few framedphotographs inmyhouse,a tapestryhanging inmyparents’bedroom,picturescutoutofmagazines,butnothinglikethis.Nexttothesittingareatherewasadining-roomtable–anovalofwood,partlycoveredbyalacecloth,withfourchairs–andbeyonditakitchenthatwas soclean ithadsurelyneverbeenused. I ranmyeyeover theelectricoven, the sinkwith itsgleaming taps.Noneed to rundown toanywells ifyou livedhere.Therewasafridgeinonecorner.Iopenedthedoorandfoundmyselfbathedinelectriclight,staringatshelves stackedwithham, cheese, fruit, salad, pickledmushroomsand the littlepancakes

thatwecalledblinis.I’mafraidIcouldn’thelpmyself.IreachedinandstuffedasmuchfoodintomymouthasIcould,notcaringifitwassaltyorsweet.AndthatwashowIwas,standinginthekitchenwithfoodinmyhandsandinmymouth,whentherewastherattleofakeyinthelockandthemaindooroftheflatopenedandthelightscameon.Faginhadgotitwrongafterall.Amanstoodstaringatme. Isawhiseyesturninstantlyfromsurprisetounderstandingandthentodark,seethingfury.Hewaswearingablackfurcoat,blackglovesandthesortofhatyoumightseeonanAmericangangster.Awhitesilkscarfhungaroundhisshoulders.Hewasnotahugemanbuthewassolidandwellbuiltandhehadapresenceabouthim,asenseofpower. I could see it inhis extraordinarily intenseeyes,heavy-liddedwith thick,blackeyebrows.Hisfleshhadthecolourandthevitalityofamanlyingdeadinhiscoffinandstandingthere,framedinthedoorway,hehadthatsame,heavystillness.Hisfacewasunlined,hismouthanarrowgash.Icouldmakeouttheedgesofatattooonthesideofhisneck:redflames.Itsuggestedthatthewholeofhisbody,underneathhisshirt,wasonfire.Without knowing anything about him, I knew Iwas in terrible trouble. If I hadmet thedevilIcouldnothavebeenmoreafraid.“Whoisit,Vlad?”Therewasawomanstandingbehindhim.Iglimpsedaminkcollarandblondehair.“Thereissomeoneintheflat,”hesaid.“Aboy.”Hiseyesbrieflyleftme,dartingacrosstheroomtothewindow.Hedidn’tneedtoaskanyquestions.HeknewhowIhadgotin.HeknewthatIwasalone.“Doyouwantmetocallthepolice?”“No.There’snoneedforthat.”Hiswordsweremeasured,utteredwithasortofdullcertainty.Andtheytoldmetheworstthingpossible.Ifhewasn’tcallingthepoliceitwasbecausehehaddecidedtodealwithmehimself,andhewasn’tgoingtoshakemyhandandthankmeforcoming.Hewasgoingtokillme.Perhapstherewasaguninhiscoatpocket.Perhapshewouldtearmeapartwithhisbarehands.Ihadnodoubtatallthathecoulddoit.Ididn’tknowhowtoreact.Myonedesirewastogetoutoftheflat,backintothestreet.IwonderedifDima,RomanandGrigoryhadseenwhathadhappenedbutIknewthateveniftheyhad, therewasnothing they coulddo.The frontdoorwouldbe locked. If theyweresensible, theywould probably be halfway back to Tverskaya Street. I tried to collectmythoughts.All Ihad todowas togetpast thismanandout into the corridor.Thewomanwouldn’ttrytostopme.IlookedaroundmeanddidperhapsthemoststupidthingIcouldhavedone.Therewasabreadknifeonthecounter.Ipickeditup.Themandidn’tmove.Hedidn’tspeak.Heglancedatthebladewithoutrage.HowcouldIdaretopickuphispropertyandthreatenhiminhishome?Thatwaswhathesaidwithoutactuallysayinganything.Holdingtheknifedidn’tmakemefeelanystronger.Infactallthestrengthdrainedout ofme themoment I had it inmyhand and the silver, jaggedbladefilledmewithhorror.“Idon’twantanytrouble,”Isaidandmyvoicedidn’tsoundlikemyown.“Justletmegoandnobodywillbehurt.”Hehadnointentionofdoingthat.HemovedtowardsmeandIjabbedoutwiththeknife

without thinking, not meaning to stab him, not really knowing what I was doing. Hestopped. I saw the face of the girl behindhim, frozen in shock.Theman lookeddown. Ifollowedhiseyesand saw that thepointof thebladehadgone throughhis coat, intohischest. I was evenmore horrified. I stepped back, dropping the knife. It clattered to thefloor.Themandidn’tseemtohavefeltanypain.Hebroughtupahandandexaminedthegashinhis coatas if itmatteredmore tohim than the fleshunderneath.Whenhebroughthishandaway,therewasbloodonthetipsofhisglove.Hegazedatme.Iwasunarmednow,trappedbythoseterribleeyes.“Whathaveyoudone?”hedemanded.“I…”Ididn’tknowwhattosay.Hetookonestepforwardandpunchedmeintheface.Ihadneverbeenstrucksohard.Ididn’tevenknowitwaspossibleforonehumantohurtanotherhumansomuch.ItwaslikebeinghitbyarodofsteelandIfeltsomethingbreak.Iheardthegirlcryout.IwasalreadyfallingbutasIwentdownhehitmeagainwiththeotherfistsothatmyheadsnappedbackandmy body collapsed in two directions at once. I remember a bolt of white light thatseemedtobemyowndeath.IwasunconsciousbeforeIreachedthefloor.

РУССКАЯPУЛЕТКА

RUSSIANROULETTE

Iwokeupintotaldarkness, lyinginacrampedspacewithmylegshunchedup,agaginmymouthandmyhands tied.Myfirst thoughtwas that Iwas locked insideabox, that Ihadbeenburiedalive–andforthenextsixtysecondsIwasscreamingwithoutmakinganysound,myheart racing,mymuscles strainingagainst the ropesaroundmywrists, barelyabletocatchbreath.SomehowIgotmyselfundercontrol.Itwasn’tabox.Iwasinthebootofacar.WehadbeenstandingstationaryamomentagobutnowIheardthethroboftheengineand feltusmoveoff.That stillwasn’tgood. Iwasbeingallowed to live–but forhowlong?Iwasinabadway.Myheadwaspounding–andbythatImeanallofit,insideandout.Thewholesideofmyfacewasswollen.IthurtmetomovemymouthandIcouldn’tcloseoneofmyeyes.Theman’sfisthadbrokenmycheekbone.IhadnoideawhatIlookedlikebutwhatdidthatmatter?Ididnotexpecttolive.I presumed the man was Vladimir Sharkovsky. Fagin had warned me that he wasdangerousbut thatwasonlyhalf thestory. Ihadseenenoughofhimin the flat toknowthathewasapsychopath.Noordinarypersonhadeyeslikethat.HehadbeenutterlycoldwhenIhadattackedhimbutwhenhistemperflaredupithadbeenlikeademonleapingoutofthecratersofhell.Hehadn’tcalledthepolice.Thatwastheworstofit.Hewastakingmesomewhereandwhenhegottherehecoulddowhateverhewantedtome.Idreadedtothinkwhatthatmightbe.WasheplanningtotorturemeasapunishmentforwhatIhaddone?IhadheardthatmanyhundredsofchildrenwentmissingfromthestreetsofMoscoweveryyear.Itmightwellbemyfatetobecomeoneofthem.I cannot say how long the journey took. I couldn’t see my watch with my hands tiedbehind me and after a while, I dozed off. I didn’t sleep exactly. I simply drifted out ofconsciousness. It would have been nice to have dreamt ofmy parents and ofmy life inEstrov,tohavespentmylasthoursonthisplanetrelivinghappiertimes,butIwasintoomuch pain. Every fewminutes, my eyes would blink open and I would once again findmyself struggling for breath in that almost airtight compartment, desperatelywanting tostraightenup,togotothetoilet,tobeanywherebutthere.Thecarjustrumbledon.Eventually, we arrived. I felt us slowing down. Thenwe stopped and I heard aman’svoice, a commandbeing given, followedbywhat sounded like the click of ametal gate.Whenwesetoffagain,therewasadifferentsurface–gravel–beneaththetyres.Thecarstopped and the engine was turned off. The driver’s door opened and shut and I heardfootstepsonthegravel.Itensedmyself,waitingforthecarboottobereleased,butitdidn’thappen. The footsteps disappeared into the distance and when, a long time later, theyhadn’tcomeback,IbegantothinkthatIwasgoingtobelefthereallnight,likeapieceofbaggagenobodyneeded.Andsoitwas.Iwasleftinthedark,insilence,withnoideahowlongitwasgoingtolastorwhatwouldhappenwhen Iwas released. Itwasbeingdoneonpurpose,of course, tobreakmy spirit, tomakeme suffer. Iwas thevictimofmyownworst imaginings. I had

nothing to do except to count every single painful minute. Unable to move, to stretchmyself,mywholebodywasintorment.Myonlyoptionwastotrytosleep,fightingbackall the dread that came from being tied up and left in this small space. It was a long,hideousnight.Bythetimethebootwasopened,Iwasnolongerafraidofdeath.IthinkIwouldhavewelcomedit.Ashorttunnelofhorrorsfollowedbyrelease. Itwouldbeworththejourney.Therewasamanleaningoverme;nottheonefromtheMoscowflat.Hewasquitesimplymassive–withoversizedshouldersandathickneck–anddressedinacheapgreysuit,awhiteshirtandablacktie.Hishairwasblondandthicklyoiledsothatitstoodupinspikes.Hewaswearingdarkglassesand therewasaradio transmitterbehindhisear thathadawirecurlingdowntoathroatmike.Hisskinwasutterlywhiteanditoccurredtomethathemighthavebeeninaprisonorsomeotherinstitutionallhislife.Hedidn’tlookasifhehadeverspentanytimeinthesun.Hereacheddownandwithasinglemovementdraggedmeoutoftheboot,thenstoodmeupsothatIwasbalancedagainstthebackofthecar.Iwouldhavefallenotherwise.Therewasnostrengthinmylegs.HelookedatmewithhardlyanyexpressionapartfromdisgustandIcouldn’tblamehimforthat. Istank.Myclotheswerecrumpled.Myfacewascakedwithblood.Hereached intohis jacketpocketandIwincedasheproducedaknife. Iwasquitereadyforhimtoplungeitintomychestbuthejustleantovermeandcutthecordsofmy wrists. My hands fell free. They looked horrible. The flesh of my wrists was blue,covered inwelts. I couldn’tmovemy fingers but I felt thepins andneedles as thebloodsupplywasrestored.“You are to come with us,” he said. He had a deep, gravelly voice. He spoke withoutemotion,asifhedidn’tactuallyenjoyspeaking.Us?Iglancedroundandsawasecondmanstandingatthesideofthecar.Foramoment,Ithoughtmybrainwasplayingtricksonmeaftermylongcaptivity.Thissecondmanwasidenticaltothefirst–thesameheight,thesamelooks,thesameclothes.Theyweretwins…just like the twogirls I hadonceknown inEstrov.But itwas almost as if these twohadtrainedthemselvestobeindistinguishable.Theyhadthesamehaircut,thesamesunglasses.Theyevenmovedatexactlythesametime,likemirrorimages.The first twin hadn’t bothered to find outmy name.He didn’twant to know anythingaboutme.“Wherearewe?”Iasked.Thewordscameoutclumsilybecauseofthedamagetomyface.“Noquestions.Doasyouaretold.”Hegestured.IbegantowalkandforthefirsttimeIwasabletotakeinmysurroundings.Iwasinwhatlookedlikealargeandverybeautifulparkwithpathways,neatlycutgrassand trees.Theparkwas surroundedby abrickwall, severalmetreshighwith razorwirearoundthetop,andIcouldmakeoutthetipsofmoretreesontheotherside.ThecarthatIhadbeeninwasablackLexus.Ithadbeenparkedquiteclosetoanarchedgatewaywithabarrierthatroseandfell,theonlywayout,Isuspected.Aguardhousestoodnexttoit.Thiswasawoodenconstructionwitha largeglasswindowand Icouldseeaman inuniform,watchingusaswewalkedtogether.MyfirstthoughtwasthatIhadbeenbroughttosomesortofprison.TherewerearclampsandCCTVcamerassetatintervalsalongthewall.Wewereheading towardsaclusterofeightwoodenhouses thathadbeen tuckedoutof

sight behind some fir trees, about fifty metres from the gates. They were new-looking,completelyfeaturelessandalmostidentical.IntheWest,theywouldbecalledportakabins,although theywere a little larger and they’dbeenbuilt twohighwith external staircasesconnectingthem.Inoticedthattherewerenobarsonanyofthewindows.Theseweren’tcells. I guessed they provided accommodation for the peoplewhoworked here.A larger,brickbuildingstoodnearbyperhapswithadiningroomattached.Iglancedbehindme.AndalthoughIhadn’tbeengivenpermission,Icametoastumblinghalt.WherethehellwasI?Ihadneverseenanythinglikethis.Agraveldrivewithlampsandflowerbedsoneachsideledfromtheentrancethroughtheparklandanduptoamonumentalwhitehouse.Notahouse.Apalace…andnotonethathadcomeoutofanyfairytale.Itwasamodernbuilding,newlybuilt,purewhite,withtwowings stretching out from a central block which alone must have contained about fiftyrooms. There were terraces with white balustrades, white columns with triple-heightdoorwaysopeningbehind,walkwaysandbalconies,andaboveitallawhitedomelikethatofaplanetariumorperhapsacathedral.Halfadozensatellitedisheshadbeenmountedontheroofalongwithtelevisionaerialsandaradiotower.Amanstoodthere,watchingmethroughbinoculars.Hewaswearingthesameuniformasthemanatthegate–butwithadifference. Even at this distance I could see that he had a machine gun strapped to hisshoulder.Closertothehouse,thegardensbecamemoreornamentalwithstatuesonplinths,marblebenches,beautifully tendedwalkwaysandarbours,bushescut into fantastic shapes,moreflower beds laid out in intricate patterns.An armyof gardenerswouldhave towork thewholeyear round tokeep itall looking like thisandevenas I stood there I sawsomeofthem pushing wheelbarrows or on their knees weeding. The drive broke into two as itreached the front door, sweeping round a white marble fountain that had gods andmermaidsalltangledtogetherandwatersplashingdown.IsawtwoRollsRoyces,aBentleyandaFerrariparkedoutside.Buttheownerdidn’tjusthavecars.Hisprivatehelicopterwasparked on a concrete square, discreetly located next to a summer house. It was undercanvaswiththebladestieddown.“Whyareyouwaiting?”oneofthetwinsdemanded.“Wholiveshere?”Iasked.Hisanswerwasajabinthesideofmystomach.Ithadbeenaimedaroundmykidneyandithurt.“Itoldyou.Noquestions.”Iwasveryquicklylearningtherulesofthisplace.Iwasworthnothing.Anyonecoulddoanythingtome.Iswallowedagruntofpainandcontinuedtothesmallestcabin,rightontheedgeofthecomplex.ThedoorwasopenandIlookedintoaroomwithanarrowmetalbed, a table and a chair. There was no carpet, no curtains, nothing in the way ofdecoration.Aseconddoorledintoatoiletandshower.“You have fiveminutes,” theman said. “Throw those clothes away. Youwill not needthem.Washyourselfandmakeyourselfpresentable.Donotleavethisroom.Ifyoudo,theguardswillshootyoudown.”Heleftmeonmyown.Istrippedoffmyclothesandwentintothebathroom.Iusedthetoilet,thenIhadashower.IknewIwasindanger.ItwasquitelikelythatIwouldsoonbedead.Butthatshowerwasstillawonderfulexperience.Thewaterwashotandtherewas

enoughpressure to soakmecompletely.Therewasevenabarof soap. Ithadbeen threeweekssinceIhadlastwashed–thathadbeeninthebanya,thebathhouseinMoscow–andblackdirtseemedtooozeoutofmybody,disappearingdowntheplughole.Thinkingofthebathhouse remindedme of Dima.What would he be doing now? Had he seenme beingbundledintothecarbySharkovskyand,ifso,mighthecomelookingforme?Atleastthatwassomethingtogivemehope.Myfacestillhurt though,andwhenIexaminedmyself in themirror, itwasasbadas Ihadfeared.Ibarelyrecognizedmyself.Oneeyewashalfclosed.Therewasahugebruiseallaroundit.Mycheeklookedlikearottingfruitwithagashwheretheman’sfisthadcaughtme.IwasluckyIstillhadallmyteeth.Lookingatthedamage,Iwasremindedofwhatlayahead.Ihadn’tbeenbroughthereformyowncomfort.Iwasbeingpreparedforsomething.Mypunishmentwasstilltocome.Iwentbackintothebedroom.MyownclotheshadbeentakenawaywhileIwaswashingand,withajolt,Irealizedthatthelastofmymother’sjewelleryhadgonewiththem.Herringhadbeeninmybackpocket.IknewatoncethattherewouldbenopointinaskingforitbackandIhadtoholddownagreatwaveofsadness,thesensethatIhadnothingleft.Shehadwornthatringandtouchingit,IhadfeltIwastouchingher.Nowthatithadbeentakenfromme,itwasasifIhadfinallybeenseparatedfromtheboyIhadoncebeen.I had been suppliedwith a black tracksuit, black socks and black slip-on shoes. I driedmyself,usingatowelthathadbeenhanginginthebathroom,andgotdressed.Theclothesfittedmeverywell.“Are you ready?” The twins were standing outside, calling to me. I left the cabin andjoinedthem.Theyglancedatme,bothofthemstillshowingacompletelackofinterest.“Comewithus,”oneofthemsaid.Theyappearedtohaveafairlylimitedvocabularytoo.Wewalked up the drive all theway to the big house. Aswewent,we passed anothersecurity guard, this one with an Alsatian dog on a leash. A television camera mountedabovethefrontdoorwatchedourapproach.Butwedidn’tgointhatway.Thetwinstookme in through a side door next to the dustbin area and along a corridor.Here thewallswereplainandthefloorblackandwhitetiles.Theservants’entrance.Wepassedalaundryroom,abootroomandapantrynexttoakitchen.Iglimpsedawomaninablackdressandawhiteapron,polishingsilver.Shedidn’tnoticemeor,ifshedid,shepretendednotto.Myfeet,inthesoftshoes,madenosoundaswecontinuedthrough.IwasfeelingqueasyandIknewwhy.Iwasafraid.We passed through a hallway; thiswas themain entrance to the house. Amagnificentstaircasesweptdowntothefrontdoorwithamarblepillaroneachside.Thehallwayitselfwashuge.Youcouldhaveparkedadozencarsthere.Abowlofflowersstoodonatable–itmusthaveemptiedaflowershop.Thecentral lightwasachandelier,hundredsofcrystalstwinklingbrilliantly like a fireworkdisplay. Itmade the lights Ihad seen in theMoscowMetrolookcheapandgaudy.Thereweremoredoorsoneveryside.Itwasalltoomuchformetotakein.Ifaspaceshiphadgrabbedmeanddepositedmeonthemoon,Iwouldhavefeltasmuchathome.“Inhere…”Oneofthetwinsknockedonanoakdoorand,withoutwaitingforareply,openedit. Iwentin.

ThemanfromtheMoscowapartmentwassittingbehindanoversizedantiquedesk.Therewerebookshelvesbehindhimandononesideaglobethatlookedsooldthatquiteafewofthe countries were probably missing … yet to be discovered. He was framed by twowindowswithredvelvetcurtainsandaviewouttothefountainandthedrive.Theroomwas very warm. One wall contained a stone fireplace – two crouching imps or demonssupportingthemantelpieceontheirshoulders–andaDalmatian,laystretchedoutinfrontof it.Thewallswerecoveredwithpaintings.The largestwasaportraitof themanIwasfacingandIhavetosaythatthepaintedversionwasthemorewelcomingofthetwo.Hehadnotlookedupfromhiswork.Hewasreadingadocument,makingnotesinthemarginswithablackfountainpen.Therewasagunonthedeskinfrontofhim.As I stood there, waiting to be told what to do, I foundmyself staring at it. It was arevolver, averyold-fashionedmodelwitha stainless steelbarrel, five inches long, andablack,enamelgrip.Itwasn’tlikeanautomaticoraself-loadingpistolwhereyoufeedthebulletsintoaclip.Thisonehadacylinderandsixchambers.Asinglebulletlaybesideit.“Sitdown,”hesaid,pointingtoanemptychairinfrontofhim.I stepped forward, although it felt more as if I was floating, and sat down. The doorclickedshutbehindme.Withoutbeinginstructed,thetwinshadleft.Iwaitedforthemasterofthehousetospeak.HewaswearingasuitnowandsomehowIknewthat itwasexpensiveandthat ithadn’tbeenmadeinRussia.Thematerialwastooluxurious and it fitted too well. He had a pale blue shirt and a brown tie. Now that hewasn’t wearing his coat, I could see that he was very muscular. He must have spenthundreds of hours in the gym. He had also removed the hat and I saw that he wascompletelybald.Hehadnotlosthishair.Hehadshaveditoff,leavingadarkshadowthatmadehimmoredeath-likethanever.Iwaitedindreadforhisheavy,uglyeyestosettleonme.MyfacewashurtingbadlyandIwantedtogotothetoiletagain.ButIdidn’tdaresayanything.Ididn’tmove.Atlengthhestoppedandlaythependown.“Whatisyourname?”heasked.“YashaGregorovich.”“Yassen?” He had misheard me. The side of my face was so swollen that I hadmispronouncedmyownname.ItwouldbeveryunusualtobecalledYassen.It isRussianforashtree.ButIdidnotcorrecthim.IhaddecideditwouldbebetternottospeakunlessIhadto.“Howoldareyou?”heasked.“I’mfourteen.”“Whereareyoufrom?”Irememberedmymother’swarning.“AtowncalledKirsk,”Isaid.“It’salongwayaway.Youwon’thaveheardofit.”Themanthoughtforamoment,thenhegotup,walkedroundthedeskandstoodnexttome.Hetookhistime,consideringthesituation,thensuddenlyandwithoutwarningslappedmeacross the face.Theblowwasn’taparticularlyhardone, certainlynotashardas thenight before, but nor did it need to be.My cheekbonewas already broken and the freshpainalmostknockedmeoffthechair.Blackspotsappearedinfrontofmyeyes.IthoughtIwasgoingtobesick.BythetimeIhadrecovered,themanwasbackinhischair.“Nevermakeassumptions,”he

said.“Neverassumeanythingaboutme.Andwhenyouspeaktome,callme ‘sir’.Doyouunderstand?”“Yes,sir.”Henodded.“Doyouhaveparents?”“No,sir.They’rebothdead.”“Andlastnight,whenyoubrokeintomyflat,wereyoualone?”IhadalreadydecidedthatIwasn’tgoingtotellhimaboutDima,RomanandGrigory.IfItold him their names, I had no doubt hewould send hismen round to Tverskaya to killthem.Istillthoughthewasgoingtokillme.“Yes,sir,”Ireplied.“Iwasonmyown.”“Howdidyoucometochoosethatflat–asopposedtoanyother?”“Iwaswalkingpast. I saw that thewindowwasopenand the lightswereout. I didn’teventhinkaboutit.Ijustwentin.”Theanswerseemedtosatisfyhim.Hetookoutagoldcigarettecase.InoticedtheinitialsV.S.onthecover.Heremovedacigaretteandlitit,thenlaythecaseonthedesk,closetothegun.“VladimirSharkovsky,”hesaid.“Thatismyname.”Ididn’t tellhim that I knew. I simply sat thereandwatchedashe smoked in silence. IwouldhavelikedacigarettebutIneededthetoiletmore.Myinsideswerechurning.“Youmustbewonderingwhyyouarestillalive,”hecontinued.“Infact,youshouldnotbe.Lastnight,asIdroveoverthebridge,IthoughtofdroppingyouintheMoscowRiver.Iwouldhavequiteenjoyedwatchingyoudrown.WhenIdroveyouhere,myintentionwastogiveyoutoJosefandKarltobepunishedandthenkilled.Evennow,Iamundecidedifyouwill liveorifyouwilldie.”Hiseyesrestedbrieflyontherevolver.“Thefactthatyouaresittinginthisroom,talkingtome, isdowntoonereasononly. It isaquestionoftiming.Perhapsyouhavebeenlucky.Aweekagoitwouldhavebeendifferent.Butrightnow…”Hetrailedoff,thentookanotherdragonthecigarette,thebluesmokecurlingintotheair.Alogsnappedinthefireplaceandthedogstirredbriefly,thenwentbacktosleep.Sofar,Vladimir Sharkovsky had shown no emotion whatsoever. His voice was flat, entirelydisinterested.Ifmachineshadeverlearnedtospeak,theywouldspeaklikehim.“Iamacarefulman,”hewenton.“OneofthereasonswhyIhaveprosperedisthatIhavealwaysusedeverythingthathasbeengiventome.Inevermissanopportunity.Itmaybean investment in a company, the chance to buymyway into a bank, theweakness of agovernment official who is open to bribery. Or it may be the chance appearance of aworthlessthiefandguttersnipelikeyourself.Butifitcanbeused,thenIwilluseit.ThatishowIlive.“There is somethingyouneed tounderstandaboutme. I amextremely successful.Rightnow,Russiaischanging.Theoldwaysarebeingleftbehind.Forthoseofuswiththevisiontoseewhatispossible,therewardsarelimitless.Youhavenothing.Youstealbecauseyouare hungry and all you think about is your next pathetic meal. I have the world andeverythinginit.Andnow,YassenGregorovich,Ihaveyou.“Alargenumberofpeopleworkformeinthishouse.BecauseofthenatureofmyworkandwhoIam,Ihavetobecareful.JosefandKarl,thetwomenwhobroughtyouhere,aremy personal bodyguards. They are standing outside and I should perhapswarn you thatthereisacommunicationbuttonunderneaththisdesk.Ifyouweretotryanything, ifyouweretothreatenmeagain,theywouldbeinhereinaninstant.Begladtheywerenotwith

meinMoscow.Thatwastheprivateapartmentofafriendofmine.Themomentyoupickedupthatknife,yourownlifewouldhavebeenover.“Iwillnotkill you–yet –because I think I canuseyou.As ithappens, apositionhasarisenhere,avacancywhichitwouldnotnormallybeeasytofill.Youare,asIsaid,veryfortunatewiththetiming.Ihavenodoubtthatyouarestupidanduneducated.Butevenso,youmightbeacceptable.”Hepausedandittookmeafewsecondstorealizethathewaswaitingformetoreply.Icouldn’tbelievewhathehadjusttoldme.Hewasn’tgoingtokillme.Hewasofferingmeajob!“I’dbeveryhappytoworkforyou,sir,”Isaid.Hiseyes settledonme, fullof contempt. “Happy?”He repeated thewordwitha sneer.“Yousaystupidthingswithout thinking. It isnotmyintentiontomakeyouhappy.Quitetheopposite.Youbrokeintomyapartment.Youattemptedtohurtmeandindoingsoyouruinedaperfectlygoodovercoat,ajacketandashirt.Youevencutmyflesh.Forthis,youmustpay.Youmustbepunished.Ifyoudecidetoacceptmyproposal,youwillspendeveryhouroftherestofyourlifewishingthatthetwoofushadnevermet.Iamnotofferingtopay you. I will own you. I will use you. From this moment on, I will expect your totalobedience. You will do whatever I tell you. You will not hesitate.” He gestured at thefireplace.“Youseethedog?Thatiswhatyouarenow.That’sallyoumeantome.”He stubbed out the cigarette. I could see that hewas boredwith the interview, that hewantedittobeover.“Whatdoyouwantmetodo?”Iasked.“Whatsortofwork?”Ihadnochoice.Ihadtosurvive.LethimemploymeinwhatevercapacityandsomehowIwouldfindawayoutofthisplace.Inthebackofacar,overthewall…Iwouldescape.“You will clean. You will carry messages. You will sweep floors. You will help in thegarden. But that’s just part of it. The main reason that I need you is something quitedifferent.”Hepaused.“Youwillbemyfoodtaster.”“Your…?”IalmostlaughedoutloudandifIhad,Iamsurehewouldhaveshotmethereandthen.Butitwasridiculous.Atschool,wehadbeentaughtabouttheRomanemperors–JuliusCaesarand theothers–whohademployedslaves to tasteeverything theyate.ButthiswasRussiainthetwentiethcentury.Hecouldn’tpossiblymeanwhathehadjustsaid.“It isunfortunately the case that I havemanyenemies,” Sharkovsky explained.Hewascompletely serious. “Some of them fear me. Some are jealous of me. All of them wouldbenefitifIwasnolongerhere.Inthelastyear,therehavebeenthreeattemptsonmylife.Thatishowthingsarenow.Severalofmyassociateshavebeenlessfortunate–whichistosay,theyhavebeenlesscarefulthanme.Andtheyhavedied.“Apartfrommywifeandmychildren,Icantrustnooneandevenmyimmediatefamilymightonedaybebribedtodomeharm.IemployagreatmanypeopletoprotectmeandIhavetoemploymorepeopletowatchoverthem.Itrustnoneofthem.”Hisdarkeyesboreintome.“CanItrustyou?”Iwastryingtomakesenseofallthis.Wasthatreallytobemyfate?Sittingathisdiningtable,diggingmyforkintohisblinisandcaviar?“I’lldowhateveryouwant,”Isaid.“Willyou?”

“Yes,sir.”“Anything?”“Yes…”ThistimeIwasuneasy.Itwaswhathehadbeenwaitingfor.ItwastheveryworstthingIcouldhavesaid.“Wewillsee.”Hereachedoutandtookthegun.Hejerkedopenthecylinderandshowedmethatitwasempty.Thenhepickedupthebullet–alittlecylinderofgleamingsilver–andhelditbetweenhisfingerandthumblikeascientistgivingademonstration.Iwatchedsilently. Ididn’tknowwhatwasabout tohappenbut Icould feelmyheartpounding.Heslid the bullet into one of the chambers and snapped the cylinder shut. Then he spun itseveraltimessothatthemetalbecameabluranditwasimpossibleforeitherofustotellwherethebullethadlodged.“Yousayyouwilldoanythingforme,”hesaid.“Sodothis.Thegunhassixchambers.Asyouhaveseen,oneofthemnowcontainsalivebullet.Youdonotknowwherethebulletis.NordoI.”Heplacedthegunbackonthedesk,rightinfrontofme.“Putthegunintoyourmouthandpullthetrigger.”Istaredathim.“Idon’tunderstand.”“It’ssimpleenough!”hesaid.“Pointthegunatthebackofyourmouthandshoot.”“Butwhy…?”“BecauseyousaidtomefivesecondsagothatyouwoulddoanythingIwantedandnowIamaskingyoutoproveit.IneedtoknowthatIcanrelyonyou.Eitheryouwillpullthetriggeroryouwillnot.Butletusconsidertheoptions,YassenGregorovich.IfyouwillnotdowhatIask,thenyouhaveliedtomeandIcannotuseyouafterall.Inthatcase,Icanassure you that your death is certain. If you do as I have asked, then there are twopossibilitiesthatlieaheadofyou.Itisquitepossiblethatyouwillkillyourself,thatinafewminutes’time,mycleanerswillbewipingyourbrainsoffmycarpet.Thatwillbeannoying.Butthereisalsoaverygoodchancethatyouwill liveandfromthatmomentonyouwillserveme.Itisyourdecisionandyoumustmakeitnow.Idon’thaveallday.”He was torturing me after all. He was asking me to play this horrific game to provebeyondanydoubt thathehadcompletepoweroverme. Iwouldneverarguewithhim. Iwouldneverrefuseanorder.IfIdidthis,Iwouldbeacceptingthatmyownlifenolongerbelongedtome.ThatineveryrespectIwashis.WhatcouldIdo?WhatchoicedidIhave?Ipickedupthegun.ItwasmuchheavierthanIhadexpectedbutatthesametime,Ihadno strength at all. Nothing belowmy shoulder seemed to beworking properly – notmywrist,notmyhand,notmyfingers.IcouldfeelmypulseracingandIhadtostruggleevento breathe. What this man was demanding was horrific … beyond imagination. Sixchambers.Onecontainingabullet.Aoneinsixchance.WhenIpulledthetrigger,nothingmighthappen.Or Imightsendapieceofmetal travellingat twohundredmilesperhourintomyownhead.IfIdidn’tdoit,hewouldkillme.Thatwaswhatitcamedownto.Ifelthottearsbrimmingovermycheeks. Itseemedimpossiblethatmylifecouldhavecometothis.“Don’tcrylikeababy,”Sharkovskysaid.“Getonwithit.”Myarmandwristwereaching.Icouldfeelthebloodpumpingthroughmyveins.Almostinvoluntarily,my finger had curled around the trigger. The gripwas pressed against the

palmofmyhand.Foracrazymoment,IthoughtoffiringatSharkovsky,ofemptyingthechamberinhisdirection.Butwhatgoodwouldthatdome?Heprobablyhadasecondgunconcealed somewhere and if I didn’t find the bullet at the first attempt he would haveplentyoftimetoshootmewhereIsat.“Please,sir…”Iwhispered.“Iamnotinterestedinyourtearsoryourpleading,”hesnapped.“Iaminterestedonlyinyourobedience.”“But…”“Doitnow!”Itouchedthemuzzleofthegunagainstthesideofmyhead.“Inyourmouth!”Iwillneverforgethis insistence,thatoneobscenedetail. Ipushedthebarrelofthegunbetweenmyteeth,feelingthemuzzlegrazingtheroofofmymouth.Icouldtastethemetal,cold and bitter. I was aware of the black hole, the muzzle, pointing at my throat with,perhaps, a bullet resting behind it, waiting to begin its short journey. Sharkovsky wasgloating.Idon’tthinkhecaredonewayortheotherwhattheoutcomewouldbe.Icouldn’tbreathe.Thecontentsofmystomachwererisingup.IpressedwithmyfingerbutIcouldn’tmakeitwork.InmymindIalreadyheardtheexplosion.Ifeltthescorchingheatandsawthedarknessfallinglikeabladeasmylifewassnatchedaway.“Doit!”hesnarled.Onechanceinsix.Isqueezedthetrigger.Thehammerdrewback.How farwould it travelbefore it fell? Iwas certain that thesewerethelastsecondsofmylife.Andyeteverythingwashappeninghorriblyslowly.Theyseemedtostretchonforever.Ifeltthemechanismreleaseitselfinmyhand.Thehammerfellwithaheavy,thunderousclick.Nothing.Therehadbeennoexplosion.Thechamberwasempty.Reliefrushedthroughmebutitdidnotfeelgood.ItwasasifIwasbeingemptied,asifmyentire lifeandall thegood things Ihadeverexperiencedwerebeing taken fromme.From thismoment on, I belonged to Sharkovksy. Thatwaswhat he had demonstrated. Idropped thegun. It fellheavilyagainst thesurfaceof thedeskand lay therebetweenus.Themuzzlewaswetwithmysaliva.“Youcanleavenow,”hesaid.HemusthavepressedthecommunicationbuttonunderhisdeskbecausealthoughIhadn’theardthem,themenwhohadbroughtmeherehadreturned.Perhapsthetwinshadbeenpresentandhadseenwhathadjusthappened.Ididn’tknow.Istoodup.Mywholebodyfeltforeigntome.Imightnothavekilledmyselfbutevenso,somethinginsidemehaddied.“Yassen Gregorovich is working for me now,” Sharvovsky continued. “Take himdownstairsandshowhim.”The twomen ledme out of the study andback into the corridorwehad come throughtogether. But this time we took a staircase down into a basement area. There was an

oversizedfridgedoorthatledintoacoldstorageroomandIwatchedasonetwinopeneditandtheotherwentinside.Hewheeledoutatrolley.Therewasadeadbodyonit,coveredbya sheet.He lifted itupand I sawanakedman.Hecouldn’thavebeenmore than tenyearsolder thanmewhenhedied. Ithadhappenedvery recently.His facewasdistortedwithpain.Hishandsseemedtobescrabblingathisthroat.Iunderstoodwithoutbeingtold.Theoldfoodtaster.Apositionhasarisenhere.ThatwaswhatVladimirSharkovskyhadsaidtome.NowIknewwhy.

СЕРЕБРЯНЫЙБОР

SILVERFOREST

Imademyfirstescapeattemptthatsameday.I knew I couldn’t stay there. I wasn’t going to play anymore of Sharkovsky’s sadisticgamesandIcertainlywasn’tgoingtoswallowhisfood…notwhentherewasarealchanceofmyendinguponametalslab.Ihadbeenleftalonefortherestoftheday.PerhapstheythoughtIneededtimetorecoverfrommyordealandtheywerecertainlyright.ThemomentIgotbacktomyroom,Iwassick.Afterthat,Isleptforaboutthreehours.Oneofthetwinsvisited me during the afternoon. He brought more clothes with him: overalls, boots, anapron, a suit. Each piece of clothing related to a different task I would be expected toperform.Ileftthemonthefloor.Iwasn’tgoingtobepartofthis.Iwasout.Assoonasnighthadcome,Ileftmyroomandsetouttoexplorethegrounds,nowemptyofgardenersalthoughtherewerestillguardspatrollingclosetothewall.Itwascleartomethat the wall completely surrounded the complex and there was no possibility of myclimbingit.Itwastoohigh,andanyway,therazorwirewouldcutmetoshreds.Thesimpletruthwasthatthearchwaywastheonlywayinandout–butatleastthatmeantIcouldfocusmyattentiononthatoneavenue.Andlookingatit,Iwasn’tsurethatitwasassecureasitseemed.Threeuniformedguardssatinsidethewoodencabinwithaglasswindowthatallowedthemtolookoutoverthedriveway.Theyhadtelevisionmonitorstoo.Therewasaredandwhitepole,whichtheyhadtoraise,andtheysearchedeveryvehiclethatcamein,one of them looking underneathwith a flatmirror onwheelswhile another checked thedriver’sID.Butwhentherewerenocars,theydidnothing.Oneofthemreadanewspaper.Theotherssimplysatbacklookingbored.Icouldjustslipout.Itwouldn’tbedifficultatall.Thatwasmyplan.Itwasaboutseveno’clockandIassumedeveryonewaseating.I’dhadnofoodalldaybutIwasinnomoodtoeat.Stillwearingtheblacktracksuit–thecolourwouldhelp toconcealme in thedarkness– I slippedoutside.When Iwas sure therewasnobody around, I sprinted to the edge of the cabin and then crept round, crouchingunderneath thewindow and keeping close to thewall. The road back toMoscow lay infrontofme.Icouldn’tbelieveitwasthiseasy.Itwasn’t.IonlyfoundoutabouttheinfraredsensorswhenIpassedthroughoneofthem,immediatelysettingoffadeafeningalarm.AtoncethewholeareaexplodedintobrilliantlightasarclampsslicedintomeandIfoundmyselftrappedbetweenthebeams.Therewasnopoint in running– Iwouldhavebeen shotbefore Ihad taken ten steps–and I couldonlystandtherelookingfoolishastheguardsseizedholdofmeanddraggedmeback.Punishmentwasimmediateandhideous.Iwasgiventothetwins,whosimplybeatmeupas if Iwereapunchbaginagym.Itwasn’t just thepainthat left itsmarkonme. Itwastheir complete indifference. I know they were being paid by Sharkovsky. They werefollowinghisorders.Butwhatsortofmancandothistoachildandlivewithhimselfthenextday?Theywerecarefulnottobreakanymorebones,butbythetimetheydraggedmebacktomyroom,Iwasbarelyconscious.Theythrewmeontomybedand leftme. Ihadpassedoutbeforetheyclosedthedoor.

ImademysecondescapeattemptassoonasIwasabletomoveagain,thenextday.Itwascertainlyfoolishbutitseemedtomethatitwasthelastthingtheywouldexpectandsotheymightbriefly lowertheirguard.TheythoughtIwasbroken,exhausted.Bothof thesethings were true but I was also determined. This time, a delivery truck provided theopportunity.I’deatenbreakfastinmyroom–oneofthetwinshadbroughtitonatray–butafterI’dfinishedIwassentuptothehousetohelpunloadaboutfiftycratesofwineandchampagnethatSharkovskyhadordered.Itdidn’tmatterthatIcouldfeelmyshirtstickingtomyopenwoundsandthateverymovementcausedmepain.Whilethedriverwaited, Icarriedthecratesinthroughthebackdooranddownthestepsthatledtothecoldstorageroom.Therewasawinecellarnexttoit,acavernousspacethathousedhundredsofbottles,facingeachotherinpurpose-builtracks.IttookmeabouttwohourstocarrythemalldownandwhenI’dfinishedInoticedthattherewerealotofemptyboxesinthebackofthevan.It seemedeasy enough tohidemyself behindapileof them.Surely theywouldn’t bothersearchingthevanonthewayout?Thedriverclosedthedoor.Crouchingbehindtheboxes,Iheardhimstarttheengine.Wedrove back down the drive and slowed down. I waited for the moment of truth, theaccelerationthatmeantwehadpassedthroughthebarrierandwereoutsidethecompound.Itnevercame.Thedoorwasthrownopenagainandavoicecalledme.“Getout!”Again, itwasoneof the twins. Idon’tknowhowhe’dbeensocertain that Iwas there.Maybe I’dbeen caughtbyoneof theCCTVcameras.Maybehehadbeenexpecting it allalong. I felt aweakness inmy stomachas I stoodupand showedmyself. Iwasn’t sure Icouldtakeanotherbeating.ButevenasIclimbeddown,Iwouldn’tlethimseeIwasscared.Iwasn’tgoingtogivein.“Comewithme,”heinstructed.His facegavenothingaway. I followedhimback to thehousebut this timehe tookmeroundtheback.Therewasaconservatoryontheotherside,althoughactuallyitwasmorelike a pavilion, constructedmainly out of glass withwhitewooden panels, at least fiftymetreslong.Ithadaseriesoffoldingdoorssothatinthefullheatofthesummerthewholethingcouldbeopenedout,but thiswas lateOctoberand theywereall closed.The twinsopenedasingledoorandledmeinside.Ifoundmyself infrontofanenormousblue-tiledswimmingpool,almostOlympic-sized.Thewaterwasheated. Icouldseethesteamrisingover the surface. Sunloungers had been arranged around the edge and therewas awell-stockedbarwithamirroredcounterandleatherstools.Sharkovskywasdoinglengths.Westoodthere,watching,whilehewentfromoneendtothe other and back again, performing a steady, rhythmic butterfly stroke. I countedeighteen lengths and he never stopped once. Nor did he lookmyway. Thiswas how helikedtokeephimselffit,andashecontinuedIcouldn’thelpbutnoticetheextraordinarilywell-developedmusclesinhisbackandshoulders.Ialsosawhistattoos.TherewasaJewishStarofDavidinthecentreofhisback–butitwasn’tareligioussymbol.Onthecontrary,itwas on firewith thewordsDEATHTOZIONISMengraved below. Thesewere the flamesthatIhadseenreachinguptohisneckinhisMoscowapartment.Whenhefinallyfinishedswimmingandclimbedout,Isawahugeeaglewithoutstretchedwings,perchedonaNaziswastika tattooedacrosshis chest.Hehada slightpaunch,buteven thiswas solid rather

thanflabby.TherewasaplasterunderneathoneofhisnipplesandIrealizedthatthiswaswhereImusthavecuthimwiththeknife.Hewaswearingtinyswimmingtrunks.Hiswholeappearancewassomehowverygrotesque.Atlasthenoticedme.Hepickedupatowelandwalkedover.Iwastrembling.Icouldn’tstopmyself.Iwasexpectingtheworst.“YassenGregorovich,”hesaid.“Iunderstandthatyoutriedtoleavethisplacelastnight.Youwerepunishedforthisbutitdidn’tpreventyoufrommakingasecondattempttoday.Isthatright?”“Yes,sir.”Therewasnopointindenyingit.“It isunderstandable. It showsspirit.At thesametime, itgoesagainst thecontract thatyouandImadebetweenusinmystudyyesterday.Youagreedtoworkforme.Youagreedyouweremine.Haveyouforgottensosoon?”“No,sir.”“Verywell.Thenhearthis.Youcannotescapefromhere.Itisnotpossible.Shouldyoutryagain,therewillbenofurtherdiscussion,nopunishment.Iwillsimplyhaveyoukilled.Doyouunderstand?”“Yes,sir.”He turned to the twins.“Josef, takeYassenaway.Givehimanotherbeating– this timeuse a cane – and then lock himup on his ownwithout food. Letme knowwhen he hasrecoveredenoughtostartwork.That’sall.”Butwedidn’tleave.Thetwinwouldn’tletme.AndSharkovskywaswaitingformetosaysomething.“Thankyou,sir,”Isaid.Sharkovskysmiled.“That’salright,Yassen.It’smypleasure.”

IwastospendthenextthreeyearswithVladimirSharkovsky.Icouldnotriskanotherescapeattempt–notunlessIwaspreparedtocommitsuicide.IttookmeaweektorecoverfromthebeatingIreceivedthatday.Iwillnotsaythatitbrokemyspirit.ButbytheendofitIknewthatwhenIhadpickedupthatgunandplaceditinmy mouth, I had signed a deal with the devil. I was not just his servant. I was hispossession.YoumightevensayIwashisslave.TheplacewhereI foundmyself, thehugewhitehouse,washisdacha–hissecondhomeoutsideMoscow. Itwas inSerebryanyBor–SilverForest–not thatmanymiles fromthecentre.Thiswasanareawellsuitedtowealthyfamilies.Theairwascleanerintheforest.Itwasquieterandmoreprivate.Therewerelakesandwoodedwalkwaysoutsidethecomplexwhereyoucouldexercisethedogsorgohuntingandfishing…notthattheseactivitieswereavailabletomebecause,ofcourse,Iwasneveronceallowedoutside.Iwasrestrictedtothesamefewfaces,thesamemenialtasks.Mylifewastohavenorewardsandnoprospectofadvancement or release. Itwas a terrible thing to do to anyone – evenworsewhen youconsiderthatIwassoyoung.Andyetslowly,inevitablyperhaps,Iacceptedmydestiny.Theinjurytomyfacehealedandfortunatelyitleftnomark.Ibegantogetusedtomynewlife.Iworkedallthetimeatthedacha…fifteenhoursaday,sevendaysaweek.Ineverhadaholidayand,asSharkovskyhadpromised,Ididn’treceiveonekopeck.ThefactthatIwasbeing allowed to live was payment enough. Christmas, Easter, Victory Day, Spring and

LabourDay,mybirthdays–allthesesimplydisappearedintoeachother.SharkovskyhadtoldmeIwouldbehisfoodtasterbuthehadalsomadeitcleartomethatthiswasonlyapartofmywork.Hewastruetohisword.Ichoppedandcarriedfirewood.Icleanedbathroomsandtoilets. Ihelpedinthe laundryandthekitchen. Iwasheddishes. Ipaintedwalls.Ilookedafterthedog,pickingupafteritwhenitfouled.Iliftedsuitcases.Iunblockeddrains.Iwashedcars.Ipolishedshoes.ButInevercomplained.Iunderstoodthattherewasnopointincomplaining.Theworkneverstopped.Sharkovsky lived in the big housewith hiswife,Maya, and his two children, Ivan andSvetlana.Mayahadverylittletodowithme.Shespentmostofhertimereadingmagazinesandpaperbacks–shelikedromances–orshoppinginMoscow.Shehadoncebeenamodeland shewas still attractive,but lifewithSharkovskywasbeginning to take its toll and Iwould sometimes catch her looking anxiously in the mirror, tracking a finger along awrinkleorawispofgreyhair.IwonderedifsheknewabouttheflatinGorkyParkandtheactresswholivedthere.Inaway,shewasasmuchaprisonerasIwasandmaybethatwaswhysheavoidedme.Iremindedherofherself.Thefamilywereseldomtogether.Sharkovskyhadbusinessinterestsallovertheworld.Aswell as the helicopter, he kept a private jet at Moscow airport. It was on permanentstandby,readytotakehimtoLondon,NewYork,HongKongorwherever.Ionceglimpsedhimontelevision,standingnexttothePresidentoftheUnitedStates.HetookhisholidaysintheBahamasortheSouthofFrance,wherehekeptahundredandfiftymetreyachtwithtwenty-oneguestcabins,twoswimmingpoolsanditsownsubmarine.Hisson,Ivan,wasatHarrowSchool,inLondon.IftherewasonethingthatallwealthyRussianswanted,itwasan English public school education for their children. Svetlana was only seven when Iarrivedbutshewaskeptbusytoo.Therewerealwaysprivatetutorscomingtothehousetoteach dance, piano, horse riding, tennis (they had their own tennis court), foreignlanguages, poetry…When theywere small, each child hadhad twonannies; one for theday,oneforthenight.Nowtheyhadtwofull-timehousekeepers…andme.Sixteenmembers of staff lived full-time on the estate. They all slept inwooden cabins,similartomine,apartfromJosefandKarl,wholivedinthebighouse.Therewerethetwohousekeepers–bossywomenwhowerealways inahurry,permanentlyscowling.OneofthemwascalledNinaandshehaditinformefromthestart.Sheusedtocarryawoodenspooninherapronandwhenevershegotthechanceshewouldcloutmeovertheheadwithit. She didn’t seem to have noticed thatwewere both servants, on the same level, but Ididn’tdarecomplain.IhaveafeelingthatshehatedworkingforSharkovskyasmuchasIdid.Theonlytroublewas,she’ddecidedtotakeitoutonme.ThentherewasPavel,aboutfiftyyearsold,short,twitchy,alwaysdressedinwhites.HewasveryimportanttomebecausehewasthechefanditwashiscookingthatIwouldbetasting.I’llsaythisforhim,hewasgoodathisjob.AllthefoodhepreparedwasdeliciousandIwasgiventhingsIhadn’tevenknownexisted.UntilIcametothedacha,Ihadnevereaten salmon, pheasant, veal, asparagus, French cheese … or even such a thing as achocolate éclair. Pavel only used the very best and the freshest ingredients, which wereflowninfromallovertheworld.IrememberacakehemadeforMaya’sbirthday.ItwasshapedlikeaRussiancathedral,completewithgold-leaficingonthedomes.Heavenknowshowmuchhewasgiventospend.

InevergottoknowPavelverywell,eventhoughhesleptinthecabinnexttome.Hewashardofhearingsohedidn’ttalkmuch.Hewasunmarried.Hehadnochildren.Allhecaredaboutwashiswork.Thestaffincludedapersonaltrainerandtwochauffeurs.Sharkovskyhadahugefleetofcars and he was always buyingmore. Six armed guards patrolled the grounds and tookturns manning the gatehouse. There was a general maintenance man, who was alwayssmoking,alwayscoughing.Helookedafterthetenniscourtandtheheatedswimmingpoolintheconservatory.Iwillnotwastetimedescribingthesepeople…orthegardeners,whoturnedupeverymorningandworkedtenhoursaday.Theyarenotreallypartofmystory.Theyweresimplythere.ButImustmentionthehelicopterpilot,averyquietmaninhisforties,withsilverhaircutshortinamilitarystyle.HisnamewasArkadyZelinandhehadonceflownwiththeVVS–theSovietAirForce.Heneitherdranknor smoked.Sharkovskywouldneverhaveputhislifeinthehandsofamanwhowasnotutterlydependable.Hewasalwaysonstandbyincasehismasterneededtogetsomewhereinahurry,sohemightspendweeksatthedachabetweenflights,andoncethehelicopterhadbeentieddowntherewaslittleforhimtodo.JustlikeMaya,hereadbooks.Healsokepthimselffit,doingpress-upsandrunningaroundthegrounds.SharkovskyhadagymnasiumaswellasthepoolbutZelinwasn’tallowedtouseeitherofthem.ZelinwasoneofthefewpeoplewhobotheredtointroducehimselftomeandIwasquickto let him know about my old love of helicopters. He piloted a two-bladed Bell 206JetRangerwithseatingforfourpassengers–SharkovskyhadordereditfromCanada–andalthoughIwasn’tallowednearit,Ioftenfoundmyselfgazingatitacrossthelawn.Escapewastoodangeroustoconsider,butevenso,inmywildermoments,itsometimesoccurredtomethatthehelicoptermightbemyonlywayout.Icouldn’thideinit.I’dhavebeenspottedatonceunless Icrawled into the luggagecompartmentand thatwasalwayskept locked.Butmaybe, oneday, Iwouldbe able to persuadeZelin to takemewithhim– if hewasflyingalone.ItwasafoolishthoughtbutIhadtokeepsomesortofhopealiveinmyheadorI’dgomad.AndsoIstayedclosetohim.ThetwoofuswouldplayDurak together, thesamegamethatIhadplayedwithDima,RomanandGrigory.SometimesIwonderedwhathadhappenedtothem.Butastimewenton,Ithoughtaboutthemlessandless.Oneothermemberofthestaffwasimportanttome.HisnamewasNigelBrownandhewasEnglish,athin,elderlymanwithstragglygingerhairandapinchedface.HehadoncebeentheheadmasterofaprepschoolinNorfolkandstilldressedasifheworkedthere,withcorduroytrousersand,everyday,thesametweedjacketwithleatherpatchesontheelbows.Zelintoldmetherehadbeensomesortofscandalattheschoolandhehadbeenforcedtotake early retirement. It was certainly true that Mr Brown never talked about his timethere. Sharkovsky hadhired him as a private tutor, to help Ivan and Svetlana pass theirexams.Othertutorscameandwentbuthelivedatthedachapermanently.Allthestaffmeteveryevening.JustasIhadthought,thebrickbuildingwhichIhadseenbesidethecabinswasarecreationroomwithakitchenanddiningarea,whereweateourmeals.Therewerea fewbattered sofasandchairs,a snooker table,a television,acoffeemachineandapublictelephone–althoughallcallsweremonitoredandIwasn’tallowedtouseitatall.Afterdinner,theguardswhoweren’tonduty,thechauffeursandsometimesthe

chefwouldsitandsmoke.MrBrownhadnothingtosaytoanyofthembutperhapsbecauseI was so young, he took an interest inme and decided for no good reason to teachmeEnglish.Itsoonbecameapersonalprojectandhetookdelightinmyprogress.ItturnedoutthatIhadanaturalaptitudeforlanguagesandafterawhilehebegantoteachmeFrenchandGermantoo.MostofthelanguagesIspeaktoday,Iowetohim.Whilehetaughtme,hedrank.Maybethiswaswhathad ledtohisdownfall inNorfolk,butatthestartofeachlessonhewouldopenabottleofvodkaandbytheendofitIcouldhardlywork outwhat hewas saying, nomatterwhat the language. Bymidnight hewasusually unconscious and thereweremanyoccasionswhen I had to carry himback to hisroom.Therewas,however,oneaspectofhisdrinkinghabitthatwasusefultome.Hewasnotacautiousmanandundertheinfluenceofalcoholhedidn’tcarewhathesaid.ItwasNigelBrownwhotoldmewhatlittleIknewaboutSharkovsky.“Howdidhemakeallhismoney?”Ionceasked.Itwasawarmeveningaboutsixmonthsafter I had arrived. There was no breeze and the mosquitoes were whining beneath theelectriclights.“Ah, well, that’s all politics,” he replied. We had been talking in English but now heslipped back into Russian, which he spoke fluently. “The end of Communism in yourcountrycreatedasortofvacuum.Afewmensteppedinandhewasoneofthem.They’vesucked all the money out of your country, every last ruble. Some of them have madebillions!Mr Sharkovsky invested in companies. Scrapmetal, chemicals, cars…Heboughtandhesoldandthemoneyflowedin.”“Butwhydoesheneedsomuchprotection?”“Becausehe’sanevilbastard.”Hesmiledasifwassurprisedbywhathehadjustsaidbutdecidedtocontinueanyway.“MrSharkovskyisconnectedwiththepolice.He’sconnectedwiththepoliticians.He’sconnectedwiththemafia.He’saverydangerousman.Godknowshowmanypeoplehe’skilledtogettowhereheis.Butthetroubleis,youcan’tgoonlikethatwithoutmakingenemies.Hereally isa shark.”Herepeated the lastword inEnglish.“Doyouknowtheword‘shark’,Yassen?It’sabigfish.Adangerousfish.Itwillgobbleyouup.Now,let’sgetbacktotheseirregularverbs,pasttense.Ibuy,youbought.Isee,yousaw.Ispeak,youspoke…”Sharkovskymusthavehadplentyofenemies.Welivedourlifeundersiegeatthedacha,andasIhaddiscovered,painfully,therewasnowayinorout.TherewereX-raymachinesandmetal detectors at themain gates – just like at amodern airport – andnobodywasallowed inoroutwithoutbeing searched.Thegardeners arrivedempty-handedandwereexpected to leave their toolsbehindwhen they finishedwork.The tutors, thedrivers, thehousekeepers…eachperson’sbackgroundhadbeencheckedexceptformine,butthenmybackground didn’t matter. Josef and Karl always stayed close to their boss. The CCTVcameraswereonatalltimes.Everyonewatchedeveryoneelse.OtherbusinessmeninRussiawerecarefulbutnoneofthemwenttotheseextremes.Sharkovskywasparanoidbut,asIhadseenformyselfinthatbasementrefrigerator,hehadgoodreasontobe.Hewas extremely careful aboutwhatheate anddrank.For example,heonlyacceptedmineralwaterfrombottlesthathehadopenedhimselfaftercheckingthatthesealhadnotbeenbroken.Thebottlesalwayshadtobeglass.Hisenemiesmightbeabletocontaminateaplasticoneusingahypodermicsyringe.Hesometimesatefoodstraightfromthepacketor

thetin,prongingit intohismouthwithnosignofpleasure,but if itarrivedonaplate, Iwouldhavetotasteitfirst.Mosttimes,IwouldreporttothekitchenbeforethemealsweresentoutandIwouldeatstraightoutofthepans,withJoseforKarlwatchingovermeandPavelstandingnervouslytooneside. It’shard todescribehowI feltabout this.Onone level, Ihave toadmit thattherewasapartofmethatenjoyedit.AsIhavesaid,thefoodwassuperb.Butatthesametime,itwasstillanunpleasantexperience.Firstofall,onemouthfulwasallIwasallowedand Iwas always aware that onemouthfulmight be enough to killme. In away, everytastingsessionwasthesameastheRussianrouletteIhadbeenforcedtoplayonmyfirstnight.Ilearnedtoattunemysensestolookoutfortheacridtasteofpoisonorsimplythesuspicion that somethingmightnotberight.The troublewas,by the time Idetected it, itmightwellhavekilledme.After a while, I put the whole thing out of my mind. I simply did what I was told,robotically,withoutcomplaining.YoumightsaythatIhadaverystrangerelationshipwithdeath.Thetwoofuswereconstantlytogether,sidebyside.Andyetweignoredeachother.Inthisway,wewereabletogetby.What I most dreaded were the formal dinners that I was forced to attend in the hugediningroomwithitsbrilliantchandeliers,goldandwhitecurtains,antiqueFrenchtableandchairs, and countless flickering candles. Sharkovsky often invited business associates andfriends…peopleheknewwell.Tobeginwith, Iwasworried thatMishaDementyev, theprofessorfromMoscowStateUniversity,mightshowup.HeknewSharkovsky.Indeedhe–along with my own stupidity – was the reason I was here. What would happen if herecognizedme?Woulditmakemysituationworse?ButheneverdidappearanditoccurredtomethathewasprobablyaminoremployeeinSharkovsky’sempireandthatitwasveryunlikelythathewouldreceiveaninvitation.Nearlyalltheguestsarrivedinexpensivecars.Someevencameintheirownhelicopters.TheywereasrichandasviciousasSharkovskyhimself.Ihadbeengivenagreysuitwithawhiteshirtandablacktiefortheseevents–thesameuniformashisbodyguards–andIwouldstandbehindhimasIhadbeeninstructed,lookingdownatthefloorwithmyhandsheldbehindmyback.Iwasnotallowedtospeak.Aseachcoursewasserved,Iwouldstepforwardand,usingmyowncutlery,wouldtakeasampledirectlyfromhisplate,eatit,nodandstepbackagain.TherewasnodoubtthatSharkovskywasafraidforhislifebutatthesametimehewasenjoyinghimself.HelovedplayingtheRomanemperor,showingmeofftohisotherguests,deliberatelyhumiliatingmeinfrontofthem.But if the fatherwasbad,hissonwasmuch,muchworse. IvanSharkovsky firstbecameawareofmeatoneofthosedinnersandalthoughIwasn’tsupposedtolookattheguests,Inoticed him examining me out of the corner of my eye. Ivan, a year older than me,resembled his father in many ways. He had the same dark qualities but they had beendistributeddifferently–inhiscurlyblackhair,hisheavyjowls,hisdown-turnedmouth.Heseemedtobeconstantlybroodingaboutsomething.Hisfatherwassolidandmuscular.Hewas fatwithpuffycheeks, thick lipsandeyelids thatwere slightly too large forhis eyes.Sitting hunched over the table, spooning food into his mouth, he had something brutishabouthim.

“Papa?”heasked.“Wheredidyougethimfrom?”“Who?”SharkovskywasattheheadofthetablewithMayasittingnexttohim.Shewaswearingahugediamondnecklacethatsparkledinthe light.Whenevertherewereguests,heinsistedthatshesmotheredherselfinjewellery.“Thefoodtaster!”“FromMoscow.”Sharkovskydismissedthequestionasifhehadsimplypickedmeupinashop.“Canhetastemyfood?”Shakovsky leant forward and jabbed a fork in the direction of his son. He had beendrinking heavily – champagne and vodka – and although he wasn’t drunk, there was alooseness about theway he spoke. “You don’t need a food taster. You’re not important.Nobodywouldwanttokillyou.”Theotherguestsalltookthisasajokeandlaugheduproariously,butIvanscowledandIknewthatIwouldbehearingfromhimsoon.And the very next day, he came outside and foundme. Itwas a cold afternoon. Iwaswashingoneofhis father’s cars, spraying itwithahose.As soonas I sawhimcoming, Istoppedmyworkandlookeddown.ThiswaswhatIhadbeentaught.Wehadtotreatthewhole family as if theywere royalty. Part ofme hoped hewould simplywalk on, but Icouldseeitwasn’tgoingtohappen.IknewstraightawaythatIwasintrouble.“Whatisyourname?”heasked,althoughofcourseheknew.“YassenGregorovich,”Ianswered.ThatwasthenameIalwaysusednow.“I’mIvan.”“Yes,”Isaid.“Iknow.”He lookedatmequestioninglyand Icould feel the senseofmenacehanging in theair.“Butyoudon’tcallmethat,doyou?”“No…sir.”ItmademesickhavingtosaythewordsbutIknewthatwaswhathewanted.Heglancedatthecar.“Howlonghasittakenyoutocleanthat?heasked.“Anhour,”Isaid.Itwastrue.ThecarwastheBentleyandithadbeenfilthy.WhenIhadfinishedwithit,itwouldhavetolookasifithadjustcomeoutoftheshowroom.“Letmehelpyou.”Hegesturedforthehose,whichwasstillspoutingwaterontotheground,and,dreadingwhatwastocome, Ihandedit tohim.Firsthepointed itat thecar.Heplacedhis thumbovertheendsothatthewaterrushedoutinajet.Itpouredoverthewindscreenanddownoverthedoors.Thenheturneditonme…myhead,mychest,myarms,mylegs.Icouldonlystandthereuselesslyashesoakedme.Hadthishappenedinmyvillage,Iwouldhaveknocked him to the ground. Right then I had to use all my self-restraint to stop myselfpunchinghimintheface.Butthatwasexactlywhathewasshowingme.Hehadcompletepoweroverme.Hecoulddoanythingtomethathewanted.Whenhehadfinished,hesmirkedandhandedthehosebacktome.Finally,henoticedthebucketofmuddywaterbeside thecar.Hekickedout, sending thecontents sprayingoverthebodywork.“Badluck,Yassen,”hesaid.“You’regoingtohavetostartagain.”Istoodthere,drippingwet,asheturnedandwalkedaway.After that, he tormented me all the time. His father must have known what was

happening – Ivan would have never acted in this way without his authority – but heallowed it tocarryon.Andso Iwouldgetanorder,usually transmittedbyJosef,Karlorone of the housekeepers. It didn’tmatter if itwasmorning or themiddle of the night. Iwould go up to the big house and there he would be with football boots that neededcleaning,suitcasesthatneededcarryingorevencrumpledclothesthatneededironing.Helikedmetoseehisroom,spaciousandcomfortable,filledwithsomanynicethings,becauseheknewI lived inasmallwoodencabinwithnothing.AnddespitewhatSharkovskyhadsaid,hesometimesgotmetotastehisfoodforhim,watchingwithdelightasIleantoverhisplate.Often,hewouldplaytrickswithme.Iwoulddiscoverthathehaddeliberatelyfilledthefoodwithsaltorchillipowdersothatitwouldmakemesick.IusedtolongforthedayhewouldreturntohisschoolinEnglandandIwouldfinallybeleftalone.Threeyears…Igrewtallerandstronger.Ilearnedtospeakdifferentlanguages.ButotherwiseImightaswellhavebeendead.Isawnothingoftheworldexceptwhatwasshownonthetelevisionnews. The horror of my situation was not the drudgery of my work and the dailyhumiliationsIreceived.ItwasinthedawningrealizationthatImightbeherefortherestofmylife,thatevenasanoldmanImightbecleaningtoiletsandcorridorsand,worsestill,that Imightbegrateful.Already, I could feelpartofmyselfacceptingwhat Ihad turnedinto.Inolongerthoughtaboutescaping.Ididn’teventhinkaboutwhatmightexistontheothersideofthewall.Once,Ifoundmyselflookinginthemirrorbecausetherewasastainonmyshirt.TherewastobeadinnerthatnightandIwasgenuinelyembarrassed,afraidIwould let my master down. At that moment I was disgusted with myself. I saw, quiteclearly,whatIwasbecoming…perhapswhatIhadalreadybecome.I never thought of Estrov. It was as if my parents had not existed. Even my time inMoscowseemedfarbehindme.ItwasobviousthatDimawouldneverfindmeandevenifhedidIwouldbeoutofhisreach.AllIcouldthinkaboutwastheworkIwoulddothenextday.ThiswasSharkovsky’srevenge.Hehadallowedmetokeepmylifebuthehadtakenawaymyhumanity.Andsoitmighthavecontinued.Butthingschangedquitesuddenlyintheearlysummerofmythirdyearofcaptivity.IvanhadjustfinishedhislastyearatHarrowandwasduebackanytime.Svetlanawasstayingwith friends near the Black Sea. Sharkovskywas having another dinner party and I hadbeentoldtoreporttothediningroomtohelpwiththepreparations.For some reason, I arrived early. As I walked up to the house, a car passed me andstoppedatthefrontdoor.Amangotout,rangthebellandhurriedinside.Ihadseenhimbefore. His name was Brodsky and he was one of Sharkovsky’s business associates fromMoscow.The twoof themownedseveralcompanies togetherand theywereconnected inotherwaysitwasprobablybestnottoknow.Iwentintothekitchenandafewmomentslater,thetelephonerang.MrBrodskywantedtea.Pavelwasbusypreparingthedinner–abroiled Atlantic salmon, which he was decorating with red and black caviar. Thehousekeeperswerelayingthetable.IwasthereandinmysuitsoImadetheteaandcarrieditup.Icrossedthehallway,whichwasnowsofamiliartomethatIcouldhavemademywayblindfolded.The sweeping staircase, themarblepillars, thehugebowlof flowers and the

chandelier no longermeant anything tome. I had seen them too often. The door to thestudywashalfopenasIapproachedandnormallyIwouldhaveknockedandentered,setthetraydownonatableandleftasquicklyasIcould.Butthistime,justasIdrewclose,Iheardasinglewordthatstoppedmeinmytracksandrootedmetothefloor.“They’re asking questions about it again. Estrov.We’re going to have to do somethingbeforethesituationgetsoutofhand…”Estrov.Myvillage.IthadbeenBrodskywhohadspoken.Estrov.WhatcouldhepossiblyknowaboutEstrov?Hardlydaringtobreathe,IwaitedforSharkovskytoreply.“Youcandealwithit,Mikhail.”“It’snotaseasyas that,Vladimir.TheseareWestern journalists,working inLondon. Iftheyconnectyouwithwhathappened…”“Whyshouldthey?”“They’renotstupid.They’vealreadydiscoveredyouwereashareholder.”“Sowhat?” Sharkovsky didn’t sound concerned. “Therewere lots of shareholders.WhatexactlyamIsupposedtohavedone?”“Youwanted them to raise productivity. Youwantedmore profit. You ordered them tochangethesafetyprocedures.”“Areyouaccusingme,Mikhail?”“No.Ofcoursenot.I’myourclosestadvisorandyourfriendandwhyshouldIcareifafewpeasantsgotkilled?Butthesepeoplesmellastory.AnditwouldbeseriouslydamagingtousifthenameofEstrovweretobementionedintheBritishpressoranywhereelse.”“Itwasall takencareofat the time,”Sharkovsky replied. “Therewasnoevidence left.Our friends in the ministry made sure of that. It never happened! Let these stupidjournalists sniffaroundandaskquestions.Theywon’t findanything.And if Idocome tobelievethattheyaredangeroustomeortomybusiness,thenI’lldealwiththem.EveninLondontherearecaraccidents.Nowstopworryingandhaveadrink.”“Iorderedtea.”“Itshouldbehere.I’llcalldown.”ItwasamiracleIhadn’tbeencaughtlisteningoutside.IfKarlorJosefhadcomedownthestairsandseenme,Iwouldhavebeenbeaten.ButIcouldn’tgoinquiteyet.Ihadtowaitfortheechoesoftheconversationtodieaway.Icountedtoten,thenknockedonthedoorandentered.Ikeptmyfaceblank.ItwasvitalthattheyshouldnotknowthatIhadheardthemtalking.Butas Icrossedthecarpet towhere thevisitorwassitting, thecupandthesaucerrattledonthesilvertrayandI’msuretherecan’thavebeenanycolourinmyface.Sharkovskybarelyglancedatme.“Whattookyousolong,Yassen?”heasked.“I’msorry,sir,”Isaid.“Ihadtowaitforthekettletoboil.”“Verywell.Getout.”IbowedandleftasquicklyasIcould.IwasshakingbythetimeIreturnedtothehall.ItwasasifallthepainandmiseryIhadsuffered in the last three years had been bundled together and then slammed into me,deliveringonefinal,knock-outblow.Itwasn’tenoughthatVladimirSharkovskyhadbeenendlesslycrueltome.Itwasn’tenoughthathehadreducedmetotheroleofhismindless

slave.Hewasalsodirectlyimplicatedinthedeathsofmymotherandfather,ofLeoandofeveryoneelseinthevillage.Was it really such a surprise? When I had first heard his name, it had been at theuniversity in Moscow. He had been talking to Misha Dementyev on the telephone andDementyevhadbeenimplicatedinwhathadhappened.NigelBrownhadwarnedmetoo.HehadtoldmethatSharkovskyinvestedinchemicals.Ishouldhavemadetheconnection.AndyethowcouldIhave?Itwasalmostbeyondbelief.That night, as I stood at the tablewatching him tear apart the salmon that I had justtastedinfrontofalltheotherguests,IsworethatIwouldkillhim.ItwassurelythereasonwhyfatehadbroughtmehereanditnolongermatteredifIlivedordied.Iwouldkillhim.Isworeittomyself.Iwouldkillhim.Iwouldkill.

МЕХАНИК

THEMECHANIC

I barely slept that night. Every time I closed my eyes, my thoughts turned to guns, tokitchenknives,totheforksandspadesthatwereusedinthegarden,tohammersandfireaxes.ThetruthwasthatIwassurroundedbyweapons.Sharkovskywasusedtohavingmearound.IcouldreachhimandhavemyrevengeforEstrovbeforeanyoneknewwhathadhappened.Butwhatgoodwoulditdo?JosefandKarl–ofcourseIknewwhichwaswhichbynow–werealwaysnearbyandevenassumingIcouldgettoSharkovskybeforetheystoppedme,theywoulddealwithmeimmediatelyafterwards.Lyinginmysimplewoodenbed, inmyemptyroom,lookingatthecoldlightofday,Isawthatanyactiononmypartwouldonlyleadtomyowndeath.Therehadtobeanotherway.I felt sickandunhappy. I rememberedFaginwithhis leathernotebook, readingout thedifferentnamesandaddressesinMoscow.WhyhadImadethischoice?Onceagain,and for the first time inavery longwhile, I thoughtaboutescape. Iknewwhatthestakeswere.IfItriedandfailed,Iwoulddie.Butonewayoranother,thishadtoend.Ihadjustoneadvantage.BynowIkneweverythingaboutthedachaandthatincludedallthesecurityarrangements.ItookoutoneoftheexercisebooksthatNigelBrownhadgivenme– itwas fullofEnglishvocabulary–and turned toanemptypageat theback.Then,usingapencil, I drewa sketchof the compoundand, resting it onmyknees, I began toconsiderthebestwayout.Therewasn’tone.CCTVcamerascoveredeveryinchofthegardens.Climbingthewallwasimpossible.Quiteapartfromtherazorwire,thereweresensorsburiedunderthelawnandtheywouldregistermyfootfallbeforeIgotclose.CouldIapproachoneoftheguards?No.TheywereallfartooafraidofSharkovsky.Whatabouthiswife,Maya?Could I somehowpersuadeher to takemeononeofhershoppingtripstoMoscow?Itwasaridiculousidea.Shehadnoreasontohelpme.Even if I did miraculously make it to the other side, what was I to do next? I wassurrounded by countryside – the Silver Forest – with no idea of how near I was to thenearestbusstoporstation.IfImadeittoMoscow,IcouldgobacktoTverskayaStreet.Ihad no doubt that Dima would hide me… assuming he was still there. But Sharkovskywoulduseallhispoliceandunderworldcontactstohuntmedown.Itwouldn’tbotherhimthathehadbeenkeepingmeaprisonerforthreeyearsandhehadtreatedmeinawaythatwascertainlyillegal.ItwasjustthatwehadmadeadealandhewouldmakesureIkeptit.IworkedforhimorIwasdead.For the next fewweeks, everythingwent on as before. I cleaned, Iwashed, I bowed, Iscraped.Butforme,nothingwasthesame.IcouldhardlybeartobeinthesameroomasSharkovsky. Tasting his foodmademe physically sick. Thiswas theman responsible forwhat had happened to Estrov, the unnamed investor my parents had been complaining

aboutthenightbeforetheydied.IfIcouldn’tescapefromhim,Iwouldgomad.IwouldkillhimorIwouldkillmyself.Isimplycouldn’tstayhereanymore.IhadhiddentheexercisebookundermymattressandeverynightItookitoutandjotteddownmythoughts.Slowly,IrealizedthatIhadbeenrightfromtheverystart.Therewasonlyonewayoutofthisplace–andthatwastheBellJetRangerhelicopter.Iturnedtoanewpageandwrotedown thenameof thepilot,ArkadyZelin, thenunderlined it twice.WhatdidIknowabouthim?HowcouldIpersuadehimtotakemeoutofhere?Didhehaveanyweaknesses,anythingIcouldexploit?WehadknowneachotherforthreeyearsbutIwouldn’tsaywewerefriends.Zelinwasaverysolitaryperson,oftenpreferringtoeatalone.Evenso,itwasimpossibletoliveinsuchclose confinementwithout giving things away and the factwas thatwe did talk to eachother,particularlywhenwewereplayingcards.ZelinlikedthefactthatIwasinterestedinhelicopters.He’devenletmeexaminetheworkingsof theengineonceortwice,whenhewasstrippingitdownforgeneralmaintenance,althoughhehaddrawnthelineatallowingmetositinthecockpit.Thesecurityguardswouldn’thavebeenhappyaboutthat.AndthentherewasNigelBrown.HeknewabitaboutZelintooandwhenhe’dhadafewdrinkshewouldshareitwithme.

ArkadyZelinSovietAirForce.Gambling?Saratov.Wife?Son.Skiing…France/Switzerland.Retire?

Thiswas about the total knowledge that I had of themanwhomight flyme out of thedacha.Iwroteitdowninmyexercisebookandstaredattheuselesswords,sittingthereontheemptypage.Whatdidtheyaddupto?ZelinhadbeenintheSovietAirForcebuthe’dbeencaughtstealingmoneyfromafriend.Therehadbeenacourtmartialandhehadbeenforcedtoleave.Hewasstillbitteraboutthewhole thingandclaimedthathewas innocent, thathehadbeensetup,but the truthwashewasalwaysbroke.Itwaspossiblethathewasaddictedtogambling.IoftensawhimlookingattheracingpagesinthenewspapersandonceortwiceIheardhimmakingbetsoverthephone.ZelinownedacrummyflatinthecityofSaratov,ontheVolgaRiver,buthehardlyeverwentthere.Hehadthreeweeks’holidayayear–heoftencomplaineditwasn’tenough–andhelikedtotravelabroad,toSwitzerlandorFranceinthewinter.Helovedskiing.Heoncetoldmethathewould like towork inaski resortandhadtalkedbrieflyaboutheli-skiing–flyingrichpeopletothetopofglaciersandwatchingthemskidown.Hehadbeenmarriedandhecarriedaphotographinhiswallet…aboywhowasaboutelevenortwelveyearsold,presumablyhisson.IrememberedthedaywhenIhadcomeintotherecreationroomwithahugebruiseonmyface. I’dmadeabad jobofpolishingthesilverandJosefhadlostcontrolandalmostknockedmeout.Zelinhadseenmeandalthoughhehadsaidnothing, I could tell hewas shocked. Perhaps I could appeal to him as a father?On theother hand, he never spoke about his son… or his wife, for thatmatter. He never saw

eitherofthem;perhapstheyhadcuthimoutoftheirlife.Hewasquitelonely.Hewasthesortofpersonwholooksafternumberonesimplybecausethereisnobodyelse.IcouldhavescribbleduntilIhadfilledtheentireexercisebookbutitwasn’tgoingtohelpverymuch.Sharkovskyhadanumberoftripsabroadthatsummerandeachtimeheleftinthe helicopter, I would stopwhatever I was doing andwatch themachine rise from thelaunchpadandhoveroverthetreesbeforedisappearingintothesky.IhadnothingIcouldoffer–nomoney,nobribe.IknewthattherewasnowayZelinwasgoingtofalloutwithhisemployer.IntheendIforgotabouthimandbegantothinkofotherplans.WecametotheendofanothersummerandIsworetomyselfthatitwouldbemylastatthedacha, that by Christmas I would be gone. And yet August bled into September andnothing changed. Iwas feeling sickandangrywithmyself.Noonlyhad Inot escaped, Ihadn’teven tried.Worse still, IvanSharkovskyhadreturned.Hehad leftHarrowbynowandwasonhisway toOxfordUniversity.Presumablyhis fatherhadoffered topay foranewlibraryoraswimmingpoolbecauseI’mnotsuretherewasanyotherwayhe’dhavegotin.IwasinthegardenwhenIfirstsawhim,pushingawheelbarrowfullofleaves,takingitdown to the compost heap. Suddenly hewas standing there in front ofme, blockingmypath.Agehadnot improvedhim.Hewas still overweight.Wewerebothabout the sameheightbuthewasmuchheavierthanme.Istoppedatonceandbowedmyhead.“Yassen!”hesaid,spittingoutthetwosyllablesinasing-songvoice.“Areyougladtoseeme?”“Yes,sir,”Ilied.“Stillslavingformydad?”“Yes,sir.”Hesmirkedatme.Thenhereacheddownandpickedupahandfulof filthyleavesfromthewheelbarrow. Iwaswearing a tracksuit and, very deliberately, he shoved the leavesdownthefrontofmychest.Thenhelaughedandwalkedaway.Fromthatmomenton,therewasanew,verydisturbingedgetohisbehaviour.Hisattacksonmebecamemore physical. If hewas angrywithme, hewould slapme or punchme,whichwassomethinghehadneverdonebefore.Once,atthedinnertable,Ispiltsomeofhiswineandhepickedupaforkandjabbeditintomythigh.Hisfathersawthisbutsaidnothing.Inaway,thetwoofthemwereequallymad.IwasafraidthatIvanwouldn’tbesatisfieduntilIwasdead.ThatwasthemonththatNigelBrownwasfired.Hewasn’tparticularlysurprised.HewasnolongertutoringIvan,andhissister,Svetlana,hadbeenacceptedintoCheltenhamLadies’CollegeinEnglandsotherewasnothingleftforhimtodo.MrBrownwassixtybynowandhisteachingdayswereover.HetalkedaboutgoingbacktoNorfolkbuthedidn’tseemtohave any fondness for the place. It’s often interestedme how some people can follow asinglepaththroughlifethattakesthemtosomewheretheydon’twanttobe.Itwashardtobelieve that this crumpledoldmanwithhis vodkaandhis tweed jackethadoncebeenachild,fullofhopesanddreams.Wasthiswhathehadbeenborntobe?Iwashavingdinnerwithhimoneevening,shortlybeforeheleft.ArkadyZelinhadjoinedus.Hehadreturned fromMoscowthatmorningwithSharkovsky,whohad flown in fromtheUnitedStates.MrBrownhadn’tbegundrinkingyet–atleasthe’donlyhadacoupleof

glasses–andhewasinareflectivemood.“You’regoingtohavetokeepupyourlanguages,Yassen,onceI’mgone,”hewassaying.“Maybethey’llletmesendyoubooks.Thereareverygoodtapesthesedays.”Hewasbeingkindbut Iknewhedidn’t reallymeanwhathewas saying.Oncehewasgone,Iwouldneverhearfromhimagain.“Whataboutyou,Arkady?”hewenton.“Areyougoingtostayworkinghere?”“Ihavenoreasontoleave,”Zelinsaid.“No.Icanseeyou’redoingwellforyourself.Nicenewwatch!”Itwas typicalofmy teacher tonoticeadetail like that.Whenweweredoingexercisestogether,he could instantly spot a singlemisspeltword in themiddleof awholepage. IglancedatZelin’swristjustintimetoseehimdrawitaway,coveringitwithhissleeve.“Itwasgiventome,”hesaid.“It’snothing.”“ARolex?”“Whydoyouinterestyourselfinthingsthatdon’tconcernyou?Whydon’tyoumindyourownbusiness?”Fortherestofthemeal,Zelinbarelyspoke–andwhenhehadfinishedeatinghelefttheroom,eventhoughwe’dagreedtoplaycards. Ididanhour’sGermanwithMrBrownbutmy heart wasn’t in it and in the end he gave up, dragged the bottle off the table andplonkedhimselfinanarmchairinthecorner.Iwasleftonmyown,thinking.Itwasasmalldetail.AnewRolex.ButitwasstrangethewayZelinhadtriedtoconcealit,andwhyhaditmadehimsoangry?I might have forgotten all about it but the next day something else happened whichbroughtitbacktomymind.SharkovskywasleavingforLeningradattheendoftheweek.Itwasanimportantvisitandhemuchpreferredtoflythangobyroad.Duringthecourseofthemorning,IsawZelinworkingonthehelicopter,carryingoutaroutineinspection.Therewasnothingunusualaboutthat.Butjustbeforelunch,hepresentedhimselfatthehouse.Ihappenedtobecloseby,cleaningtheground-floorwindows,andIheardeverywordthatwassaid.“I’mverysorry,sir,”hesaid.“Wecan’tusethehelicopter.”Sharkovskyhadcometothefrontdoor,dressedinridinggear.Hehadtakenupridingtheyearbeforeandhadboughttwohorses–oneforhimself,oneforhiswife.He’dalsobuiltastableclosetothetenniscourtandemployedoneof thegardenersasagroom.Zelinwasstandinginhisoveralls,wipinghishandsonawhitehandkerchiefthatwassmearedwithoil.“What’swrongwithit?”Sharkovskysnapped.Hehadbeenveryshort-temperedrecently.Therewasarumour that thingshadn’tbeengoing toowellwithhisbusiness.Maybe thatwaswhyhehadbeentravellingsomuch.“There’sbeenaservoactuatormalfunction,sir,”Zelinsaid.“Oneofthepistonrodsshowssignsofcracking.It’sgoingtohavetobereplaced.”“Canyoudoit?”“No,sir.Notreally.Anyway,wehavetoorderthepart…”Sharkovskywasinahurry.“Well,whydon’tyoucallinthemechanic…what’shisname…Borodin?”“I called his office just now. It’s annoying but he’s ill.” He paused. “They can send

someoneelse.”“Reliable?”“Yes,sir.HisnameisRykov.I’veworkedwithhim.”“Allright.Seetoit.”Mayawaswaitingforhim.Hestormedoffwithoutsayinganotherword.I didn’t know for certain that Zelin was lying but I had a feeling that something waswrong.Everydayat thedachawas the same.When I say that lifewent likeclockwork, Imeanithadthatsamedull,mechanicalquality.Butnowtherewerethreecoincidencesandtheyhadallhappenedat the same time.Thehelicopterhadbeen fine thedaybeforebutsuddenlyitwasbroken.Theusualmechanic–abrisk,talkativemanwhoturnedupeverycouple of months – was mysteriously ill. And then there was that new watch, and thestrangewaythatZelinhadbehaved.Therewassomethingelse.Itoccurredtomethatitreallywasn’tsodifficulttoreplaceapistonrod.IhadbeenreadinghelicoptermagazinesallmylifeandknewalmostasmuchasifI’dactuallybeenflyingmyself.IwassurethatZelinwouldhaveaspareandshouldhavebeenabletofixithimself.Sowhatwasheupto?Isaidnothing,butfortherestofthedayIkeptmyeyeonhimandwhenthenewmechanicarrivedthatsameafternoon,ImadesureIwasthere.He came in a green vanmarkedMVZHelicopters and I saw him step out to have hispassportandemploymentpaperscheckedbytheguards.Hewasashort,plumpmanwithamopofgreyhairthatsprawledoverhisheadandseveral foldsof fataroundhischin.Hewas dressed in green overallswith the same initials,MVZ, on the top pocket.He had towaitwhile theguards searchedhisvan– foronce, theirmetaldetectorsweren’t going tohelpthem.Thebackwasjammedwithspareparts.Hedidn’tseemtomindthough.Hestoodthere smokingacigaretteandwhen they finally lethim throughhegave thema friendlywave and drove straight across to the helicopter pad. Arkady Zelinwaswaiting for himthereandtheyspenttherestofthedayworkingtogether,strippingdowntheengineanddoingwhateveritwastheyhadtodo.Itwasawarmafternoon,andatfouro’clockoneofthehousekeeperssentmeovertothehelicopterwithatrayoflemonadeandsandwiches.Themechanic–Rykov–camestruttingtowardsmewithasmileonhisface.“Whoareyou?”hedemanded.“MynameisYassen,sir.”“Andwhat’s in these sandwiches?”Heprisedoneopenwith a grimy thumb. “Hamandcheese.Thanks,Yassen.That’sveryniceofyou.”Hewasalreadyeating, talkingwithhismouthfull.ThenhesignalledtoZelinandthetwoofthemwentbacktowork.IsawhimasecondtimewhenIcamebacktopickupthetray.Onceagainhewaspleasedto seeme but I thought that Zelinwasmore restrained.Hewas quieter than I had everknownhimandthiswasamanIknewfairlywell.Youcannotplaycardswithsomeoneandnotgetasenseofthewaytheythink.Iwouldhavesaidhewasnervous.Iwonderedwhyhewasn’t wearing his new watch today. By now, the helicopter was almost completelyreassembled.Ilingeredwiththetwomen,waitingtotakebackthetray.Anditseemedonlynaturaltochat.“Doyouflythese?”Iaskedthemechanic.

“Notme,”hesaid.“Ijusttakethemapartandputthembacktogether.”“Isitdifficult?”“Youhavetoknowwhatyou’redoing.”“Wouldn’tyouliketofly?”Heshookhishead.“Notreally.”Hetookoutacigaretteandlitit.“Iwouldn’tknowwhattodowithajoystickbetweenmylegs.Iprefertokeepmyfeetsafelyontheground.”“That’senough,Yassen,”Zelingrowled.“Don’tyouhaveworktodo?Goanddoit.”“Yes,MrZelin.”Ipickedupthetraywiththedirtyglassesandcarrieditbacktothehouse.ButI’dalreadydiscovered everything I needed to know. The mechanic knew nothing about helicopters.Even I could have told him that a Bell helicopter doesn’t have a joystick. It has a cycliccontrolwhichtransmitsinstructionstotherotorblades.Andit’snotinfrontofyou.It’stooneside.Zelinhadliedaboutthemalfunctionjustashehadliedabouttheusualmechanic,Borodin,beingsick.Iwassureofit.From thatmoment, I didn’t let them out ofmy sight. I knew Iwould get into trouble.ThereweretenpairsofshoesIwasmeanttopolishandawholepileofcratestobebrokenupinthecellar.ButtherewasnowayIwasgoingtodisappearinside.Zelinwasplanningsomething. IfRykovwasn’tahelicoptermechanic,whatwashe?Athief?Aspy?Itdidn’tmatter. Zelinhadbrought him into the compound andhad to be part of it. Thiswas theopportunityI’dbeenwaitingfor.Icouldblackmailhim.SuddenlyIsawhimwithhishandonthecyclic.Hecouldflymeout.MybiggestworrywasthatIvanwouldreturntothedacha.He’dgoneintoMoscowfortheday,driving thenewMercedes sportscar thathis fatherhadboughthimforhisbirthday,butifhecamebackandsawme,thechanceswerethathewouldfindsometaskformetodo.Atfiveo’clocktherewasstillnosignofhimbutSharkovskyandhiswifereturnedfromarideandIhelpedthemdownfromthesaddleandwalkedthehorsesbacktothestable.Allthegardenershadgone.Therewere just theusualguards,walkinginpairs,unawarethatanythingunusualwasgoingon.AsIgotbacktothehouse,Iheardthehelicopterstartup,thewhineoftheenginerisingastherotorspickedupspeed.TherewasnosignofRykovbutthevanwiththeMVZlogowasstillparkedclosebysoIknewhecouldn’thaveleft.IpretendedtowalkintothehousebutatthelastminuteIhurriedforwardandduckedbehindoneofthecars.ItwasactuallytheLexusthathadfirstbroughtmehere.Ifanyonefoundmethere,IwouldpretendIwascleaningit.I could see Arkady Zelin inside the cockpit, checking the controls, and suddenly themechanic emerged from the other side of the helicopter and began towalk towardsme,towards thehouse, carryinga sheafofpapers. If theguardshad seenhim, itwouldhavelooked completely natural. He had finished the job and he needed someone to sign thedocumentation.Buthewasbeingcareful.Hekepttotheshadows.Nobodyexceptmesawhimgointhroughthesidedoor.I followed.Ididn’tknowwhatIwasgoingtodobecauseIstillhadn’tworkedoutwhatwashappening.AllIknewwas,itwasn’twhatitseemed.Icreptdownthecorridorpasttheservicerooms–thelaundryandthebootroom,whereIhad spent so many hundreds of hours, day and night, in mindless drudgery. There was

nobodyaroundandthatwasveryunusual.Themechaniccouldn’thavejustwalkedintothehouse.Oneofthehousekeeperswouldhavechallengedhimandthenmadehimwaitwhileshewent to fetch Josef orKarl. Rykov had only entered a few seconds ahead ofme.Heshouldhavebeenherenow.Ifeltthesilenceallaroundme.Noneofthelightswereon.Iglancedintothekitchen.TherewasapotofsouporstewbubblingawayontopofthestovebutnosignofPavel.Iwastemptedtocalloutbutsomethingtoldmetostayquiet.Icontinuedpastthepantry.Thedoorwasajarandthattoowasstrange,asitwasalwayskeptlockedincasethedogwentin.Ipusheditopenandatthatmomenteverythingmadesense.Itshouldhavebeenobviousfromthestart.HowcouldIhavebeensoslownottoseeit?Thehousekeeperwasthere,lyingonthefloor.IhadlostcountofthenumberoftimesthatNinahadsnappedatme,scoldingmeforbeingtooslowortooclumsy,hittingmeontheheadwhenevershegotthechance.Icouldseethewoodenspoonstilltuckedintoherapronbut she wasn’t going to be using it. She had been shot at close range, obviously with asilencerbecauseIhadn’theardthesoundofthegun.Shewasonherbackwithherhandsspreadout,asifinsurprise.Therewasapoolofbloodaroundhershoulders.ArkadyZelinhadbeenbribed.Therewasnootherexplanation.Heneverhadanymoneybutsuddenlyhehadanexpensivenewwatch.Rykovwasanassassinwhohadcomeheretokill Sharkovsky. The safestway to smuggle a gun into the compound – perhaps the onlywaytogetpastthemetaldetectorsandX-raymachines–wastobringitinatruckpackedwith metal equipment. It would have been easy enough to dismantle it and scatter theseparatepartsamongtheothermachinery.Andthefastestwayoutafterhehaddonehisworkwasthehelicopter,whichwaswaitingevennow,withtherotorsatfullvelocity.Mymouthwasdry.Myeveryinstinctwastoturnandrun.IfRykovsawme,hewouldkillmewithouteventhinkingaboutit,justashehadkilledNina.ButIdidn’tleave.Icouldn’t.This was the only chance I would ever get and I had to take it. There was a small axehanginginthepantry. Ihadusedituntil therewereblistersallovermyhands,choppingkindlingforthefireinSharkovsky’sstudy.Makingaslittlenoiseaspossibleanddoingmybestnottolookatthedeadwoman,Iunhookedit.Anaxewouldbelittleuseagainstagun,butevenso,Ifeltsaferhavingsomesortofweapon.Icontinuedtothedoorthatledintothemainhall.Itwashalfopen.Hardlydaringtobreathe,Ilookedthrough.Ihadarrivedjustintimefortheendgame.Thehallwasinshadow.Thesunwassettingbehindthehouseanditslastraysweretoolowtoreachthewindows.Thelightswereout.Icouldheartheshrillwhineofthehelicopteroutside in thedistancebut a curtainof silence seemed tohave fallenon thehouse. Josefwaslyingonthestairs,wherehehadbeengunneddown.Rykovwasstandinginfrontofme,edgingforward,anautomaticpistolwithasilencerinhishand.Hewasmakinghiswaytowardsthestudy,hisfeetmakingnosoundonthethickcarpet.But even as Iwatched, thedoor of the studyopened andVladimir Sharkovsky cameout,dressed in a suit and tiebutwithhis jacketoff.Hemusthaveheard thedisturbance, thebodytumblingdownthestairs,andhadcomeouttoseewhatwashappening.“What…?”hebegan.Rykov didn’t say anything.He stepped forward and shotmy employer three times, thebulletsthuddingintohischestandstomachsoquietlythatIbarelyheardthem.Theeffect

wascatastrophic.Sharkovskywasthrownbackwards…offhisfeet.Hisheadhitthecarpetfirst.Ifthebulletshadn’tkilledhim,hewouldsurelyhavebrokenhisneck.Hislegsjerkedthenbecamestill.WhatdidIfeelatthatmoment?Nothing.OfcourseIwasn’tgoingtowasteanytearsonSharkovsky.Iwasgladhewasdead.ButIcouldn’tfinditinmyselftocelebratethedeathofanotherhumanbeing.Iwasfrightened.IwasstillwonderinghowIcouldturnthistomyadvantage. Everythingwashappening soquickly that I didn’t have time toworkoutmyemotions.IsupposeIwasinastateofshock.Andthenavoicecamefloatingoutofthedarkness.“Don’tturnround.Putthegundown!”Rykovtwistedhisheadbutsawnothing.Iwashidingbehindthedoor,outofsight.ItwasKarl.Hehadcomeupfromthecellar.Maybehehadbeenlookingforme,wonderingwhyIhadn’tbrokenupthosecrates.HewasbehindRykovandovertooneside,edgingintothehallwithagunclaspedinbothhands,holdingitatthesamelevelashishead.Rykovfroze.HewasstillholdingthegunhehadusedtokillSharkovskyandIwonderedifhe’d had time to reload.He had fired at least five bullets. Rykov couldn’t seewhere theorder had come from but he remained completely calm. “I will pay you one hundredthousandrublestoletmeleavehere,”hesaid.HesoundedverydifferentfromthemechanicIhadspokento.Hisvoicewasyounger,morecultivated.“Whosentyou?”“Scorpia.”Thewordmeantnothingtome.NordiditseemtohaveanysignificanceforKarl.“Loweryourgunveryslowly,”hesaid.“PutitonthecarpetwhereIcanseeit…infrontofyou.”TherewasnothingRykovcoulddo.Ifhecouldn’tseethebodyguard,hecouldn’tkillhim.Heloweredtheguntothefloor.“Kickitaway.”“If it hadn’t been me, it would have been someone else,” Rykov said. “Do yourself afavour.You’reoutofajob.Takethemoneyandgo.”Silence.Rykovknewhehadtodowhathewastold.Hekickedthegunacrossthecarpet.Itcametoahaltafewinchesawayfromthedeadman.Karlsteppedfurtherintothehall,stillholdinghisguninbothhands.Itwasaimedattheback of Rykov’s neck. He glanced to the right and saw Josef lying spreadeagled on thestairs. Something flickeredacrosshis faceand Ihadnodoubt thathewasgoing to shootdownthemanwhohadbeenresponsibleforthedeathofhisbrother.Ashemovedforward,hispathtookhiminfrontofthedoorwhereIwasstandingandsuddenlyIwasbehindhim.“Onehundredandfiftythousandrubles,”Rykovsaid.“Moremoneythanyouwilleverseeinyourlife.”“Youhavekilledmybrother.”Rykov understood. There was no point in arguing. In Russia, blood ties, particularlybetweenbrothers,arestrong.Karlwasveryclosetohimnowandwithoutreallythinkingaboutit,Imadethedecision–probably themostmomentousofmy life. I slippedthroughthedoorand,raising theaxe,tookthreestepsintothehall.Thebodyguardheardmeattheverylastmomentbutitwastoolate.Usingthebluntend,Ibroughttheaxeswingingdownandhithimonthebackof

thehead.Hecollapsedinfrontofme,hisarms,hislegs,hisentirebodysuddenlylimp.Themechanicmovedincrediblyfast.Hedidn’tknowwhathadhappenedbuthedivedforward,reachingoutforthegunhehadjustkickedaway.ButIwasfaster.Beforehecouldgrabit,IhaddroppedtheaxeandsweptupKarl’sgunandalreadyIwasaimingitstraightathim,doingmybesttostopmyhandshaking.Rykovsawmeandstared.Hewasunarmed.Hecouldn’tbelievewhathadjusthappened.“You!”heexclaimed.“Listentome,”Isaid.“Icouldshootyounow.IfIfireasingleshot,everyonewillcome.You’llnevergetaway.”“Whatdoyouwant?”hedemanded.“Iwanttogetoutofhere.”“Ican’tdothat.”“Yes,youcan.Youhavetohelpme!”Iscrabbledforwords.“Iknewyouweren’treallyamechanic. I knew you and Zelin were working together. But I didn’t say anything. It’sthankstomethatyoumanagedtodowhatyoucamefor.”InoddedatthebodyofVladimirSharkovsky.“Iwillgiveyoumoney…”“Idon’twantmoney.Iwantyoutotakemewithyou.Ineverchosetocomehere.I’maprisoner. I’mtheirslave.All I’maskingis foryoutotakemeasfarawayasyoucanandthentoleaveme.Idon’tcareaboutyouorwhoyou’reworkingfor.I’mgladhe’sdead.Doyouunderstand?Isitadeal?”Hepretended to think…butonlyverybriefly.Thehelicopterwas stillwhiningoutsideandverysoononeoftheguardsmightaskwhatwashappening.ArkadyZelinmightpanicand takeoffwithouthim.Rykovdidn’thaveany time.“Letmegetmygun,”he said.Hestretchedouthishand.“No!” I tightened my grip. “We’ll leave together. It’ll be better for you that way. Theguardsknowmeandthey’relesslikelytoaskquestions.”Hestillseemedtobehesitating,soIadded,“Youdoitmywayoryouneverleave.”Henodded,once.“Verywell.Let’sgo.”We left together, back down the corridor, past the roomwith the dead woman. I wasterrified. Iwaswithamanwhohad just killed threepeoplewithout evenblinkingand Iknewthathewouldmakeme the fourth if Igavehim the slightestchance. Imade sure Ididn’tgettooclosetohim.Ifhehitoutatmeortriedtograbme,Iwouldfirethegun.Thisonewasn’tsilenced.Thesoundoftheexplosionwouldactasageneralalarm.Rykov didn’t seem at all concerned. He didn’t speak as we left the house and walkedthrough the half-darkness together, skirting the fountain andmaking ourway across thelawntowardsthehelicopter.Andithadbeentrue,whatIhadtoldhim.Oneoftheguardssawusbutdidnothing.ThefactthatIwaswalkingwithhimmeantthateverythinghadtobeOK.But Zelin was shocked when he saw the two of us together. “What is he doing?” heshouted.Icouldbarelyhearawordhesaidbutthemeaningwasobvious.Iwasstrugglingtokeepthegunsteady,feelingthewindfromtherotorsbuffetingmyarms.Iknewthatthiswasthemostdangerouspart.Asweclimbedin,themechaniccouldwrenchthegunawayandkill

mewith it.Hecouldprobablykillmewithhisbarehands. Iwasn’t sure if I shouldgo infirstorsecond.Whatifhehadanothergunhiddenunderoneoftheseats?Imademydecision.“I’mgettinginfirst!”Ishouted.“Youfollow!”AsIclimbedintothebackseat,IkeptthegunpointedatZelin,notthemechanic.Iknewthat he couldn’t fly. If he tried anything, I would shoot the pilot andwewould both bestuck.Ithinkheunderstoodmystrategy.Therewasactuallysomethingclosetoasmileasheclimbedintotheseatnexttothepilot.Zelinshoutedsomethingelse.Themechanicleantforwardandshoutedbackintohisear.Again, itwas impossible tohear.Forall Iknew,hewas sentencingme todeath. Imighthave the advantagenowbut theirmomentwould comewhilewewere flyingor perhapswhenwelanded.Iwouldn’tbeabletokeepthembothcoveredandoneofthemwouldgetme.Analarmwentoff inthehouse,evenlouderthanthescreamofthehelicopter.Atonce,thearc lampsallexplodedinto life.Twoof theguardsstartedrunningtowardsus, liftingtheir weapons. At the same time, a jeep appeared from the gatehouse, its headlampsblazing,tearingacrossthegrass.ThemechanicslammedthedoorandZelinhitthecontrols.Themuzzles of the automatic machine guns were flashing in the darkness. Machine-gunbulletswerestrafingpast.OneofthemhitthecockpitbutricochetedawayuselesslyandIrealizedthat,ofcourse,itmustbearmouredglass.Thehelicopterrose.Itturned.Itrockedabovethelawnasifanchoredthere,unabletoliftoff.Bulletsfilledtheairlikefireflies.AndthenZelinjerkedthecyclic.Thehelicoptertwistedroundonelasttimeand,carryingmewithit,soaredaway,overthewall,overtheforestandintothedarkeningsky.

БОЛТИНО

BOLTINO

Ihaddoneit.ForthefirsttimeinthreelongyearsIwasoutsidethecompound.EvenifIhadn’tbeensittinginahelicopter,IwouldhavefeltasifIwasflying.Sharkovskywasdead.ItwasnothinglessthanhedeservedandIwasgladthathewouldnotbeable tocomeafterme.Would Ibeblamed forhisdeath?Theguardshad seenmeleavewithRykov.TheyknewIwaspartofwhathadhappened.ButIhadnotbeentheonewho had invited the mechanic into the house. That had been Zelin. With a bit of luck,Sharkovsky’speoplewouldconcentrateonthetwoofthemandtheywouldforgetaboutme.Iwasnotsafeyet.Farfromit.BothZelinandRykovhadputonheadphonesandalthoughtheblastoftherotorsmadeconversationimpossibleforme,theywereabletotalkfreely.Whatweretheyplanning?Iknew Zelin had been angry to see me but he was not the one in charge. Everythingdepended onRykov. Itmightwell be that he had already radioed ahead. There could bepeoplewaitingformewhenwelanded.Icouldbedraggedoutofmyseatandshot.Iknewalreadythathumanlifemeantnothingtotheso-calledmechanic.HehadkilledNina,JosefandSharkovskywithoutbattinganeyelid.Itwouldmakenodifferencetohimifheaddedanunknownteenagertothescore.ButIdidn’tcare.Ihatedmyselfatthedacha.Iwaseighteenyearsold,stillcleaningtoiletsandsweepingcorridors,kneelinginfrontofIvantopolishhisshoesor,worse,performinglikeatrainedmonkeyathisfather’sdinnerparties.Ithadbeennecessarytodothesethingstolivebutwhatwasthepointofalifesodebased?IfIweretodienow,atleastitwouldbeonmyown terms. Ihadgrabbedholdof theopportunity. Ihadescaped. Ihadproved tomyselfthatIwasnotbeatenafterall.And therewere somanyother things Iwas experiencing for the first time. I hadneverflown before. Even to sit in the luxurious leather seat of the Bell JetRanger wasextraordinary. It hadoncebeenmydream to flyhelicopters andhere Iwas, gazingoverZelin’sshoulder,watchinghimashemanipulatedthecontrols.IwishedIcouldseemoreofthecountrysidebutitwasalreadydarkandtheoutskirtsofMoscowwerelittlemorethanascatteringofelectric lights. Ididn’tmind if Iwasbeing taken tomydeath. Iwashappy!Sharkovskywasfinished.Ihadgotaway.Iwasflying.Afterabouttenminutes,Rykovturnedroundwithaplasticbottleofwaterinhishand.Hewas offering it to me. I shook my head. At the same time, I retreated into the furthestcorner,onceagainraisingthegun.Iwasafraidofatrick.RykovshruggedasiftosaythatIwasmakingamistake,butheunderstoodandturnedbackagain.Wecontinuedforanotherhalf-hour, then began to descend. It was only the pressure in my ears that warned me.Lookingoutofthewindow,everythingseemedtobeblackandIgottheideawemustbeabovewater.Gentlywe toucheddown.Zelinhit thecontrolsand theenginestopped, therotorsslowingdown.Rykovtookoffhisheadphonesandhungthemup.Thenheturnedtome.“Whatnow?”heasked.

“Wherearewe?”Idemanded.“OntheedgeofatowncalledBoltino.TothenorthofMoscow.”Heunfastenedhisseatbelt. “Youhaveyourwish,Yassen.Youhaveescaped fromVladimirSharkovsky. I’msureweallagreethattheworldisabetterplacewithouthim.AsforArkadyandme,wehaveaplanewaitingtotakeusonthenextlegofourjourney.I’mafraidwehavetosaygoodbye.”Ignoring thegun,almost forgetting Iwas there,Rykovopened thedoorand lethimselfoutofthehelicopter.ArkadyZelinfacedme.“Youshouldn’thavedonethis,”hehissed.“Youdon’tknowthesepeople…”“Whoarethey?”Iasked.IrememberedthenameIhadheard.“Scorpia…”“Theywillkillyou.”Heundidhisownbeltandscrambledout,followingthemechanic.SuddenlyIdidn’twanttobeleftonmyown.Iwentafterthem.Lookingaroundme,Ihadnoideawhywehadlandedhere.Thehelicopterwasrestingonastripofmudthatwassolight-coloured that on second thoughts I realized it must be sand. An expanse of waterstretchedoutnexttoitwithaboutthirtysailingboatsandcruisersmooredtoajetty.Thereweretreesoneithersideofusandwhatlookedlikewoodenhangarsorwarehousesbehind.Themechanichadbeendoing something tohimself as I climbeddownandby the time IreachedhimIwasastonished to see thathehadcompletelychangedhisappearance.Thetangledgreyhairwasawig.Hishairwas thesamecolourasmine, shortandneatlycut.Therehadbeensomethinginhismouth,whichhadchangedtheshapeofhisface,andthefoldsofflesharoundhischinhadgone.Hewassuddenlyslimmerandyounger.Hestrippedoutofhisoilyoveralls.UnderneathhewaswearingablackT-shirtandjeans.Themanwhohadcometothedacha inagreenvanmarkedMVZHelicoptershaddisappeared.Nobodywouldeverseehimagain.“Whereareyougoing?”Iasked.“Weareleavingthecountry.”“Inaboat?”“In a plane, Yassen.” I looked aroundme, confused. How could a plane possibly landhere?“Aseaplane,”hewenton.“Don’tyouseeit?”Andthereitwas,sittingflatonthewaterwithapilotalreadyinthecockpit,waitingtofly themto theirnextdestination.Theseaplanewaswhite. Ithad twopropellersperchedhighuponthewingsandatailthatwashigherstillsothatevenwithoutmovingitlookedasifitwastryingtoliftitselfintotheair.“Takemewithyou,”Isaid.Themechanicwhowasnolongeramechanicsmiledonceagain.“WhyshouldIdothat?”Istillhadthegun.Icouldhaveforcedhimtotakeme…ortriedto.ButIknewthatwasabadidea,thatitwouldonlyendupgettingmekilled.Instead,Ihadtomakeagesture,toshowthemIcouldbe trusted. Itwasa terrible riskbut Iknewtherewasnootherway. Iturned thegun round inmyhandandgave it tohim.He lookedgenuinely surprised.HecouldshootmewhereIstoodandnoonewouldbeanythewiser.ApartfromZelinandthewaitingpilot,therewasnobodynear.“I savedyour life,” I said. “Backat thedacha…Karlwouldhave shotyou.And Idon’tknowwhyyoukilledSharkovskybutyoucouldn’thavehatedhimmorethanIdid.We’reonthesameside.”

Heweighedthegun.Zelinwatchedthetwoofus,hisfacepale.“I’mnotonanyside.Iwaspaidtokillhim,”Rykovsaid.“Thentakemewithyou.Itdoesn’tmatterwhereyou’regoing.MaybeIcanworkforyou.Icanbeusefultoyou.I’lldoanythingyoutellme.Ispeakthreelanguages.I…”Myvoicetrailedaway.Rykov was still holding the gun. Perhaps he was amused. Perhaps he was wonderingwhere to fire the next bullet. It was impossible to tell what was going on in his head.Eventuallyhespoke–butnottome.“Whatdoyouthink,Arkady?”asked.“Ithinkweshouldleave,”Zelinsaid.“Withorwithoutourextrapassenger?”Therewas a pause and I knewmy life was hanging in the balance. Arkady Zelin hadknownmeforthreeyears.Hehadplayedcardswithme.Ihadneverbeenathreattohim.Surelyhewouldn’tabandonmenow.Atlasthemadeuphismind.“Withhim,ifyoulike.He’snotsobad.Andtheytreatedhimlikeadog.”“Verywell.”Rykov slid thegun intohiswaistband. “Itmaywell be thatmyemployershave a use for you. They canmake the final decision. But until then, you do exactly asyou’retold.”“Yes,sir.”“There’snoneedtocallmethat.”Hewasalreadywalkingdownthejettytotheplane.Thepilotsawhimandflickedontheengine.Itsoundedlikeoneofthepetrollawnmowersatthedachaand,lookingatthetinypropellers, theungainlywings, Iwonderedhow it couldpossibly separate itself from thewater and fly. Arkady Zelin was carrying a travel bag, which he had brought from thehelicopter. It occurred tome that everythingheownedmustbe inside it.Hewas leavingRussiaand,ifhewaswise,hewouldnevercomeback.Sharkovsky’speoplemightleavemealonebuttheywouldcertainlybelookingforhim.ItwasimpossibletosayhowmuchZelinhad been paid for his part in all this but I hoped the price included a completely newidentity.Wegot into theplane,a four-seater. Iwas luckytherewasroomforme.Thenewpilotignoredme.Heknewbetterthantoaskunnecessaryquestions.ButIhadtoknow.“Wherearewegoing?”Iaskedforasecondtime.“ToVenice,”Rykovsaid.“AndtoScorpia,”hemighthaveadded.Themostdangerouscriminalorganizationintheworld.AndIwasabouttowalkrightintoitsarms.

ВЕНЕЦИЯ

VENICE

Itwasnight-timewhenwelanded.Onceagainwecameplungingoutofthedarknesswithonlythesoundoftheengineandthe rising feeling inmy stomach to tellmewe had reached the end of our journey. Theseaplanehitthewater,bounced,thenskimmedalongthesurfacebeforefinallycomingtorest. 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 couldmake out a few lightstwinklinginthedistance.IglancedatRykov,hisfaceilluminatedbytheglowofthecontrolpanels,tryingtoworkoutwhatwasgoingoninhismind.Iwasstillafraidhewouldturnroundandshootme.Hegavenothingaway.Whatnext?AlthoughIdidn’tknowitatthetime,Venicewasaperfectdestinationforthosetravellingby seaplane, particularly if they wished to arrive without being seen. It is possible, ofcourse,thattheItalianpoliceandairtrafficcontrolhadbeenbribedbutnobodyseemedtohavenoticedthatwehad landed.Forabout twominutes,noonespoke.ThenIheardthedeep throb of an engine and, withmy face pressed against the window, I saw amotorlaunchslipoutofthedarknessanddrawupnexttous.Thepilotopenedthedoorandweclimbedout.Themotorlaunchwasaboutthirtyfeetlong,madeofwood,withacabinatthefrontandleatherseatsbehind.Thereweretwomenonboard,acaptainandadeckhandwhohelpedus climb down. If they were surprised to find themselves with an extra passenger, theydidn’tshowit.Theysaidnothing.RykovgesturedandIsatoutintheopenatthebackofthe launch,even though thenightwaschilly.Zelin satoppositeme.Hewasclutchinghistravelbag,deepinthought.WesetoffandaswewentIheardtheseaplanestartupandtakeoffagain.Iwasalreadyimpressed.Everythingabout thisoperationhadbeenwellplannedandexecuteddown tothelastdetail.Therehadbeenonlyonemistake…andthatwasme.Ittookusabouttenminutes tomake the crossing, pulling into a ramshacklewooden jettywith striped polesslanting indifferentdirections.Rykov steppedout andwaited forme to followbutZelinstayedwherehewasandIrealizedhewasnotcomingwithus.Iheldoutahandtothehelicopterpilot.“Thankyou,”Isaid.“Thankyouforlettingmecomewithyou.”“ThatplacewashorribleandSharkovskywasbeneathcontempt,”Zelinreplied.“Allthosethingstheydidtoyou…I’msorryIdidn’thelp.”“It’sovernow.”“Forbothofus.”Heshookmyhand.“Ihopeitworksoutforyou,Yassen.Takecare.”Iclimbedontothejettyandtheboatpulledaway.Momentslaterithaddisappearedoverthelagoon.Rykovand Icontinuedon foot.He tookmetoa flat inanareanear theolddockyardswherewehaddisembarked.WhydoIcallhimRykov?AsIwassoontodiscover,itwasnot

hisname.Hewasnotamechanic.I’mnotevensurethathewasRussian,althoughhespokemylanguagefluently.Hetoldmenothingabouthimself inthetimeIwaswithhimandIwaswiseenoughnottoask.Whenyouareinhissortofbusiness–nowmybusiness–youarenotdefinedbywhoyouarebutwhoyouarenot.Ifyouwanttostayaheadofthepoliceandtheinvestigationagencies,youmustneverleaveatraceofyourselfbehind.Wereachedadoorwaybetweentwoshopsinananonymousstreet.Rykovunlockeditandwe entered a hallway with a narrow, twisting staircase leading up. His flat was on thefourthfloor.Heunlockedaseconddoorandturnedonthelight.Ifoundmyselfinasquare,whitewashedroomwithahighceilingandexposedbeams.IthadverylittlepersonalityandIguesseditwasmerelysomewherehestayedwhenhewasinVeniceratherthanahome.The furniture looked new. Therewas a sofa facing a television, a dining tablewith fourchairs,andasmallkitchen.Thepicturesonthewallwereviewsof thecity,probably thesameviewsyoucouldseeifyouopenedtheshutters.Itdidnotfeelasifanyonehadbeenhereforsometime.“Areyouhungry?”Rykovasked.Ishookmyhead.“No.I’mOK.”“Therearesometinsinthecupboardifyouwant.”Iwashungry.ButIwastiredtoo.Infact,Iwasexhaustedasallthesufferingofthelastthreeyearssuddenlydrainedoutofme.Ithadendedsoquickly.Istillcouldn’tquiteacceptit.“Whathappensnow?”Iasked.Rykov pointed at a door which I hadn’t noticed, next to the fridge. “There’s only onebedroomhere,”hesaid.“Youcansleeponthecouch.IhavetogooutbutI’llbebacklater.Don’ttrytoleavehere.Doyouunderstandme?You’retostayinthisroom.Anddon’tusethetelephoneeither.Ifyoudo,I’llknow.”“Idon’thaveanyonetocall,”Isaid.“AndIdon’thaveanywheretogo.”Henodded. “Good. I’ll get you someblankets before I leave.Help yourself to anythingyouneed.”Ashortwhilelater,heleft.Idranksomewater,thenmadeupabedonthecouchandlaydownwithout getting undressed. Iwas asleep instantly. Itwas the first time I had sleptoutsidemysmallwoodencabininthreeyears.Ididn’thearRykovcomebackbutIwaswokenupbyhimthefollowingmorningashefoldedbacktheshuttersandletinthesun.Hehadchangedonceagainandittookmeafewmomentstorememberwhohewas.Hewaswearingasuitandsunglasses.Therewasagoldchainaroundhisneck.He lookedslimandvery fit, tenyearsyounger than themechanicwhohadcometomendtheBellJetRanger.“It’snineo’clock,”hesaid.“Ican’tbelieveSharkovskyletyousleepthislong.Isthatwhenyoustartedwork?”“No,”Ireplied.Atthedacha,I’dwokenatsixeverymorning.“Youcanusemyshower. I’ve leftyouafreshshirt. I thinkit’syoursize.Don’t taketoolong.Iwanttogetsomebreakfast.”Tenminuteslater,Iwaswashedanddried,wearingapaleblueT-shirtthatfittedmewell.RykovtookmeoutandforthefirsttimeIsawVeniceinthelightofanautumnday.Thereissimplynowhereintheworldlikeit.Eventoday,whenIamnotworking,thisissomewhere I will come to unwind. I love to sit outsidewhile the sun sets, watching the

seagullscirclingandthetrafficcrossingbackandforthacrossthelagoon…thewatertaxis,thewaterambulances,theclassicspeedboats,thevaporettosand,ofcourse,thegondolas.Icanwalkforhoursthroughthestreetsandalleywaysthatseemtoplaycatandmousewiththecanals,suddenlybringingyoutoachurch,afountain,astatue,atinyhumpbackbridge… or perhaps depositing you in a great squarewith bands playing,waiters circling andtouristsallaround.Everycornerhasanother surprise.Every street isaworkofart. IamgladIhaveneverkilledanyonethere.Rykov tookme toacaféaround thecorner fromhis flat,anold-fashionedplacewithatiledfloor,alongcounterandagiant-sizedcoffeemachinethatblewoutcloudsofsteam.We sat together at a little antique table and he ordered cappuccinos, orange juice andtramezzini–littlesandwiches,madeoutofsoftbreadwithsmokedhamandcheese.Ihadn’teatenforabouttwentyhoursandthiswasmyfirsttasteofItalianfood.Iwolfedthemdownand didn’t complain when he ordered a second plate. There was a canal running pastoutsideandIwasfascinatedtoseethedifferentboatspassingsoclosetothewindow.“So your name is Yassen Gregorovich,” he said. He had been speaking in English eversincewehadarrived inVenice.Perhapshewas testingme–although itwasmore likelythat he had decided to leave the Russian language behind… along with the rest of thecharacterhehadbeen.“Howoldareyou?”Ithoughtforamoment.“Eighteen,”Isaid.“Sharkovsky kidnapped you inMoscow. He kept you his prisoner for three years. Youwerehisfoodtaster.Isthattrue?”“Yes.”“You’re lucky.We tried topoisonhimonceandwewereconsideringa secondattempt.Yourparentsaredead?”“Yes.”“ArkadyZelin toldmeaboutyou in thehelicopter.AndaboutSharkovsky. Idon’tknowwhyyouputupwithitsolong.Whydidn’tyoujustputaknifeintothebastard?”“BecauseIwantedtolive,”Isaid.“KarlorJosefwouldhavekilledmeifI’dtried.”“Youwerepreparedtospendtherestofyourlifeworkingforhim?”“IdidwhatIhadtotosurvive.Nowhe’sdeadandI’mhere.”“That’strue.”Rykovtookoutacigaretteandlitit.HedidnotoffermeonebutnordidIwantit.Thiswastheonegoodthingthathadcomeoutofmytimeatthedacha.IhadnotbeenallowedtohavecigarettesandsoIhadbeenforcedtogiveupsmoking.Ihaveneversmokedsince.“Whoareyou?”Iasked.“AndwhoareScorpia?DidtheypayyoutokillSharkovsky?”“I’llgiveyouapieceofadvice,Yassen.Don’taskquestionsandnevermentionthatnameagain.Certainlynotinpublic.”“I’dliketoknowwhyI’mhere.ItwouldhavebeeneasierforyoutokillmewhenwewereinBoltino.”“Don’tthinkIwasn’ttempted.Asitis,itmaybethatI’vemadeabadmistake.We’llsee.”Hedrewonthecigarette.“TheonlyreasonIdidn’tkillyouisbecauseIowedyou.Itwasstupidofmenottoseethesecondbodyguard.Idon’tusuallymakemistakesandI’dbedeadifitwasn’tforyou.Butbeforeyougetanyfancyideas,we’requits.Thedebtiscancelled.Fromnowon,you’renothing tome.You’renotgoing towork forme.And Idon’t really

carewhateverhappenstoyou.”“SowhyamIhere?”“BecausethepeopleIworkforwanttoseeyou.We’regoingtherenow.”“There?”“TheWidow’sPalace.We’llgetaboat.”Fromthename,Iexpectedsomewheresombre,anold,darkbuildingwithblackcurtainsdrawnacross thewindows.But in fact theWidow’sPalacewasanastonishingplace, likesomethingoutof thestorybooks Ihadreadasachild,builtoutofpinkandwhitebrickswithdozensofwindowsglitteringinthesun.Therewasacoveredwalkwayonthelevelofthefirstfloor,stretchingfromoneendtotheother,heldupbyslenderpillarswitharchwaysbelow.Andthepalacewasn’tstandingbesidethecanal.Itwasactuallysinkingintoit.Thewaterwas lapping at the front doorwith thewhitemarble stepsdisappearingbelow themurkysurface.Wepulled inand steppedoff theboat.Therewasaman standingat theentrancewiththick shoulders and folded arms,wearing awhite shirt and a black suit.He examinedusbriefly, thennoddedforustocontinueforward.AlreadyIwasregrettingthis.AsIpassedfromthesunlighttotheshadowsoftheinterior,IwasthinkingofwhatZelinhadsaidasheleftthehelicopter.Youdon’tknowthesepeople.Theywillkillyou.MaybethreelongyearsoftakingordersfromVladimirSharkovskyhadcloudedmyjudgement.Iwasnolongerusedtomakingdecisions.ItwouldhavebeenbetterifIhadrunawaybeforebreakfast.Icouldhavesneakedonatraintoanothercity.Icouldhavegonetothepoliceforhelp.Irememberedsomethingmygrandmotherusedtosaywhenshewascooking:outofthelatki,intothefire.Amassivespiralstaircase–whitemarblewithwrought-ironbanisters–roseup,twistingoveritself.RykovwentfirstandIfollowedafewstepsbehind,neitherofusspeaking.Iwasnervousbuthewascompletelyatease,onehandinhistrouserpocket,takinghistime.Wecametoacorridorlinedwithpaintings:portraitsofmenandwomenwhomusthavediedcenturiesbefore.Theystoodintheirgoldframes,watchinguspass.Wewalkeddowntoapairofdoorsandbeforeheopenedthem,Rykovturnedandspokebriefly,quietly.“Saynothinguntilyouarespokento.Tellthetruth.Shewillknowifyou’relying.”She?Thewidow?Heknockedandwithoutwaitingforanansweropenedthedoorsandwentthrough.Thewomanwhowas waiting for us was surely too young to havemarried and lost ahusband.Shecouldn’thavebeenmorethantwenty-sixortwenty-sevenandmyfirstthoughtwas that shewas very beautiful.My secondwas that shewas dangerous. Shewas quiteshort,withlong,blackhair,tiedback.Itcontrastedwiththepalenessofherskin.Sheworenomake-upapartfromasmearofcrimsonlipstickthatwassobrightitwasalmostcruel.She was dressed in a black silk shirt, open at the neck. A simple gold necklace twistedaroundherneck.Shecouldhavebeenamodeloranactressbuttherewassomethingthatdancedinhereyesandtoldmeshewasneither.Shewas sittingbehinda very elegant, ornate tablewith a lineofwindowsbehindher,lookingoutovertheGrandCanal.Twochairshadbeenplacedinfrontofherandwetookourplaceswithoutwaitingtobetold.Shehadnotbeendoinganythingwhenwecamein.Itwasclearthatshehadsimplybeenwaitingforus.

“MrGrant,”shesaid,andittookmeamomenttorealizeshewastalkingtoRykov.“Howdid it go?” Her voice was very young. She spoke English with a strange accent which Icouldn’tplace.“Therewasnoproblem,MrsRothman,”Rykov–orGrant–replied.“YoukilledSharkovsky?”“Three bullets. I got into the compound, thanks to thehelicopter pilot.He flewmeoutagain.Everythingwentaccordingtoplan.”“Notquite.”ShesmiledandhereyeswerebrightbutIknewsomethingbadwascomingandIwasright.Slowlysheturnedtofacemeasifnoticingmeforthefirsttime.Hereyeslingered onme. I couldn’t tellwhatwas in hermind. “I do not remember asking you tobringmeaRussianboy.”Grantshrugged.“HehelpedmeandIbroughthimherebecauseitseemedtheeasiestthingto do. It occurred to me that he might be useful to you … and to Scorpia. He has nobackground, no family, no identity. He’s shown himself to have a certain amount ofcourage.Butifyoudon’tneedhim,I’llgetridofhimforyou.Andofcoursethere’llbenoextracharge.”Ihadbeenstrugglingtofollowallthis.Myteacher,NigelBrown,haddoneagoodjob–myEnglishwasveryadvanced.Butstill,itwasthefirsttimeIhadhearditspokenbyotherpeople,andtherewereoneortwowordsIdidn’tunderstand.ButnordidIneedto.IfullyunderstoodtheofferthatGranthadjustmadeandknewthatonceagainmylifewasinthebalance.Theworst of itwas that therewasnothing I coulddo. I hadnothing to say. I’dneverbe able to fightmywayoutof thishouse. I couldonly sit there and seewhat thiswomandecided.Shetookhertime.IfeltherexaminingmeandtriednottoshowhowafraidIwas.“That’sverygenerousofyou,MrGrant,”shesaid,atlast.“ButwhatgivesyoutheideathatIcan’tdealwiththismyself?”Ihadn’tseenherlowerherhandbeneaththesurfaceofthetablebutwhensheraisedit,shewasholdingagun,asilverrevolver thathadbeenpolisheduntil it shone.Sheheld italmostlikeafashionaccessory,aperfectlymanicuredfingercurlingaroundthetrigger.ItwaspointingatmeandIcouldseethatshewasdeadlyserious.Sheintendedtouseit.Itriedtospeak.Nowordscameout.“It’sratherashame,”MrsRothmanwenton.“Idon’tenjoykilling,butyouknowhowitis.Scorpiawillnotacceptasecond-ratejob.”Herhandhadn’tmovedbuthereyesslidbacktoGrant.“Sharkovskyisn’tdead.”“What?”Grantwasshocked.MrsRothmanmovedherarmsothatthegunwasfacinghim.Shepulledthetrigger.Grantwaskilledinstantly,propelledbackwardsinhischair,crashingontothefloor.I stared.Thenoiseof theexplosionwasringing inmyears.Sheswung thegunback tome.“Whatdoyouhavetosayforyourself?”sheasked.“Sharkovsky’sdead!”Igasped.ItwasallIcouldthinktosay.“Hewasshotthreetimes.”“That may well be true. Unfortunately, our intelligence is that he survived. He’s inhospitalinMoscow.He’scritical.Butthedoctorssayhe’llpullthrough.”Ididn’tknowhowtoreacttothisinformation.Itseemedimpossible.Theshotshadbeen

firedatcloserange.Ihadseenhimthrownoffhisfeet.AndyetIhadalwayssaidhewasthedevil.Perhapsitwouldtakemorethanbulletstoendhislife.Thegunwasstillpointingatme.IwaitedforMrsRothmantofireagain.Butsuddenlyshesmiledasifnothinghadhappened,putthegundownandstoodup.“WouldyoulikeaglassofCoke?”sheasked.“I’msorry?”“Pleasedon’taskmetorepeatmyself,Yassen.Ifinditveryboring.Wecan’tsitandtalkhere,withadeadbodyintheroom.Itisn’tdignified.Let’sgonextdoor.”SheslidoutfrombehindthedeskandIfollowedherthroughadoorthatIhadn’tnoticedbefore–itwaspartofabookshelfcoveredwithfakebookssoasnottospoilthepattern.Therewasamuchlargerlivingroombehindthedoorwithtwoplumpsofasoneithersideofaglasstableandamassivestonefireplace,thoughnofire.Freshflowershadbeenarrangedinavaseandthescentofthemhungintheair.Drinks–Cokeforme,icedteaforher–hadalreadybeenserved.Wesatdown.“Wereyoushockedbythat,Yassen?”sheasked.Ishookmyhead,notquitedaringtospeakyet.“ItwasveryunpleasantbutI’mafraidyoucan’tallowanyonetoomanychancesinourlineofwork.Itsendsoutthewrongmessage.Thiswasn’tthefirsttimeMrGranthadmademistakes. Even bringing you here and not disposing of you when you were in Boltinofranklymademe question his judgement. But nevermind that now.Here you are and Iwanttotalkaboutyou.IknowalittleaboutyoubutI’dliketoheartherest.Yourparentsaredead,Iunderstand.”“Yes.”“Tellmehowithappened.Tellmeallofit.Seeifyoucankeepitbrief,though.I’monlyinterestedinthebareessentials.Ihavealongday…”So I told her everything. Right then, I couldn’t think of any reason not to. Estrov, thefactory,Moscow,Dima,Demetyev,Sharkovsky…evenIwassurprisedhowmywholelifecould boil down to so few words. She listened with what I can only describe as politeinterest.Youwouldhavethoughtthatsomeofthethingsthathadhappenedtomewouldhavecausedanexpressionofconcernorsympathy.Shereallydidn’tcare.“It’saninterestingstory,”shesaid,whenIhadfinished.“Andyoutolditverywell.”Shesippedher tea. Inoticed thather lipstick leftbright redmarkson theglass. “The strangethingisthatthelateMrGrantwasquiteright.Youcouldbeveryusefultous.”“Whoareyou?”Iasked.ThenIadded,“Scorpia…”“Ahyes.Scorpia.I’mnotentirelysureaboutthenameifyouwantthetruth.ThelettersstandforSabotage,Corruption,IntelligenceandAssassination,butthat’sonlyafewofthethings we get up to. They could have added kidnapping, blackmail, terrorism, drugtrafficking and vice, but that wouldn’t make a word. Anyway, we’ve got to be calledsomethingandIsupposeScorpiahasaniceringtoit.“I’montheexecutiveboard.Rightnowtherearetwelveofus.Pleasedon’tget the ideathatwe’remonsters.We’renotevencriminals.Infact,quiteafewofususedtoworkintheintelligenceservices…England,France,Israel,Japan…butit’safast-changingworldandwerealizedthatwecoulddomuchbetterifwewentintobusinessforourselves.You’dbe

amazedhowmanygovernmentsneedtosubcontracttheirdirtywork.Thinkaboutit.Whyrisk your ownpeople, spyingonyour enemies,whenyou can simplypayus todo it foryou?Whystartawarwhenyoucanpickupthephoneandgetsomeonetokilltheheadofstate?It’scheaper.Fewerpeoplegethurt.Inaway,Scorpiahasbeenquitehelpfulwhenitcomestoworldpeace.Westillworkforvirtuallyalltheintelligenceservicesandthatmusttell you somethingaboutus.A lot of the timewe’redoing exactly the same jobs thatweweredoingbefore.Justatahigherprice.”“Youwereaspy?”Iasked.“Actually,Yassen,Iwasn’t.I’mfromWales.Doyouknowwherethatis?Believeitornot,Iwasbroughtupinatinyminingcommunity.Myparentsusedtosinginthelocalchoir.They’reinjailnowandIwasinanorphanagewhenIwassixyearsold.Mylifehasbeenquitesimilartoyoursinsomeways.Butasyoucansee,I’vebeenrathermoresuccessful.”Itwaswarmintheroom.Thesunwasstreaminginthroughthewindows,dazzlingme.Iwaitedforhertocontinue.“I’ll get straight to the point,” she said. “There’s something quite special about you,Yassen, even if you probably don’t appreciate yourself. Do you seewhat I’m getting at?You’reasurvivor,yes.Butyou’remorethanthat.Inyourownway,you’reunique!“Yousee,prettymucheveryoneintheworld isonadatabanksomewhere.Themomentyou’reborn,yourdetailsgetputintoacomputer,andcomputersaregettingmoreandmorepowerfulbytheday.RightnowIcouldpickupthetelephoneandinhalfanhourIwouldknowanythingandeverythingaboutanyoneyoucaretoname.Andit’snotjustnamesandthatsortofthing.YoubreakintoahouseandleaveafingerprintoronetinylittlepieceofDNAand the internationalpolicewill trackyoudown,nomatterwhere in theworldyouare.AcrimecommittedinRiodeJaneirocanbesolvedovernightatScotlandYard–and,believeme,asthetechnologychanges,it’sgoingtogetmuch,muchworse.“But you’re different. The Russian authorities have done you a great favour. They’vewipedyouout.Thevillageyouwerebroughtupinnolongerexists.Youhavenoparents.IwouldimaginethateverylastpieceofinformationaboutyouandanyoneyoueverknewinEstrovhasbeendestroyed.Anddoyouknowwhatthat’sdone?It’smadeyouanon-person.From this moment on, you can be completely invisible. You can go anywhere and doanythingandnobodywillbeabletofindyou.”She reached forher glass, turning it betweenher finger andher thumb.Hernailswerelongandsharp.Shedidn’tdrink.“Wearealwaysonthelookoutforassassins,”shesaid.“ContractkillerslikeMrGrant.Asyouhaveseen,thepriceoffailureinourorganizationisahighone,butsoaretherewardsofsuccess.Itisaveryattractivelife.Youtraveltheworld.Youstayinthebesthotels,eatinthebestrestaurants,shopinParisandNewYork.Youmeetinterestingpeople…andsomeofthemyoukill.”Imusthavelookedalarmedbecausesheraisedahand,stoppingme.“Letmefinish.Youwerebroughtupbyyourparentswho,Iamsure,weregoodpeople.Soweremine!Youarethinkingthatyoucouldnevermurdersomeoneformoney.YoucouldneverbelikeMrGrant.Butyou’rewrong.Wewilltrainyou.Wehaveafacilitynotveryfarfromhere,anislandcalledMalagosto.Werunaschoolthere…averyspecialschool.Ifyougothere,youwillworkharderthanyouhaveeverworkedinyourlife–evenharderthanin

thatdachawhereyouwerekept.“Youwillbegiventraininginweaponsandmartialarts.Youwilllearnthetechniquesofpoisoning, shooting, explosives andhand-to-hand combat.Wewill showyouhow topicklocks,howtodisguiseyourself,howtotalkyourwayinandoutofanygivensituation.Wewillteachyounotonlyhowtoactlikeakillerbuthowtothinklikeone.Everyweektherewill be psychological and physical evaluations. There will also be formal schooling. Youneedtohavemathsandscience.YourEnglishisexcellentbutyoustillspeakwithaRussianaccent.Youmustloseit.YoushouldalsolearnArabic,aswehavemanyoperationsintheMiddleEast.“Icanpromiseyouthatyouwillbemoreexhaustedthanyouwouldhavethoughtpossiblebut,ifyoulastthecourse,youwillbeperfect.Theperfectkiller.Andyouwillworkforus.“Thealternative?Youcanleaveherenow.Believeitornot,Ireallymeanit.Iwon’tstopyou.I’llevengiveyouthemoneyforthetrainfareifyoulike.Youhavenothing.Youhavenowheretogo.Ifyoutellthepoliceaboutme,theywon’tbelieveyou.Myguessisthatyouwillendupback inRussia.Sharkovskywillbe looking foryou.Withoutourhelp,hewillfindyou.“Sothereyouhaveit,Yassen.That’swhatitcomesdownto.”Shesmiledandfinishedherdrink.“Whatdoyousay?”

ОСТРОВ

THEISLAND

Theytaughtmehowtokill.In fact,duringthe timethat I spentonthe islandofMalagosto, theytaughtmeagreatdealmorethanthat.TherewasnoschoolintheworldthatwasanythingliketheTrainingand Assessment Centre that Scorpia had created. How do I begin to describe all thedifferences?Itwas,ofcourse,highlysecret.Nobodychosetogothere…theychoseyou.Itwas surely the only school in the world where there were more teachers than students.Therewerenoholidays,nosportsdays,nouniforms,nopunishments,novisitors,noprizesand no exams. And yet it was, in its own way, a school. You could call it the Eton ofmurder.WhatwasstrangeaboutMalagostowashowclose itwastomainlandVenice.Herewasthiscityfullofrichtouristsdriftingbetweenjazzbarsandrestaurants,five-starhotelsandgorgeouspalazzos–andlessthanhalfamileaway,acrossastripofdarkwater,therewereactivitiesgoingon thatwouldhavemade theirhair standonend.The islandhadbeenaplague centre once.Therewas anoldVenetian saying: “Sneeze inVenice andwipe yournoseinMalagosto”–thelastthingyoucouldaffordinatightlypackedmedievalcity,withitssweatingcrowdsandstinkingcanals,wasanoutbreakoftheplague.Therichmerchantshad built amonastery, a hospital, living quarters and a cemetery for the infected. Theywould house them, look after them, pray for themand bury them.But theywould neverhavethemback.The islandwas small. I couldwalkaround it in fortyminutes.Even in the summer, thesandwasadirtyyellow,coveredwithshingle,andthewaterwasanunappealinggrey.Allthewoodlandwas tangled together as if it hadbeenhit by a violent storm.Therewas aclearing in the middle with a few gravestones, the names worn away by time, leaningtogetherasifwhisperingthesecretsofthepast.Themonasteryhadabelltowermadeoutof dark red bricks and it slanted at a strange angle… it looked sure to collapse at anymoment.Thewholebuilding lookeddilapidated,half thewindowsbroken, thecourtyardspittedwithcracks,weedseverywhere.But theactual truthwasquitesurprising.Scorpiahadn’t justwatched theplace fall intodisrepair, they had helped it on its way. They had removed anything that looked tooattractive:fountains,statues,frescoes,stained-glasswindows,ornamentaldoors.Theyhadeven gone so far as to insert a hydraulic arm into the tower, deliberately tilting it. Thewholepointwas thatMalagostowasnotmeant tobebeautiful. Itwasoff-limitsanyway,buttheydidn’twantasingletouristorarchaeologisttofeelitwasworthhiringaboatandriskingthecrossing.Thelasttimeanyonehadtriedhadbeensixyearsbefore,whenagroupof nuns had taken a ferry fromMurano, following in the footsteps of someminor saint.Theyhadstillbeensingingwhentheferryhadinexplicablyblownup.Thecausewasneverfound.Inside, thebuildingsweremuchmoremodernandcomfortable thananyonemighthaveguessed. We had two classrooms, warm and soundproof with brand new furniture and

banksofaudiovisualequipmentthatwouldhavehadmyoldteachersinRosnastaringinenvy. All they’d had was chalk and blackboards. There were both indoor and outdoorshooting ranges, a superbly equipped gymnasium with an area devoted exclusively tofighting – judo, karate, kick-boxing and, above all, ninjutsu – and a swimming pool,althoughmostof the timeweused the sea. If the temperaturewasclose to freezing, thatonly made the training more worthwhile. My own rooms, on the second floor of theaccommodationblock,wereverycomfortable.Ihadabedroom,alivingroomandevenmyown bathroomwith a hugemarble bath that took only seconds to fill, the steaming hotwaterjettingoutofamonsterbrasstapshapedlikealion’shead.Ihadmyowndesk,myown TV, a private fridge that was always kept stocked up with bottled water and softdrinks. All this came at a price. Once I left the facility, I would be tied by a five-yearcontractworkingexclusivelyforScorpiaandthecostofmytrainingwouldbetakenfrommysalary.Thiswasmadecleartomefromthestart.AfterIhadmetMrsRothmanandacceptedheroffer,Iwastakenstraighttotheislandinthebackof awater ambulance. It seemedanodd choiceof vessel but of course itwouldhave been completely inconspicuous in the middle of all the other traffic and I did nottravelalone.MrGrantcamewithme,laidoutonastretcher.IhavetosaythatIfeltsorryfor him. In his own way he had been kind to me. I turned my thoughts to VladimirSharkovsky,probablylyinginaMoscowhospital,surroundedbyfreshbodyguardswatchingoverhimjustasthemachineswouldbewatchingoverhisheartrate,hisbloodpressure–allhisvitalsigns.Whowouldbetastinghisfoodforhimnow?ItwasmiddaywhenIarrived.Thewaterambulancepulleduptoa jetty thatwasmuch lessdilapidatedthan it lookedandIsawayoungwomanwaitingforme.Infact,fromadistance,Ihadmistakenherforaman.Herdarkhairwascutshortandshewaswearingaloosewhiteshirt,awaistcoatandjeans.ButaswedrewcloserIsawthatshewasquiteattractive,abouttwoorthreeyearsolderthanme,andserious-looking.Sheworenomake-up.Shereachedoutandgavemeahandofftheboatandsuddenlywewerestandingtogether,weighingeachotherup.“I’mColette,”shesaid.“I’mYassen.”“WelcometoMalagosto.Doyouhaveanyluggage?”Ishookmyhead.Ihadbroughtnothingwithme.ApartfromwhatIwaswearing,Ihadnopossessionsintheworld.“I’vebeenaskedtoshowyouaround.MrNyewillwanttoseeyoulateron.”“MrNye?”“Youcouldsayhe’stheprincipal.Herunsthisplace.”“Areyouateacher?”Shesmiled.“No.I’mastudent.Thesameasyou.Comeon–I’llstartbyshowingyouyourrooms.”IspentthenexttwohourswithColette.Therewereonlythreestudentsthereatthetime.Iwouldbethefourth.Theotherswereonthemainland,involvedinsomesortofexercise.Aswestoodonthebeach,lookingoutacrossthewater,Colettetoldmealittleaboutthem.“There’sMarat.He’s fromPoland.AndSam.Heonlygotherea fewweeksago…fromIsrael.NeitherofthemtalksverymuchbutSamcameoutofthearmy.Hewasgoingtojoin

Mossad–Israeliintelligence–butScorpiamadehimabetteroffer.”“Whataboutyou?”Iasked.“Wherehaveyoucomefrom?”“I’mFrench.”WehadbeenspeakinginEnglishbutIhadbeenawareshehadaslightaccent.Iwaitedforhertotellmemorebutshewassilent.“Isthatall?”Iasked.“Whatelseisthere?”Youandme…we’rehere.That’sallthatmatters.”“Howdidyougetchosen?”“Ididn’tgetchosen.Ivolunteered.”Shethoughtforamoment.“Iwouldn’taskpersonalquestions,ifIwereyou.Peoplecanbeabittouchyaroundhere.”“Ijustthoughtitwasstrange,that’sall.Awomanlearninghowtokill…”She raised an eyebrow at that. “You are old-fashioned, aren’t you, Yassen! And here’sanotherpieceofadvice.Maybeyoushouldkeepyouropinionstoyourself.”Shelookedatherwatch,thendrewathinbookoutofherbackpocket.“NowI’mafraidI’mgoingtohavetoleaveyouonyourown.I’vegottofinishthis.”Iglancedatthecover:MODERNINTERROGATIONTECHNIQUESBYDRTHREE.“Youmightgettomeethimoneday,”Colettesaid.“Andifyoudo,becarefulwhatyousay.Youwouldn’twanttoendupasachapterinhisbook.”Ispenttherestofthedayaloneinmyroom,lyingonmybedwithallsortsofthoughtsgoing through my head. Much later on, at about eight o’clock in the evening, I wassummonedtotheheadmaster’sofficeanditwastherethatImetthemanwhowasinchargeofallthetrainingonMalagosto.HisnamewasSeftonNyeandmyfirstthoughtwasthathehadthedarkestskinIhadeverseen. His glistening bald head showed off eyes that were extraordinarily large andanimated. And he had brilliant white teeth, which he displayed often in an astonishingsmile.Hedressedverycarefully–he likedwell-cutblazers,obviouslyexpensive–andhisshoeswerepolishedtoperfection.HewasoriginallyfromSomalia.Hisfamilyweremodern-daypirates,holdingupluxuryyachts,cruiseshipsandeven,ononeoccasion,anoiltankerthat had strayed too close to the shore. They were utterly ruthless… I saw framednewspaperarticlesintheofficedescribingtheirexploits.Nyehimselfhadaveryloudvoice.Everythingabouthimwaslargerthanlife.“Yassen Gregorovich!” he exclaimed, pointing me to a chair in the office, which wasalmost circular with an iron chandelier in the middle. There were floor to ceilingbookshelves, twowindows lookingoutoverwoodland,andhalf adozenclocks, eachoneshowingadifferenttime.Apairofsolidironfilingcabinetsstoodagainstonewall.MrNyewore the key that opened them around his neck. “Welcome toMalagosto,” he went on.“Welcomeindeed.Ialwaystakethegreatestpleasureinmeetingthenewrecruitsbecause,you see, when you leave here youwill not be the same.We are going to turn you intosomethingveryspecialandwhenImeetyouafterthat,itmaywellbethatIdonotwantto.Youwillbedangerous.Iwillbeafraidofyou.Everyonewhomeetsyou,evenwithoutknowing why, will be afraid of you. I hope that thought does not distress you, Yassen,because if it does you shouldnotbehere.Youare going tobecomea contract killer andalthoughyouwillbe richandyouwillbecomfortable, I am tellingyounow, it isaverylonelypath.”Therewasaknockatthedoorandasecondmanappeared,barelyhalftheheightofthe

headmaster,dressedinalinensuitandbrownshoes,witharoundfaceandasmallbeard.HeseemedquitenervousofMrNye,hiseyesblinkingbehindhistortoise-shellglasses.“Youwantedtoseeme,headmaster?”heenquired.HehadaFrenchaccent,muchmoredistinctthanColette’s.“Ah yes, Oliver!”He gestured inmy direction. “This is our newest recruit. His name isYassenGregorovich.MrsRothmansenthimoverfromtheWidow’sPalace.”“Delighted.”Thelittlemannoddedatme.“This isOliverd’Arc.Hewillbeyourpersonal tutorandhewillalsobetakingmanyofyourclasses.Ifyou’reunhappy,ifyouhaveanyproblems,yougotohim.”“Thankyou,” I said,but Ihadalreadydecided that if Ihadanyproblems Iwouldmostcertainlykeepthemtomyself.Thiswasthesortofplacewhereanyweaknesswouldonlybeusedagainstyou.“Iamhereforyouanytimeyouneedme,”d’Arcassuredme.I would spend a lot of time with Oliver d’Arc while I was on Malagosto but I nevercompletely trusted him. I don’t think I ever knew him. Everything about him – hisappearance, the way he spoke, probably even his name – was an act put on for thestudents’benefit.Lateron,afterNyewaskilledbyoneofhisownstudents,d’Arcbecametheheadmasterand,byallaccounts,hewasverygoodatthejob.“Doyouhaveanyquestions,Yassen?”MrNyeasked.“No,sir,”Isaid.“That’sgood.Butbeforeyouturninforthenight,there’ssomethingIwantyoutodoforme,Ihopeyoudon’tmind.Itshouldn’ttakemorethanacoupleofhours.”ThatwaswhenInoticedthatOliverd’Arcwasholdingaspade.MyfirstjobonMalagostowastoburyMrGrantinthelittlecemeteryinthewoods.Itwasa final restingplace thathewould sharewithplaguevictimswhohaddied fourhundredyearsbeforehim,althoughIhadnodoubtthattherewereothermorerecentarrivals too,men andwomenwhohad failed Scorpia just like him. Itwas an unpleasant, grisly task,digging onmy own in the darkness. Even Sharkovsky had never askedme to do such athing–butit’spossiblethatitwasmeanttobeawarningtome.MrsRothmanhadletmelive.Shehadevenrecruitedme.ButthisiswhatIcouldlookforwardtoifIletherdown.AsIdraggedMrGrantoff thestretcherandtippedhimintotheholewhichIhaddug, Icouldn’t help but wonder if someone would do the same for me one day. For what it’sworth, it istheonlytimeIhaveeverhadsuchthoughts.Whenyourbusinessisdeath,theonly death you should never consider is your own. It had begun to rain slightly, a thindrizzlethatonlymademytaskmoreunpleasant.Ifilledinthegrave,flatteneditwiththespade,thencarriedthestretcherbacktothemaincomplex.Oliverd’Arcwaswaitingformewith a brandy and a hot chocolate. He escorted me to my room and even insisted onrunningabathforme,addingagoodmeasureof“FlorisofLondon”bathoiltothefoamingwater.Iwasgladwhenhefinallyleft.Iwasafraidhewasgoingtooffertoscrubmyback.Fivemonths…Notwodayswereeverexactlythesame,althoughwewerealwayswokenathalfpastfiveinthemorningforaone-hourrunaroundtheislandfollowedbyaforty-minuteswim–outtoastumpofrockandbackagain.Breakfastwasathalfpastseven,servedinabeautifuldiningroomwithasixteenth-centurymosaiconthefloor,woodenangelscarvedaroundthe

windowsanda fadedviewofheavenpaintedonthedomedceilingaboveourheads.Thefoodwasalwaysexcellent.AllfourstudentsatetogetherandIusuallyfoundmyselfsittingnexttoColette.Asshehadwarnedme,MaratandSamweren’texactlyunfriendlybuttheyhardly ever spoke tome. Samwas dark and very intense.Marat seemedmore laid-back,sitting in class with his legs crossed and his hands behind his back. After they hadgraduated, they decided towork together as a team andwere extremely successful but Ineversawthemagain.Morninglessonstookplaceintheclassrooms.Welearnedaboutgunsandknives,howtocreateabooby trap,andhowtomakeabombusing sevendifferent ingredients thatyoucould find inany supermarket.Therewasone teacher–hewas red-headed, scrawnyandhadtattoosalloverhisupperbody–whobroughtinadifferentweaponforustopracticewitheveryday:notjustgunsbutknives,swords,throwingspikes,ninjafightingfansandevenamedievalcrossbow…heactually insistedonfiringanappleoffMarat’shead.HisnamewasGordonRossandhecamefromacitycalledGlasgow,inScotland.Hehadbrieflybeen assistant to theChiefArmourer atMI6until Scorpia had temptedhimaway at fivetimeshisoriginalsalary.The first time we met, I impressed him by stripping down an AK-47 machine gun ineighteenseconds.MyoldfriendLeo,ofcourse,wouldhavedoneitfaster.Rosswasactuallyaknifeman.HistwogreatheroeswereWilliamFairbairnandEricSykes,whotogetherhadcreated the ultimate fighting knife for British commandos during the SecondWorldWar.Ross was an expert with throwing knives and he’d had a set specially designed andweightedforhishand.Puthimtwentymetresfromatargetandtherewasn’tastudentontheislandwhocouldbeathimforspeedoraccuracy,evenwhenhewascompetingagainstguns.Rossalsohada fascinationwithgadgets.Hedidn’tmanufactureanyhimselfbuthehadmadeastudyofthesecretweaponryprovidedbyallthedifferentintelligenceservicesandhehadmanagedtostealseveralitems,whichhebroughtinforustoexamine.TherewasacreditcarddevelopedbytheCIA.Oneedgewasrazor-sharp.TheFrenchhadcomeupwithastringofonions…severalofthemweregrenades.Hisownemployers,MI6,hadprovidedanantisepticcreamthatcouldeatthroughmetals,afountainpenthatfiredapoisonednib,and aPowerPlus battery that concealed a radio transmitter. You simply gave thewholethingahalf-twistanditwouldsetoffabeacontosummonimmediatehelp.Allthesedevicesamusedhimbutattheendofthedayhedismissedthemastoys.Hepreferredhisknives.Weaponsandself-defencewereonlypartofmytraining. Iwassurprisedto findmyselfgoingbacktoschoolintheold-fashionedsense;Ilearnedmaths,English,Arabic,science–evenclassicalmusic,artandcookery.Oliverd’Arc tooksomeof theseclasses.However, Iwill not forget the day Iwas introduced to the unsmiling Italianwomanwho never toldanyone her name but called herself the Countess. It may well be that she was a truearistocrat. She certainly behaved like one, insisting thatwe standwhen she entered andalways address her as “ma’am”. She was about fifty, exquisitely dressed, with expensivejewellery and perfect manners. When she stood up, she expected us to do so too. TheCountesstookusshoppingandtoartgalleriesinVenice.Shemadeusreadnewspapersandcelebritymagazines andoften talkedabout thepeople in thephotographs.At first, I hadabsolutelynoideawhatshewasdoingontheisland.

ItwasonlylaterthatIunderstood.Akillerisnotjustsomeonewholiesonaroofwitha12.7mm sniper rifle, waiting for his prey to walk out of a restaurant. Sometimes it isnecessary tobe inside that restaurant.Topindownyour target,youhave toget close tohim.Youhavetoweartherightclothes,walkintherightway,demandagoodtableinarestaurant,understandthefoodandthewine.HowcouldaboyfromapoorRussianvillagehave been able to do any of these things if he had not been taught? I have been to artauctions, to operas, to fashion shows and to horse races. I have sipped champagnewithbankers, professors, designers and multimillionaires. I have always felt comfortable andnobodyhaseverthoughtIwasoutofplace.Forthis,IhavetheCountesstothank.Thetoughestpartof thedaycameafter lunch.Theafternoonsweredevotedtohand-to-hand combat and three-hour classes were taken either by the headmaster, Mr Nye, or aJapanese instructor,Hatsumi Saburo.We all called himHS and hewas an extraordinaryman.Hemusthavebeenseventyyearsoldbuthemovedfasterthanateenager,certainlyfasterthanme.Ifyouweren’tconcentrating,hewouldknockyoudownsohardandsofastthatyousimplywouldn’tbeawareofwhathadhappeneduntilyouwereonthefloor,andhewouldbestandingaboveyou,gazingattheceiling,asifithadbeennothingtodowithhim.SeftonNyetaughtjudoandkaratebutitwasHatsumiSaburowhointroducedmetoathirdmartialart,ninjutsu,anditisthisthathasalwaysstayedwithme.Ninjutsuwasthefightingmethoddevelopedbytheninjas,thespiesandtheassassinswhoroamedacrossJapaninthefifteenthcentury.Itwastaughttothembythepriestsandthewarriorswhowereinhidinginthemountains.WhatI learnedfromHSoverthenextfivemonthswaswhatIcanonlydescribeasatotalfightingsystemthatencompassedeverypartofmybodyincludingmyfeet,myknees,myelbows,myfists,myhead,evenmyteeth.Anditwasmorethanthat.Heusedtotalkaboutnagare,theflowoftechnique…knowingwhentomovefromoneformofattacktothenext.Ultimately,everythingcamedowntomentalattitude.“Youcannotwinifyoudonotbelieveyouwillwin,”heoncesaidtome.HehadaveryheavyJapaneseaccentandbarkedlikeadog.“Youmustcontrolyouremotions.Youmustcontrolyour feelings. If there isany fearor insecurity,youmustdestroy itbefore itdestroysyou.Itisnotthesizeorthestrengthofyouropponentthatmatters.Thesecanbemeasured.Itiswhatcannotbemeasured…courage,determination…thatcount.”IfeltgreatreverenceforHatsumiSaburobutIdidnotlikehim.Sometimeswewouldfighteachotherwithwooden swords thatwereknownasbokken.Heneverheldback.When Iwenttobed,mywholebodywouldbeblackandblue,whileIwouldneversomuchastouchhim.“Youhavetoomanyemotions,Yas-sen!”hewouldcrow,ashestoodoverme.“Allthatsadness.Allthatanger.Itisthesmokethatgetsintoyoureyes.Ifyoudonotblowitawayhowcanyouhopetosee?”WasIsadaboutwhathadhappenedtome?WasIangry?IsupposeScorpiawouldknowbetter than me because, just as Mrs Rothman had promised, I was given regularpsychologicalexaminationsbyadoctorcalledKarlSteinerwhocamefromSouthAfrica. Idislikedhimfromthestart;thewayhelookedatme,hiseyesalwaysboringintomineasifhe suspected that everything I said was a lie. I don’t think I ever heard Dr Steiner sayanythingthatwasn’taquestion.Hewasaveryneatman,alwaysdressedinasuitwithacarnationinhislapel.Hewouldsittherewithonelegcrossedovertheother,occasionallyglancingatagoldpocketwatchtocheckthetime.Hisofficewascompletelybare…justa

whitespacewithtwoarmchairs.IthadawindowthatlookedoutoverthefiringrangeandIwouldsometimeshearthecrackoftheriflesoutsideashefiredhisownquestionsmyway.IregrettednowthatIhadtoldMrsRothmansomuchaboutmyself.Shehadpassedalltheinformation to him and he wanted me to talk about my parents, my grandmother, mychildhoodinEstrov.Themorewetalked,thelessIwantedtosay.Ifeltempty,asifthelifeIwasdescribingwassomethingthatnolongerbelongedtome.Andthestrangethingis,Ithink thatwasexactlywhathewanted. Inhisownwayhewas just likeHatsumiSaburo.Myoldlifewassmoke.Ithadtobeblownaway.Weweregivenacoupleofhoursofrestbeforedinnerbutwewerealwaysexpectedtousethetimeproductively.Mytutor,Oliverd’Arc,insistedthatIreadbooks…andinEnglish,not Russian. Some evenings we had political discussions. I learned more about my owncountrywhileIwasontheislandthanIhadthewholetimeIwaslivingthere.Wealsohadguest lecturers.Theywerebrought toMalagosto inblindfoldsandmanyofthemhadbeeninprisonbuttheywereallexpertsintheirownfield.Onewasapickpocket… he shook hands with each one of us before he began and then started his lecture byreturningourwatches.Anothershowedushowtopicklocks.TherewasonereallybrilliantlecturebyanelderlyHungarianmanwithterriblescarsdownthesideofhisface.Hehadlost his sight in a car accident. He talked to us for two hours about disguise and falseidentities,andthenrevealedthathewasactuallyathirty-two-year-oldBelgianwomanandthatshecouldseeaswellasanyofus.Youneverknewwhatwasgoingtohappen.Theschoollovedtothrowsurprisesourway.Sometimes, in themiddleof thenight,awhistlewouldblowandwewouldfindourselvescalledouttotheassaultcourse,crawlingthroughtherainandthemud,climbingnetsandswingingonropeswhileMrRossfiredliveammunitionatourheels.Once,weweretoldtoswimtothemainland,tostealclothesandmoneywhenwegotthereandthentomakeourownwayback.ButScorpiadidnotwantustobecometoocutoff, tooremovedfromtherealworld.AswellastheexpeditionswiththeCountess,theyoftengaveushalfadayofftovisitVenice.MaratandSamkept themselves to themselves so Iusually foundmyselfwithColette.Wewould go to themarkets together andwalk the streets. Shewas always stopping to takephotographs.Shelovedlittledetails…anirondoorhandle,agargoyle,acatasleeponawindowsill. Ihadneverbeenoutwithagirlbefore– Ihadneverreallyhadthechance–andIfoundmyselfbeingdrawntoherinawayIcouldnotcompletelyunderstand.Allthetime, I was being taught to hidemy feelings.When I was with her, I wanted to do theopposite.ShenevertoldmemuchmoreaboutherselfthanshehadthatfirsttimewehadmetandIwassensibleenoughnottoask.SheletslipthatshehadoncelivedinParis,thatherfatherwas something to dowith the French government and that she hadn’t spoken to him foryears.Shehadlefthomewhenshewasveryyoungandhadsomehowsurvivedonherownsincethen.SheneverexplainedhowshehadfoundoutaboutScorpia.ButIdidlearnthathertrainingwouldbeoververysoon.Likeallrecruits,shewasgoingtobesentonherfirstsolokill–arealjobwitharealtarget.“Doyoueverthinkaboutit?”Iaskedher.WeweresittingoutsideacaféontheRivadegliSchiavoniwithagreatexpanseofwater

infrontofusandhundredsoftouristsstreamingpast.Theygaveusprivacy.“What?”sheasked.Iloweredmyvoice.“Killing.Takinganotherperson’slife.”She lookedatmeover the topofher coffee. Shewaswearing sunglasseswhichhidhereyesbutIcouldtellshewasannoyed.“YoushouldaskDrSteineraboutthat.”Iheldhergaze.“I’maskingyou.”“Whydoyouevenwanttoknow?”shesnapped.Shestirredthecoffee.Itwasveryblack,servedinatinycup.“It’sajob.Thereareallsortsofpeoplewhodon’tdeservetolive.Richpeople.Powerfulpeople.Takeoneofthemout,maybeyou’redoingtheworldafavour.”“Whatifthey’remarried?”“Whocares?”“Whatiftheyhavechildren?”“Ifyou think like that,youshouldn’tbehere.Youshouldn’tevenbe talking like this. IfyouweretosayanyofthistoMaratorSam,they’dgostraighttoMrNye.”“Iwouldn’ttalktothem,”Isaid.“They’renotmyfriends.”“AndyouthinkIam?”I still remember thatmoment. Colettewas leaning towardsme and shewaswearing ajacketwithaverysoft,close-fittingjerseybeneath.Shetookoffhersunglassesandlookedatmewithbrowneyesthat, I’msure,hadmorewarmthinthemthansheintended.Rightthen,Iwishedthatwecouldbejustlikealltheotherpeoplestrollingbyus;aRussianboyand a French girl who had just happened to bump into each other in one of the mostromanticplacesontheearth.Butofcourseitcouldn’tbe.Itwouldneverbe.“I’mnotyourfriend,”shesaid.“We’llneverhavefriends,Yassen.Eitherofus.”Shefinishedhercoffee,stoodupandwalkedaway.Coletteleftafewweekslaterandafterthattherewerejustthethreeofuscontinuingwiththetraining,dayandnight.NoneoftheinstructorseversaidasmuchbutIknewIwasdoingwell. Iwasthefastestacross the assault course. On the shooting range,my targets always camewhirring backwiththebulletsgroupedneatlyinsidethehead.Ihadmasteredallsixteenbodystrikes–theso-called“secret fists”– thatareessential toninjutsuandduringonememorable trainingsession I evenmanaged to land a blow on HS. I could see the oldman was pleased…althoughheflattenedmehalfasecondlater.Afterhoursinthegym,Iwasinpeakphysicalcondition.IcouldrunsixtimesaroundtheislandandIwouldn’tbeoutofbreath.AndyetIcouldn’tforgetwhatIhadtalkedaboutwithColette.WhenIfiredatatarget,Iwould always imagine a real human being and not the cut-out soldier with his fixed,snarlingfaceinfrontofme.Insteadofthequicksnap,thelittleroundholethatappearedinthepaperasthebulletpassedthrough,therewouldbetheexplosionofbonefragmenting,bloodsplashingout.Thepapersoldier’seyesignoredme.Hefeltnothing.Butwhatwouldamanbethinkingashedied?Hewouldneverseehisfamilyagain.Hewouldneverfeelthewarmthofthesun.Everythingthathehadandeverythinghewaswouldhavebeenstolenawaybyme.CouldIreallydothattosomeoneandnothatemyselfforever?Ihadnotchosenthis.TherewasatimewhenI’dthoughtIwasgoingtoworkinafactorymakingpesticides.Iwasgoingtoliveinavillagethatnobodyhadeverheardof,dreamingofbeingahelicopterpilot,pinningpicturestothewall.Lookingback,itfeltasifsomeevil

forcehadbeenmanipulatingmeeveryinchofthewaytobringmehere.Fromthemomentmyparentshadbeenkilled,myown lifehadno longerbeenmine tocontrol.Andyet, itoccurredtome,itwasstillnottoolate.Scorpiahadtaughtmehowtofight,howtochangemyidentity,howtohideandhowtosurvive.OnceIleftMalagosto,Icouldusetheseskillsto escape from them. I could stealmoney and go anywhere in theworld that I wanted,changemyname,beginanewlife.Lyinginbedatnight,IwouldthinkaboutthisbutatthesametimeIknew,withasenseofdespair,thatIwaswrong.Scorpiawastoopowerful.NomatterhowfarIran,eventuallytheywouldfindmeandtherewasnoescapingwhattheresult would be. I would die young. But wasn’t that better than becoming what theywanted?AtleastIwouldhavestayedtruetomyself.IwasterrifiedofgivinganyofthisawaywhilewithDrSteiner.IalwaysthoughtbeforeIanswered any of his questions and tried to tell himwhat hewanted to hear, notwhat Ireallythought.Iwasafraidthatifhecaughtsightofmyweakness,mytrainingwouldbecancelledandthenextrecruitwouldendupburyingmeinthewoods.Thesecretwastobecompletely emotionless. Sometimes he showed me horrible pictures – scenes of war andviolence. I triednot to lookat thedeadandmutilatedbodies, but thenhewouldaskmequestionsaboutthemandIwouldfindmyselfhavingtodescribeeverythingindetail,tryingtokeepthequiveroutofmyvoice.AndyetIthoughtIwasgettingawaywithit.Attheendofeachsession,hewouldtakemyhand–cuppingitinbothofhisown–andpurratme,“Welldone,Yassen.Thatwasvery,verygood.”AsfarasIcouldtell,hehadnoideaatallwhatwasreallygoingoninmyhead.Andthen,atlast,thedaycamewhenOliverd’Arccalledmetohisstudy.AsIentered,hewas tuning the cello, which was an instrument he played occasionally. The roomwas amess, with books everywhere and papers spilling out of drawers. It smelled of tobacco,althoughIneversawhimsmoke.“Ah, Yassen!” he exclaimed. “I’m afraid you’re going to miss evening training. MrsRothmanisbackinVenice.You’retohavedinnerwithher.Makesureyouwearyourbestclothes.Alaunchwillpickyouupatseveno’clock.”WhenIhadfirstcometotheisland,ImighthaveaskedwhyshewantedtoseemebutbynowIknewthatIwouldalwaysbegivenalltheinformationIneeded,andtoaskformorewasonlytoshowweakness.“Itlookslikeyou’regoingtobeleavingus,”hewenton.“Mytrainingisfinished?”“Yes.”Hepluckedoneofthestrings.“You’vedoneverywell,mydearboy,”hesaid.“AndImustsay,I’vethoroughlyenjoyedtutoringyou.Andnowyourmomenthascome.Goodluck!”From this, I understood thatmy final testhadarrived… the solokill.My trainingwasover.Mylifeasanassassinwasabouttobegin.Andthatnight,ImetMrsRothmanforthesecondtime.Shehadsentherpersonallaunchtocollectme,abeautifulvesselthatwasallteakandchromewithasilverscorpionmouldedintothebow.ItcarriedmebeneaththefamousBridgeofSighs–Ihopedthatwasnotanomen–andontotheWidow’sPalacewherewehadfirstmet.Shewasdressed,onceagain,inblack;thistimeaverylow-cutdresswithazipdownoneside,whichIrecognizedatonceas theworkof thedesigner,GianniVersace.Weate inherprivatediningroomata long

tablelitbycandlesandsurroundedbypaintings–Picasso,Cézanne,VanGogh–allofthemworthmillions.Webeganwithsoup,thenlobster,andfinallyacreamycustardmixedwithwinethattheItalianscallzabaglione.ThefoodwasdeliciousbutasIateIwasawareofherexaminingme,watchingeverymouthful,andIknewthatIwasstillbeingtested.“I’mverypleasedwithyou,Yassen,”shesaidasthecoffeewaspoured.Thewholemealhadbeenservedbytwomeninwhitejacketsandblacktrousers,herpersonalwaiters.“Doyouthinkyou’reready?”“Yes,MrsRothman,”Ireplied.“Youcanstopcallingmethatnow.”ShesmiledatmeandIwasonceagainstruckbyherfilm-starlooks.“IpreferJulia.”Therewasafileonthetablebesideher.Ithadn’tbeentherewhenwestarted.Oneofthewaitershadbroughtitinwiththecoffee.Sheopenedit.Firstshetookoutaprintedreport.“You’renaturallygifted…anexcellentmarksman.HatsumiSaburospeaksveryhighlyofyour abilities. I see also that you have learned from the Countess. Your manners arefaultless. Sixmonths ago youwouldn’t have been able to sit at a table like this withoutgivingyourselfaway,butyouareverydifferentfromthestreeturchinImetbackthen.”Inoddedbutsaidnothing.Anotherlesson.Nevershowgratitudeunlessyouhopetogainsomethingfromit.“Butnowwemustseeifyoucanactuallyputintopracticeeverythingthatwehavetaughtyouintheory.”Shetookoutapassportandsliditacrossthetable.“Thisisyours,”shesaid.“We have kept your family name. Therewas no reason not to, particularly as your firstnamehadchangedanyway.YassenGregorovichiswhatyouarenowandwillalwaysbe…unless of coursewe feel the need for you to travel under cover.” An envelope followed.“You’ll find the details of your bank account inside,” she said. “You are a client of theEuropean Finance Group. It’s a private bank based in Geneva. There are fifty thousandAmerican dollars, fifty thousand euros and fifty thousand pounds in the account, and nomatterhowmuchyouspend,thesefigureswillalwaysremainthesame.Ofcourse,wewillbewatchingyourexpenses.”Shewasenjoyingthis,sendingmeout forthefirst time,almostchallengingmetoshowreluctanceoranysignoffear.Shetookoutasecondenvelope,thickerthanthefirst.Thisonewas sealedwith a strip of black tape. Therewas a scorpion symbol stamped in themiddle.“This envelope contains a return air ticket to New York, which is where your firstassignmentwill takeplace.There isanotherthousanddollars inheretoo…pettycashtogetyoustarted.Youareflyingeconomy.”Thatdidn’t surpriseme. Iwasyoungand Iwasentering theUnitedStatesonmyown.Travellingbusinessorfirstclassmightdrawattentiontomyself.“Youwillbemetattheairportandtakentoyourhotel.YouwillreportbacktomehereinVeniceinoneweek’stime.Doyouwanttoknowwhoyouaregoingtokill?”“I’msureyou’lltellmewhenyouwantto,”Isaid.“That’sright.”Shesmiled.“You’llgetalltheinformationthatyouneedonceyouarrive.Aweaponwillalsobedeliveredtoyou.Isthatallunderstood?”“Yes,”Isaid.OfcourseIhadquestions.AboveallIwantedanameandafacesomewhere;ontheothersideoftheworld,amanwasgoingabouthisbusinesswithnoknowledgethatI

wasonmyway.WhathadhedonetoangerScorpia?Whydidhehavetolosehislife?ButIstayedsilent.Iwasbeingverycarefulnottoshowanysignofweakness.“ThenI thinkourevening isalmostover,”MrsRothmansaid.Shereachedoutand, justforamoment,herfingersbrushedagainst thebackofmyhand.“Youknow,Yassen,”shesaid,“youareincrediblygood-looking.IthoughtthatthemomentIsawyouandyourfivemonthsonMalagostohavedonenothingbutimproveyou.”Shesighedanddrewherhandaway. “Russianboysaren’tquitemy thing,” shecontinued. “Orelsewhoknowswhatwemight get up to? But itwill certainly help you in yourwork. Death should always comesmartlydressed.”Shegotup,asifabouttoleave.Butthenshehadsecondthoughtsandturnedbacktome.“Youwerefondofthatgirl,Colette,weren’tyou?”“We spent a bit of time together,” I said. “We came into Venice once or twice.” JuliaRothmanwouldknowthat,anyway.“Yes,”shemurmured.“Ihadafeelingthetwoofyouwouldhititoff.”Shewasdaringmetoask.SoIdid.“Howisshe?”“She’s dead.”Mrs Rothman brushed some imaginary dust from the sleeve of her dress.“Herfirstassignmentwentverywrong.Itwasn’tentirelyherfault.ShetookoutthetargetbutshewasshotbytheArgentinianpolice.”AndthatwaswhenIknewwhatshehaddonetome.ThatwaswhenIknewexactlywhatScorpiahadmademe.Ifeltnothing.Isaidnothing.IfIwassad,Ididn’tshowit.Isimplywatchedimpassivelyasshelefttheroom.

НЬЮ-ЙОРК

NEWYORK

Ihadneverspentsolonginanaeroplane.Ninehoursintheair!Ifoundtheentireexperiencefascinating;thesizeoftheplane,thenumberofpeoplecrammedtogether,theunpleasantfoodservedinplastictrays,nightanddayrefusingtobehaveastheyshouldoutsidethesmall,roundwindows.Ialsoexperiencedjetlagforthefirsttime.Itwasastrangesensation,likebeingdraggedbackwardsdownahill.ButIwasinexcellentshape.Iwasfullofexcitementaboutmymission.Iwasabletofightitoff.IwasenteringtheUnitedStatesundermyownnameandwithacoverstorythatScorpiahad supplied. I was a student on a scholarship from Moscow State University, studyingAmerican literature. Iwashere toattenda seriesof lectureson famousAmericanwritersbeinggivenattheNewYorkPublicLibrary.Thelecturesreallyweretakingplace.Icarriedwith me a letter of introduction from my professor, a copy of my thesis and an NYPLprogramme.Iwouldbestayingwithmyuncleandaunt,aMrandMrsKirov,whohadanapartmentinBrooklyn.Ialsohadaletterfromthem.I joined the long queue in the immigration hall and watched the uniformed men andwomenintheirboothsstampingthepassportsofthepeopleinfrontofme.Atlast itwasmyturn.IwasannoyedtofeelmyheartwasthumpingasIfoundmyselffacingascowlingblackofficerwhoseemedsuspiciousofmebeforeIhadevenopenedmymouth.“What’syourbusinessintheUnitedStates?”heasked.“I’mstudyingAmericanliterature.I’mheretoattendsomelectures.”“Howlongareyoustaying…?”Hesquintedatmynameinthepassport.“…Yassen?”“Oneweek.”Ithoughtthatwouldbeit.Iwaswaitingforhimtopickupthestampandallowmein.Instead,hesuddenlyasked,“SohowdoyoulikeScottFitzgerald?”Iknewthename.F.ScottFitzgeraldhadbeenoneofthegreatestAmericanwritersofthetwentieth century. “I really enjoyedTheGreat Gatsby,” I said. “I think it’s his best book.Althoughhisnextone,TenderistheNight,wasfantastictoo.”Henodded.“Enjoyyourstay.”Thestampcamedown.Iwasin.I had one suitcase with me. Both the suitcase and all the clothes inside it had beenpurchased in Moscow. Of course I carried no weapon. It might have been possible toconceal a pistol somewhere in my luggage but it wasn’t a risk worth taking. Thanks toAmerica’sabsurdgunlaws,itwouldbemucheasiertoarmmyselfonceIarrived.Iwaitedbytheluggagecarouseluntilmycasearrived.IknewatoncethatnobodyhadlookedinsidethecaseeitheratRomeAirportorhere.Ifthepoliceorairportauthoritieshadopenedoneofthecatches,theywouldhavebrokenanelectricalcircuitwhichranthroughthehandle.There was a blue luggage tag attached and it would change colour, giving me advancewarningofwhathadhappened.Thetagwasstillblue.Igrabbedthecaseandwentout.Mycontactwaswaiting forme in thearrivalshall, holdingupmynameonapieceof

whitecard.Helookedlikealltheotherlimodrivers:tiredanduninterested,dressedinasuitwithawhiteshirtandsunglasses,eventhoughitwasearlyeveningandtherewaslittlesignofthesun.Hehadmisspeltmyname.Thecardread:YASSENGREGORIVICH.Thiswasnotamistake. Itwasanagreedsignalbetweenthe twoofus. It toldmethathewaswhohesaidhewasandthatitwassafeforustomeet.Hedidnottellmehisname.NordidIask.Idoubtedthatthetwoofuswouldmeetagain.Wewalked to the car park – or the parking garage as theAmericans called it –withoutspeaking.Hehadparkedhiscar,ablackDaimler,closetotheexitandheldthedooropenfor me as I slid into the back seat. He climbed into the front, then handed me anotherenvelope.Thisonewasalsomarkedwithascorpion.“You’llfindyourinstructionsinside,”hesaid.“Youcanreadtheminthecar.Thedriveisabout forty minutes. I’m taking you to the SoHo Plaza Hotel, where a room has beenreservedinyourname.Youaretostaytherethisevening.There’llbeadeliveryatexactlyteno’clock.Themanwillknockthreetimesandwill introducehimselfasMarcus.Doyouunderstand?”“Yes.”“Good.There’sabottleofwaterinthesidepocketifyouneedit…”Hestartedtheengineandamomentlater,wesetoff.Nothing quite prepares you for the view of New York as you come over the BrooklynBridge; the twinkling lights behind thousands and thousands ofwindows, the skyscraperspresentingthemselvestoyouliketoysinashopwindow,somuchlifecrammedintosolittlespace. The Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, the Rockefeller Centre, theBeekman, theWaldorf-Astoria…your eye travels fromone to the other but all too soonyou’reoverwhelmed.Youcannotseparatethem.Theymergetogethertobecomeoneisland,onecity.Everytimeyoureturnyouwillbeamazed.Butthefirsttimeyouwillneverforget.Isawnoneofit.OfcourseIlookedoutasIwascarriedovertheEastRiverbutIcouldn’tbelieve Iwas really there. Itwasas if Iwas sitting in somesortofprisonand the tintedglassofthecarwindowwasasilenttelevisionscreenthatIwasglimpsingoutofthecornerofmyeye.Ifyouhadtoldme,ayearago,thatIwouldonedayarrivehereinachauffeur-drivencar,Iwouldhavelaughedinyourface.Buttheviewmeantnothing.Ihadtornopentheenvelope.Ihadtakenoutafewsheetsofpaperandtwophotographs.IwaslookingatthefaceofthepersonIhadcometokill.Myfirstthoughtshadbeenwrong.Mytargetwasnotaman.Her namewas Kathryn Davis and shewas a lawyer, a senior partner in a firm calledClarke Davenport based on Fifth Avenue. I suspected that the address was an expensiveone.Thefirstphotographwasinblackandwhiteandhadbeentakenasshestoodbesideatrafficlight.Shewasaserious-lookingwomanwithasquarefaceandlightbrownhaircutinafringe.Iwouldhaveguessedshewasinhermid-thirties.Shewaswearingglassesthatonlymadeherlookmoresevere.Therewassomethingquitebullishabouther.Icouldeasilyimaginehertearingsomeoneapartincourt.Inthesecondphotographshewassmiling.Thisonewasincolourandgenerallyshewasmorerelaxed,wavingatsomeonewhowasnotintheshot.IwonderedwhichKathrynDavisIwouldmeet.Whichonewouldbeeasiertokill?Therewasanewspaperarticleattached:

NYLAWYERTHREATENED

In Red Knot Valley, Nevada, she’s a heroine – but New York lawyer Kathryn DavisclaimsshehasreceiveddeaththreatsinManhattan,whereshelivesandworks.MsDavis represents twohundred and twelve residents of theRedKnot community,whohavecometogetherinaclassactionagainstthemultinationalPacificRidgeMiningCompany.They claim thatmillions of tonnes ofminingwaste have seeped into theirecosystem, killing their fish, poisoning their crops and causing widespread flooding.PacificRidge,whichhasdenied the claim, owns several “openpit” goldmines in theareaandwhentracesofarsenicwerefoundinthefoodchain,localpeoplewerequicktocryfoul.Ithastaken37-year-oldKathrynDavistwoyearstogatherherevidencebutshe believes that her clientswill be awardeddamages in excess of one billiondollarswhenthecasecomestocourtnextmonth.“It’snotbeenaneasyjourney,”saysmother-of-twoMsDavis.“Mytelephonehasbeenbugged.Ihavebeenfollowedinthestreet.IhavereceivedhatemailthatmakesthreatsagainstmeandwhichIhavepassedtothepolice.ButIamnotgoingtoletmyselfbeintimidated.WhathappenedinRedKnotisanationalscandalandIamdeterminedtogettothetruth.”

Ihadalsobeensuppliedwiththewoman’shomeaddress–whichwasinWest85thStreet–and a photograph of her house, a handsome building that looked out over a tree-linedstreet.Accordingtoherbiography,shewasmarriedtoadoctor.Shehadtwochildrenandadog,aspaniel.Shewasamemberofseveralclubsandagym.Therewasablankcardatthebottomoftheenvelope.Itcontainedjustfourwords:

MUGGING.BEFORETHEWEEKEND.

It is embarrassing to remember this but I didnotunderstand theword ‘mugging’ – I hadsimplynevercomeacrossit–andIspenttherestofthejourneyworryingthatthedriverorMarcuswoulddiscoverthatIhadnoideawhatIwasmeanttodo.IlookedupthewordthenextdayinabookshopandrealizedthatScorpiawantedthistolooklikeastreetcrime.Aswellaskillingher,Iwouldstealmoneyfromher.ThatwaytherewouldbenoconnectionwithScorpiaorthegoldminesatPacificRidge.The driver barely spoke tome 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. IshowedmypassportandhandedoverthecreditcardIhadbeengiven.“You have a room for four nights, Mr Gregorovich,” the receptionist confirmed. ThatwouldtakemetoSaturday.MyplanebacktoItalyleftJohnF.KennedyAirportateleveno’clockinthemorningthatday.“Thankyou,”Isaid.“You’reinroom605onthesixthfloor.Haveaniceday.”Duringmytraining,Oliverd’ArchadtoldmethestoryofanIsraeliagentworkingundercover inDubai.Hehadgot into a liftwith sevenpeople.Oneof themhadbeenhis bestfriend. The otherswere an elderly Frenchwomanwhowas staying at the hotel, a blindman, a young honeymooning couple, a woman in a burka and a chambermaid. The liftdoorshadclosedandthatwasthemomentwhenhediscoveredthatallofthem–includinghisfriend–wereworkingforal-Qaeda.Whentheliftdoorsopenedagain,hewasdead.Itookthestairstomyfloorandwaitedformycasetobebroughtup.The roomwas small, clean, functional. I saton thebeduntil the case came, tipped theporterandunpacked.BeforeIleftMalagosto,GordonRosshadsuppliedmewithacoupleoftheitemswhichhehadshownusduringourlessonsandwhichhehopedwouldhelpmewithmywork.Thefirstofthesewasatravellingalarmclock.Itookitoutofmysuitcaseand flicked a switch concealed in the back. It scanned the entire room, searching forelectromagnetic signals… inotherwords,bugs.Thereweren’t any.The roomwas clean.Next,Itookoutasmalltaperecorder,whichIstucktothebackofthefridge.WhenIlefttheroom,itwouldrecordanyonewhocamein.Atteno’clockexactly,therewerethreeknocksonthedoor.Iwentoverandopenedittofindanelderly,grey-hairedman, smartlydressed ina suitwitha coathangingopen.Hehadaneatbeard,alsogrey.Ifyouhadmethiminthestreetyoumighthavethoughthewasaprofessororperhapsanofficialinaforeignembassy.“MrGregorovich?”heasked.It was all so strange. I was still getting used to being called “Mr”. I nodded. “You’reMarcus?”Hedidn’tanswerthat.“Thisisforyou,”hesaid,handingmeaparcel,wrappedinbrownpaper. “I’ll call back tomorrow night at the same time. By then, I hope, you’ll haveeverythingplannedout.OK?”“Right,”Isaid.“Nicemeetingyou.”Heleft.Itooktheparcelovertothebedandopenedit.ThesizeandweighthadalreadytoldmewhatIwasgoingtofindinsideand,sureenough,thereitwas–aSmith&Wesson

4546,anuglybutefficientsemi-automaticpistolthatlookedoldandwellused.Theserialnumber hadbeen filed off,making it impossible to trace. I checked the clip. It had beendeliveredwithsixbullets.Sothereitwas.Ihadthetarget.Ihadtheweapon.AndIhadjustfourdaystomakethekill.The following morning, I stood outside the offices of Clarke Davenport, which werelocatedon thenineteenth floorofa skyscraper inMidtownManhattan,quiteclose to thehuge,whitemarblestructureofStPatrick’sCathedral.Thiswasquiteusefultome.Achurchisoneofthefewplacesinacitywhereitispossibletolingerwithoutlookingoutofplace.Fromthesteps,Iwasabletoexaminethebuildingoppositeatleisure,watchingthepeoplestreaming in and out of the three revolving doors, wondering if I might catch sight ofKathrynDavisamongthem.Iwasgladshedidnotappear.IwasnotsureifIwasreadyforthisyet.PartofmewasworriedthatIneverwouldbe.Thesecretofa successfulkill is toknowyour target.Thatwaswhat Ihadbeen taught.Youhavetolearntheirmovements,theirdailyroutine,therestaurantswheretheyeat,thefriends they meet, their tastes, their weaknesses, their secrets. The more you know, theeasier it will be to find a time and an opportunity and the less chance there will be ofmakingamistake.YoumightnotthinkIwouldlearnagreatdealfromstaringatabuildingforfivehours,butattheendofthattimeIfeltmyselfconnectedtoit.IhadtakennoteoftheCCTVcameras. Ihadcountedhowmanypolicemenhadwalkedpastonpatrol. Ihadseenthemaintenancemengoinandhadnotedwhichcompanytheyworkedfor.At half past five that afternoon, just as the rush to get home had begun and wheneveryone would be at their most tired and impatient, I presented myself at the mainreceptiondesk,wearingtheoverallsofanengineerfromBedford(LongIsland)Electricity.Ihadvisitedthecompanyearlierthatafternoon–itwasactuallyinBrooklyn–pretendingthat I was looking for a job and it had been simple enough to steal a uniform and anassortmentofdocuments.Ihadthenreturnedtomyhotel,whereIhadmanufacturedanIDtagusingasquarecutoutfromacompanynewsletterandapictureofmyself,whichIhadtaken in a photo booth. Thewhole thingwas contained in a plastic holder,which I haddeliberately scratched andmade dirty so that it would be difficult to see.Maintaining afalseidentityismainlyaboutmentalattitude.Yousimplyhavetobelieveyouarewhoyousayyouare.YoucanshowsomeoneatravelcardandtheywillacceptitaspoliceIDifyoudoitwithenoughauthority.AnotherlessonfromMalagosto.The receptionistwas a very plumpwomanwith her eye already fixed on the oversizedclock that was built into the wall opposite her. There was a security man, in uniform,standingnearby.“BLIElectrics,”Isaid.IspokewithaNewYorkaccent,whichhadtakenmemanyhours,workingwithtapes,toacquire.“We’vegotaheatingunitdown…”Ipretendedtoconsultmyworksheet.“ClarkeDavenport.”“Idon’tthinkI’veseenyoubefore,”thewomansaid.“That’s right,ma’am.” I showed hermy pass, at the same time holding her eye so shewouldn’tlookatittooclosely.“It’smyfirstweekinthejob.Andit’smyfirstjob,”Iaddedproudly.“Ionlygraduatedthissummer.”Shesmiledatme.Iguessedthatshehadchildrenofherown.“It’sthenineteenthfloor,”shesaid.

Thesecuritymanevencalledtheliftforme.Itookitasfarastheeighteenthfloor,thengotoutandmademywaytothestairwell.ItwasstilltooearlyandIhadafeelinglawyerswouldn’tkeepnormalofficehours.Iwaitedanhour,listeningtothesoundsinthebuilding…peoplesayinggoodbyetoeachother,thechimesoftheliftsasthedoorsopenedandshut.Itwasdarkbynowandwithabitofluckthe building would be empty apart from the cleaners. I walked up one floor and foundmyselfinthereceptionareaofClarkeDavenportwithtwosilverletters–CandD–onthewall. Therewasnoone there.The lightswereburning low.Apair of frosted glass doorsopenedontoalongcorridor,a lengthofplushbluecarpet leadingclientspastconferencerooms with leather chairs and tables polished like mirrors. My feet made no sound as Imademyway through an open-plan area filledwith desks, computers andphotocopyingmachines,butasIreachedthefarendIsawamovementoutofthecornerofmyeyeandsuddenlyIwasbeingchallenged.“CanIhelpyou?”Ihadn’tseentheyoung,tired-lookingwomanwhohadbeenbendingdownbesideafilingcabinet.Shewaswearingacoatandscarf,abouttoleave,butshehadn’tgoneyetandIhadallowedhertoseeme.Myheartsankatsuchcarelessness.IcouldalmosthearSeftonNyeshoutingatme.“Thewatercooler,”Imuttered,pointingdownthecorridor.“Oh.Sure.”Shehadfoundthefileshewaslookingforandstraightenedup.Icontinuedwalking.Withabitofluck,shewouldn’tevenrememberwe’dmet.AlltheofficesatClarkeDavenporthadthenamesoftheiroccupantsprintednexttothedoors.Thatwashelpful.KathrynDaviswasatthefarend.ShemusthavebeenimportanttothecompanyasshehadbeengivenacornerofficewithviewsoverFifthAvenueandthecathedral.Thedoorwaslockedbutthatwasnolongeraproblemforme.UsingapickandatensionwrenchIhaditopeninfivesecondsandletmyselfintoatypicallawyer’sofficewithanantiquedesk,twochairsfacingit,ashelffullofbooks,aleathersofawithacoffeetableandvariouspicturesofmountainscenery. I turnedonherdesk lamp. ItmighthavebeensafertouseatorchbutIdidn’tintendtostayherelongandhavingproperlightwouldmakeeverythingeasier.Iwentstraighttothedesk.Therewasaframedphotographofthewomanwithhertwochildren,agirlandaboy,agedaboutfourteenandtwelve.Theywereallwearinghikinggear.Therewasnothingofanyinterestinherdrawers.Iopenedherdiary.Shehadclientmeetingsallweek,lunchesbookedinthefollowingdayandonFridaysomesortofeveningengagement.Theentryread:

MET7.00p.m.Dhome

Iquicklycheckedouttherestoftheroom.Allthebookswereaboutlawexceptfortwoonthe coffee table which contained reproductions of famous paintings. She also had acataloguefromanauctionhouse…asaleofmodernart.Briefly,Ibrushedmyfingersoverthesofa, trying togetasenseof thewomanwhomighthavesaton it.But the truthwasthattheofficetoldmeonlysomuchaboutKathrynDavis.Ithadbeendesignedthatway,topresentaserious,professionalimagetotheclientswhocameherebutnothingmore.Evenso, IhadgotwhatIhadcomefor. Iknewwhenandwherethekillingwouldtakeplace.Iwasbackinmyhotelroomandatexactlyteno’clocktherewasaknockatthedoor.ThemanwhocalledhimselfMarcushadreturned.Thistimehecamein.“Well?”Hewaitedformetospeak.“Fridaynight,”Isaid.“CentralPark.”Ithadn’ttakenmelongtoworkoutthediaryentry,evenwithoutadetailedknowledgeofthe city. The art books on the table had been the clue. MET obviously meant theMetropolitanMuseumofArt, aNewYork landmark. I had already telephoned them anddiscovered that there was indeed a private function at the museum that night for theAmerican Bar Association… Kathryn Davis would certainly be a member. The D in thediarywasherhusband,David.Hewasgoingtobehome,babysitting.Shewouldbethereonherown.IexplainedthistoMarcus.Hisfacegavenothingawaybutheseemedtoapproveoftheidea.“You’regoingtoshootherinthepark?”heasked.“Howdoyouknowshewon’ttakeacab?”“She likeswalking,” I said.Thehikinggearand themountainphotographshad toldmethat. “And look at themap. She lives inWest 85th Street. That’s just a ten-minute strollacrossthepark.”“Whatifit’sraining?”“ThenI’llhavetodoitwhenshecomesout.ButI’velookedattheforecastandit’sgoingtobeunusuallywarmanddry.”“You’relucky.Thistimelastyearitwassnowing.”Marcusnodded.“Allright.Itsoundsasif you’ve got it all worked out. If things go according to plan, youwon’t seeme again.ThrowthegunintotheHudson.Makesureyou’reonthatSaturdayplane.Goodluck.”Youshouldneverrelyonluck.Ninetimesoutoftenitwillbeyourenemyandifyouneedit,itmeansyou’vebeencarelesswithyourplanning.IwasbackoutsideStPatrick’sCathedralthenextdayandthistimeIdidglimpseKathrynDavisasshegotoutofataxiandwentintothebuilding.ShewasshorterthanIhadguessedfrom her photographs. She was wearing a smart, beige-coloured overcoat and carried aleatherbriefcase so fullof files that shewasn’t able to close it. Seeingher joltedme inastrangeway.Iwasn’tafraid.ItseemedtomethatScorpiahaddeliberatelychosenaneasytarget formy firstassignment.But somehowthe stakeshadbeen raised. Ibegan to thinkaboutwhatIwasgoingtodo,abouttakingthelifeofapersonIhadnevermetandwhomeant nothing tome. TodaywasThursday. By the end of theweek,my lifewouldhavechangedandnothingwouldeverbe thesameagain. Iwouldbeakiller.After that, therecouldbenogoingback.

The days passed in a blur. New York was such an amazing city with its soaringarchitecture, the noise and the traffic, the shopwindows filledwith treasures, the steamrisingoutofthestreets…IwishIcouldsayIenjoyedmytimethere.ButallIcouldthinkaboutwas the job, themomentof truth thatwasgettingcloserandcloser. I continued tomake preparations. I examined the house inWest 85th Street. I saw where the childrenwent toschool. Iwent to theMetropolitanMuseumofArtandfoundtheroomwhere theprivate function would take place, checking out all the entrances and exits. I bought asiliconeclothandsomedegreaser,strippedthegundownandmadesureitwasinperfectworkingorder.Imeditated,usingmethodsIhadlearnedonMalagosto,keepingmystresslevelsdown.Friday evening was warm and dry, just as the weather office had predicted. I wasstandingoutside theofficeonFifthAvenuewhenKathrynDavis leftand I sawherhailacab. That didn’t surprise me. It was six forty-five and her destination was thirty blocksaway. I hailed a second cab and followed. It took us twentyminutes toweave ourwaythrough the traffic, and when we arrived there were crowds of smartly dressed peoplemakingtheirwayinthroughthefrontentranceofthemuseum.SomehowwehadmanagedtoovertakethetaxicarryingKathrynDavisandittookmeafewanxiousmomentstofindheragain. Shehad justmet awoman sheknewand the twoof themwerekissing in themanneroftwoprofessionalsratherthanclosefriends,notactuallytouchingeachother.AsIstoodwatching,thetwoofthemwentintogether.Iverymuchhopedthatthewomenwouldnotleavetogethertoo.IthadalwaysbeenmyassumptionthatKathrynDaviswouldwalkhomealone.Whatifherfriendofferedtoaccompanyher?Whatiftherewasawholegroupofthem?IcouldseenowthatIhadmadeamistakeleavingthekillinguntilmylastevening inNewYork. Ihad tobeonaplaneat eleveno’clock the followingmorning. Ifanythingwentwrongtonight,therecouldbenobackup.Iwouldn’tgetasecondchance.Itwastoolatetoworryaboutthatnow.Therewasalongplazainfrontofthemuseumwith an ornamental pool and three sets of steps runningup to themaindoor. I found aplace in the shadows andwaited there whilemore taxis and limousines arrived and theguestswentin.Icouldhearpianomusicplayinginside.Nobodysawme.Iwaswearingadarkcoat,whichIhadboughtinathriftshopandwhichwasone size too large forme. Ihadchosen it for thepockets,whichwerebigenough toconcealboththegunandmyhandwhichwascurvedaroundit.Itwasaneasydraw–Ihadalreadychecked.Iwouldgetridofthecoatatthesametimeasthegun.Iwasverycalm.IknewexactlywhatIwasgoingtodo.Ihadplayedoutthesceneinmymind.Ididn’tletittroubleme.Atnine-thirty,theguestsbegantoleave.Shewasoneofthefirstofthem,talkingtothesamewomanshehadmetwhenshehadarrived.Itseemedthattheyweregoingtosetofftogether. Did it really matter, the death of two women instead of one? I was about toembarkonalifewheredozens,maybehundredsofmenandwomenwoulddiebecauseofme. There would always be innocent bystanders. There would be policemen – andpolicewomen–whomighttrytostopme.IcouldalmosthearOliverd’Arctalkingtome.Themoment you startworrying about them, themoment you questionwhat you are doing –goodbye,Yassen!You’redead!Iputmyhand inmypocketand found thegun.Onewoman.Twowomen. Itmadeno

differenceatall.In fact, Kathryn Davis walked off on her own. She said something to her friend, thenturned and left. Just as I had expected, shewent round the side of themuseumand intoCentralPark.Ifollowed.Almostatoncewewereonourown,cutoff fromthe trafficonFifthAvenue, theotherguests searching for theircarsand taxis.Thewayaheadwasclear.Lightwasspillingoutfrom a huge conservatory at the back of the museum, throwing dark green shadowsbetweentheshrubsandtrees.Wecrossedasmallerroad–thisoneclosedtotraffic–thatranthroughthepark.Overtotheleft,astoneobeliskroseupinaclearing.ItwascalledCleopatra’sNeedle.Ihadstoodinfrontofitthatafternoon.Acoupleofjoggersranpast,twoyoungmenintracksuits,theirNiketrainershittingthetrackinunison.Iturnedaway,makingsuretheydidn’tseemyface.Themoonhadcomeout,paleandlistless.Itdidn’taddmuchlighttothescene.Itwasmorelikeadistantwitness.KathrynDavishadtakenoneofthepathsthatcircledthesoftballfieldswithalargepondonherleft.Sheknewexactlywhereshewasgoing,asifshehaddonethiswalkoften.Iwasabouttenpacesbehindher,slowlycatchingup,tryingtopretendthatIhadnothingtodowithher.Wewerealreadyhalfwayacross.Iwasbeginningtohearthetrafficnoiseontheotherside.Andthen,quitesuddenly,sheturnedroundandlookedatme. Iwouldnotsaythat she was scared but she was aggressive. She was using her body language to assertherself, to tellmethatshewasn’tafraidofme.Therewasanelectric lampnearbyand itreflectedinherglasses.“Excuseme,”shesaid.“Areyoufollowingme?”The two of us were quite alone. The joggers had gone. There were no other walkersanywherenear.Whatshehaddonewasreallyquitestupid.Ifshehadbecomeawareofme,whichsheclearlyhad,shewouldhavedonebettertoincreaseherpace,toreachthesafetyofthestreets. Instead,shehadsignedherdeathwarrant. Icouldshootherhereandnow.Wewerelessthantenpacesapart.“Whatdoyouwant?”shedemanded.Iwastryingtotakeoutthegun.ButIcouldn’t.ItwasjustlikewhenIhadplayedRussianroulettewithVladimirSharkovsky.Myhandwouldn’t obeyme. I felt sick. Ihadplannedeverythingsocarefully,everylastdetail.Inthelastfourdays,Ihaddonenothingelse.Butallthetime,Ihadignoredmyownfeelingsanditwasonlynow,here,thatIrealizedthetruth.Iwasnot,afterall,akiller.Thiswomanwasaboutthesameageasmyownmother.She had two children of her own. If I shot her down, simply for money, what sort ofmonsterwouldthatmakeme?Ifyoudon’tkillher,Scorpiawillkillyou,avoicewhisperedinmyear.Letthem,Ireplied.Itwouldbebettertobedeadthantobecomewhattheywant.“Whoareyou?”KathrynDavisasked.“I’m no one,” I said. I tookmy hands out ofmy coat pockets, showing that theywereempty.“Iwasjustwalking.”Sherelaxedalittle.“Well,maybeyoushouldkeepyourdistance.”“Sure.I’msorry.Ididn’tmeantoscareyou.”“Yeah–OK.”Shestoodthere,watchingme,waitingformetogo.Iquicklywalkedpasther,thenturned

offinanotherdirection.Ididn’tlookback.Inside,Ifeltglad.Thatwasthesimpletruth.Iwashappythatshewasstillalive.Iwasawareofasenseofhugerelief,asifIhadjustfoughtabattlewithmyselfandwon.IsawnowthatfromthemomentIhadclimbedintothehelicopterwithRykov–orMr Grant – I had been sinking into some sort of mental quicksand. Mrs Rothman inVenice. SeftonNye,Hatsumi Saburo andOliver d’Arc onMalagosto… they had all beendrawingmeintoit.Theywerelikeadisease.AndIhadcomesoclosetobeinginfected.Ihad been about to kill somebody! If Kathryn Davis had not turned and spoken tome, ImightwellhavedonewhatIhadbeentold.Imighthavecommittedmurder.ThesoundofthegunshotwasnotloudbutitwascloseandmyfirstthoughtwasthatIhadbeentargeted.ButevenasIdroppedtooneknee,drawingouttheSmith&Wesson,Iknewthat the directionwaswrong, that the bullet had not come close. At thatmoment Iwashelpless. I had lostmy focus, the vital self-knowledge – who I am, where I am, what isaroundme–thatSaburohaddrummedintomeahundredtimes.Anyonecouldhavepickedmeoff.KathrynDaviswasdead.Isawitatonce.Shehadbeenshotinthebackoftheheadandlayonacircleofdarkgrass,herarmsandlegsstretchedoutintheshapeofastar.Therewassomeonewalkingtowardsher,wearingacoatandblackgloves,aguninhishand. Irecognizedtheneatbeard,theunworriedeyes.ItwasMarcus,themanwhohadmetmeatthehotel.Hecheckedthebody,noddedtohimself.Thenhesawme.Hehadhisgun.Ihadmine.ButI saw instantly that therewas no question of our firing at each other. He looked atmealmostsadly.“Makesureyou’reonthatplanetomorrow,”hesaid.Iwantedtotalktohim.Iwantedtoexplainwhathadhappened,howIfelt,buthehadalreadyturnedhisbackonmeandwaswalkingawayintotheshadows. InthedistanceIheardthewailofapolicesiren.Itmighthavenothingtodowithwhathadhappenedhere.Evenifsomeonehadheardtheshot,theywouldn’tknowwhereithadcomefrom.Butitstillwarnedmethatitwastimetogo.IwalkedoutoftheparkandallthewaytotheHudsonRiverwiththedarkenedmassofNewJerseyinfrontofme.Itookoutthegunandweigheditinmyhand,feelingnothingbutloathing…foritandformyself.Atthesametime,Iwasawareofthefirststirringsoffear.Iwouldpayforthis.Ithrewthegunintotheriver.ThenIwentbacktothehotel.Thefollowingday,IleftforVenice.

ВТОРОЙШАНС

SECONDCHANCE

“Ihavetosay,Yassen,weareextremelydisappointedwithyou.”SeftonNyewassittingbehindthedeskinhisdarkenedoffice,hishandscomingtogetherinapeakinfrontofhisfaceasifhewereatprayer.Asinglelightshoneabovehishead,reflecting inthepolishedbrassbuttonsonthesleevesofhisblazer.Hisheavy,whiteeyeswere fixed onme. Hewas surrounded by photographs of leering pirates, trapped in theheadlinesof theworldnews.His family.Hewasasruthlessas theywereandIwonderedwhyIwasstillalive.InSilverForest,anassassinsentbyScorpiahadmadeamistake.HehademptiedhisgunintoVladimirSharkovskybuthadfailedtofinishhimoffandforthathehadbeenexecutedrightinfrontofmyeyes.ButIwasstillhere.Oliverd’Arcwasalsointhe room, his hands folded in his lap. He had chosen a chair close to the door, as if hewantedtokeepasfarawayfrommeaspossible.“Whatdoyouhavetosay?”Nyeasked.Ihadpreparedforthisscene,ontheplanetoRome,thetraintoVenice,theboatacrossthelagoon.ButnowthatIwasactuallysittinghere,nowthatitwashappening,itwasveryhardtokeepholdofeverythingIhadrehearsed.“YouknewIwasn’t ready,” I said. Iwascareful tokeepmyvoiceverymatter-of-fact. Ididn’twantthemtothinkIwasaccusingthem.Theimportantthingwastodefendmyselfwithoutseemingtodoso.Thatwasmyplan.IfItriedtomakeexcuses,itwouldallbeoverandMarat or Samwould spend the evening buryingme in thewoods. I was here for areason. I still had to provemyself. “Your agent followedme,” Iwent on. “Therewas nootherreasonforhimtobeinCentralPark.AndIwasneverneeded.Hewouldhavedonethejob…whichisexactlywhathappened.IthinkyouknewIwouldfail.”D’Arc twitched slightly.Nye saidnothing.His eyeswere still boring intome. “It is truethat Dr Steinerwas not satisfiedwith your progress,” he intoned at last. “Hewarned usthere was a seventy per cent probability that you would be unable to fulfil yourassignment.”I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. Dr Steiner had been hired because he knewwhathewasdoingand,despitemyattemptstofoolhim,hehadreadmelikeabook.“IfIwasn’tready,whydidyouletmego?”Iasked.Veryslowly,Nyenoddedhishead.“Youhaveapoint,Yassen.Partofthereasonwesentyou to New York was an experiment. We wanted to see how you would operate underpressureand,insomerespects,youhandledyourselfquitewell.Yousuccessfullybrokeintothe offices of Clarke Davenport, although it might have been wise to change yourappearance…perhaps the colour of yourhair.Also, youwere seenby a secretary. Thatwascareless.However,wecanoverlookthat.YoudidwelltoworkoutthemovementsofyourtargetandCentralParkwasasensiblechoice.”“Butyoudidn’tkillher!”d’Arcmuttered.Hesoundedangry,likeanoldladywhohasbeenkeptwaitingforherafternoontea.“Whydidyoufail?”Nyeaskedme.

Ithoughtforamoment.“Ithinkitwasbecauseshespoketome,”Isaid.“Ihadseenherphotograph. I had followed her from the office. But when she spoke to me… suddenlyeverythingchanged.”“Doyouthinkyouwilleverbeabletodothiswork?”“Ofcourse.Nexttimewillbedifferent.”“Whatmakesyouthinktherewillbeanexttime?”Anothersilence.ThetwomenweremakingmesweatbutIdidn’tthinktheyweregoingtokillme.IalreadyhadasenseofhowScorpiaoperated.IftheyhaddecidedIwasnousetothem,theywouldn’thavebotheredbringingmebacktotheisland.MarcuscouldhaveshotmedownwiththesamegunhehadusedonKathrynDavis. Icouldhavebeenstabbedorstrangled on the boat anddropped overboard. Thesewere peoplewhodidn’twaste theirtime.NyecouldseethatIhadworkeditout.“Allright,”hesaid.“Wewilldrawalineunderthisunfortunateevent.Youareveryfortunate,Yassen,thatMrsRothmanhastakenapersonallikingtoyou.It’salsotoyouradvantagethatyou’vehadsuchexcellentreportsfromyourinstructors. EvenDr Steiner believes there is something special about you.We think thatyoumayonedaybecometheverybestinyourprofession–andwhateverthereputationofour organization, we haven’t forgotten that you are very young. Everyone deserves asecondchance.Justbeawarethattherewon’tbeathird.”Ididn’tthankhim.Itwouldonlyhaveannoyedhim.“Wehavedecidedtotakeyourtrainingupanotch.Weareawarethatyouneedtomakeamentaladjustmentandsowewantyoutogobackoutintothefieldassoonaspossible–butthistimeinthecompanyofanotheragent,anewrecruit.Heisamanwhohasalreadykilledforusontwooccasions.Bystayingclosetohim,youwilllearnsurvivaltechniques,butmorethanthatwehopehewillbeabletoprovideyouwiththeedgethatyouseemtolack.”“Heisaremarkableman,”d’Arcadded.“ABritishsoldierwhohasseenactioninIrelandandAfrica.Ithinkthetwoofyouwillgetonfamously.”“YouwillhavedinnerwithhimtonightinVenice,”Nyesaid.“Andyouwillspendafewweekstrainingwithhim,hereontheisland.Assoonasheagreesthatyouareready,thetwoofyouwillleavetogether.FirstyouwillbegoingtoSouthAmerica,toPeru.Hehasatarget there andwe’re just arranging the final details.Assuming that goeswell, youwillreturntoEuropeandtherewillbeasecondassignment,inParis.Themoretimeyouspendtogether,thebetter.There’sonlysomuchyoucanachieveintheclassroom.Ithinkyouwillfindthisexperiencetobeinvaluable.”“What’shisname?”Iasked.“Whenyouaretravellingtogether,youwilladdresseachotherusingcodenamesonly,”Nye replied.Wehavechosenagoodone foryou.YouwillbeCossack.Therewasa timewhentheCossackswere famoussoldiers.TheywereRussian, just likeyou,andtheyweremuchfeared.Ihopeitwillinspireyou.”Inodded.“Andhis?”Amansteppedforward.Hehadbeenstandingintheroom,observingmeallthetime,lostin the shadows. It seemed incredible to me that I hadn’t noticed him but at the samemomentIunderstoodthathemustbeamaster intheninjatechniquestaughtbyHatsumi

Saburo,thathewasabletohideinplainsight.Hewasinhislatetwentiesandstilllookedlikeasoldierinhisphysique,inthewayhecarriedhimself,inhisclose-cutbrownhair.Hiseyeswerealsobrown,watchfulandserious,yetwithjustahintofhumour.Hewaswearingasweatshirtandjeans.Evenashewalkedtowardsme,IsawthathewasmorerelaxedthananyoneIhadmetontheisland.BothNyeandOliverD’Arcseemedalmostnervousofhim.Hewastotallyincontrol.Hereachedoutahand.Ishookit.Hehadafirmclasp.“Hello,Yassen,”hesaid.“I’mJohnRider.Thecodenamethey’vegivenmeisHunter.”

ОХОТНИК

HUNTER

WhatisitaboutAlexRider?TheStormbreakerbusinessmayhavebeenthefirsttimewecrossedpaths,butitseemstome that our lives were like two mirrors placed opposite each other, reflecting endlesspossibilities.It’sstrangethatwhenImethisfather,Alexhadn’tevenbeenborn.Thatwasstill a few months away. But those months, my time with John Rider, made a hugedifference tome.Hewasn’teven tenyearsolder thanmebut fromthevery start Iknewthat he had come from a completely differentworld and thatwewould never be on thesamelevel.Iwouldalwayslookuptohim.WehaddinnerthatnightatarestaurantheknewneartheArsenale,adark,quietplacerun by a scowling woman who spoke no English and dressed in black. The food wasexcellent.Hunterhadchosenaboothinthecorner,tuckedawaybehindapillar,somewherewewouldnotbeoverheard.Icallhimthatbecauseitwasthenamehetoldmetousefromthe very start. He had good reason to hide his identity – there had been stories writtenabouthimintheBritishpress–andtherewaslesschanceofmylettingitslipoutifitneveroncecrossedmylips.He ordered drinks – not alcohol but a red fruit syrupmade from pomegranates calledgrenadine,whichIhadnevertastedbefore.HespokegoodItalian,thoughwithanaccent.AndjustasIhadnotedatourfirstmeeting,hehadanextraordinaryeaseabouthim,thatquietconfidence.Hewasthesortofmanyoucouldn’thelpliking.Eventheelderlyownerwarmedupalittleasshetooktheorder.“I want you to tell me about yourself,” he said as the first course – pink slivers ofprosciutto ham and chilled melon – was served. “I’ve read your file. I know what’shappenedtoyou.ButIdon’tknowyou.”“I’mnotsurewheretostart,”Isaid.“Whatwasthebestpresentanyoneevergaveyou?”Thequestionsurprisedme.ItwasthelastthinganyoneonMalagostowouldhaveaskedorwouldhavewantedtoknow.Ihadtothinkforamoment.“I’mnotsure,”Isaid.“MaybeitwasthebicycleIwasgivenwhenIwaseleven.Itwasimportanttomebecauseeveryoneinthevillagehadone.Itputmeonthesamelevelasalltheotherboysanditsetmefree.”Ithoughtagain. “No. Itwas this.” I slidback thecuffofmy jacket. Iwas stillwearingmyPobedawatch.Afterthelossofmymother’sjewels,itwastheonlypartofmyoldlifethathadremainedwithme.Inaway,itwasquiteextraordinarythatIstillhadit,thatIhadn’tbeen forced to pawn it inMoscow or had it stolen fromme by Ivan at the dacha. Aftereverything I had been through, it was still working, ticking away and never losing aminute.“Itwasmygrandfather’s,”Iexplained.“He’dgivenittomyfatherandmyfatherpasseditontomeafterhedied.Iwasnineyearsold.IwasveryproudthathethoughtIwasreadyforit,andnow,whenIlookatit,itremindsmeofhim.”“Tellmeaboutyourgrandfather.”“I don’t really remember him. I only knew himwhenwewere inMoscow andwe left

when Iwas two.Heonly came toEstrov a few times andhediedwhen Iwas young.” Ithoughtofthewifehehadleftbehind.Mygrandmother.ThelasttimeIhadseenher,shehadbeenatthesink,peelingpotatoes.Almostcertainlyshewouldhavebeenstandingtherewhentheflamesengulfedthehouse.“Myfathersaidhewasagreatman,”Irecalled.“HewasthereatStalingradin1943.HefoughtagainsttheNazis.”“Youadmirehimforthat?”“Ofcourse.”“Whatisyourfavouritefood?”Iwonderedifhewasbeingserious.Washeplayingpsychologicalgameswithme,likeDrSteiner? “Caviar,” I replied. I had tasted it at dinner parties at the dacha. VladimirSharkovskyusedtoeatmoundsofit,washeddownwithicedvodka.“Whichshoelacedoyoutiefirst?”“Whyareyouaskingmethesequestions?”Isnapped.“Areyouangry?”Ididn’tdenyit.“WhatdoesitmatterwhichshoelaceItiefirst?”Isaid.Iglancedbrieflyatmy trainers. “My right foot.OK? I’m right-handed.Nowareyougoing toexplainexactlywhatthattellsyouaboutwhoIam?”“Relax,Cossack.”HesmiledatmeandalthoughIwasstillpuzzled,Ifounditdifficulttobeannoyedwithhimforverylong.Perhapshewasplayingwithmebuttheredidn’tseemtobeanythingmaliciousaboutit.Iwaitedtohearwhathewouldasknext.Again,hetookmebysurprise.“WhydoyouthinkyouwereunabletokillthatwomaninNewYork?”heasked.“Youalreadyknow,”Isaid.“YouwereinthestudywhenItoldSeftonNye.”“You said it was because she spoke to you. But I don’t think I believe you … notcompletely. Fromwhat I understand, you couldhave gunnedher downat any time.Youcouldhavedoneitwhensheturnedthecornerfromthemuseum.YouwerecertainlycloseenoughtoherwhenyouwereatCleopatra’sNeedle.”“Icouldn’tdoitthen.Thereweretwopeoplerunning,joggers…”“Iknow.Iwasoneofthem.”“What?”Iwasstartled.“Don’tworryaboutit,Cossack.SeftonNyeaskedmetotakealookatyousoIwasthere.Weflewhereonthesameplane.”Heraisedhisglassasifhewastoastingmeanddrank.“The fact is that you had plenty of opportunities. You know that. You waited until sheturnedroundandtalkedtoyou.Ithinkyouwantedhertotalktoyoubecauseitwouldgiveyouanexcuse.Ithinkyou’dalreadymadeupyourmind.”Hewasn’texactlyaccusingme.Therewasnothinginhisfacethatsuggestedhewasdoinganythingmore than stating the obvious. But I foundmyself reddening.Although IwouldneverhaveadmittedittoNyeord’Arc,itwaspossiblehewasright.“Iwon’tfailagain,”Isaid.“Iknow,”hereplied.“Andlet’snottalkaboutitanymore.You’renotbeingpunished.I’mheretotryandhelp.SotellmeaboutVenice.Ihaven’thadachancetoexploreityet.AndI’dbeinterestedtohearwhatyouthinkaboutJuliaRothman.Quiteawoman,wouldn’tyousay…?”Thesecondcoursearrived,aplateofhome-madespaghettiwithfreshsardines.Inmytime

onMalagosto, I had come to love Italian foodand I said so.Hunter smiledbut I got thestrangefeelingthat,onceagain,Ihadsaidthewrongthing.For the next hour we talked together, avoiding anything to do with Malagosto, mytraining, Scorpia or anything else. He didn’t tell me very much about himself but hementionedthathelivedinLondonandIaskedhimlotsofquestionsaboutthecity,whichIhad always hoped to visit. The one thing he let slip was that he had been married –although I shouldhavenoticedmyself.Hehad aplain gold ringonhis fourth finger.Hedidn’tsayanythingabouthiswifeandIwonderedifhewasdivorced.Thebillarrived.“It’stimetogoback,”Huntersaidashecountedoutthecash.“Butbeforewego,IthinkIshouldtellyousomething,Cossack.Scorpiahavehighhopesforyou.Theythinkyouhavethemakingsofa first-rateassassin. Idon’tagree. Iwouldsayyouhavealongwaytogobeforeyou’reready.It’spossibleyouneverwillbe.”“Howcanyousaythat?” I replied. Iwascompletely thrown. Ihadenjoyedtheeveningandthoughttherewassomesortofunderstandingbetweenthetwoofus.Itwasasifhehadturnedroundandslappedmeintheface.“Youhardlyknowme,”Isaid.“You’ve toldmeenough.”He leant towardsmeand suddenlyhewasdeadly serious.Atthatmoment,Iknewthathewasdangerous,thatIcouldneverrelaxcompletelywhenIwaswithhim. “Youwant tobea contractkiller?”heasked. “Everyansweryougavemewaswrong. You tie your shoelaces with your right hand. You are right-handed. A successfulassassinwillbeascomfortableshootingwithhis righthandaswithhis left.Hehas tobeinvisible.Hehasnohabits.Everythinghedoesinhislife,rightdowntothesmallestdetail,he does differently every time. Themoment his enemies learn something about him, theeasieritistofindhim,toprofilehim,totraphim.“Sothatmeansyoucan’thavepreferences.NotFrenchfood,notItalianfood.Ifyouhavea favourite meal, a favourite drink, a favourite anything, that gives your enemyammunition.Cossackisfondofcaviar.DoyouknowhowmanyshopsthereareinLondonthat sell caviar, howmany restaurants that serve it?Notmany. The intelligence servicesmaynotknowyourname.Theymaynotknowwhatyoulooklike.Butiftheydiscoveryourtastes,they’llbewatchingandyou’llhavemadeitthatmucheasierforthemtofindyou.“You talk tome about your grandfather. Forget him. He’s dead and you have nothingmore todowithhim. Ifhe’sanything toyou,he’syourenemybecause if the intelligenceservicescanfindhim,they’lldighimupandtakehisDNAandthatwillleadthemtoyou.WhyareyousoproudofthefactthathefoughtagainsttheNazis?Isitbecausethey’rethebadguys?Forgetit!You’rethebadguynow…asbadasanyofthem.Infact,you’reworsebecauseyouhavenobeliefs.Youkillsimplybecauseyou’repaid.Andwhileyou’reatit,youmightaswellstoptalkingaboutNazis,Communists,Fascists,theKuKluxKlan…Asfarasyou’reconcerned,youhavenopoliticsandeverypoliticalpartyisthesame.Younolongerbelieve in anything, Cossack. You don’t even believe in God. That is the choice you’vemade.”Hepaused.“WhydidyoublushwhenIaskedyouaboutNewYork?”“Becauseyouwereright.”WhatelsecouldIsay?“Youshowedyourfeelingstomehere,atthistable.You’reembarrassedsoyoublush.YougotangrywhenIaskedyouaboutyourlacesandyoushowedthattoo.Areyougoingtocry

whenyoumeetyournexttarget?Areyougoingtotremblewhenyou’reinterviewedbythepolice?Ifyoucannotlearntohideyouremotions,youmightaswellgiveupnow.Andthenthere’syourwatch…”Iknewhewouldcometothat.IwishednowthatIhadn’tmentionedit.“You are Cossack, the invisible killer. You’ve been successful in NewYork, in Paris, inPeru.ButthepoliceexaminetheCCTVfootageandwhatdotheysee?Somebodywasthereatallthreescenesand–guesswhat!–theywerewearingaRussianwatch,aPobeda.Youmightaswellleaveavisitingcardnexttothebody.”Heshookhishead.“Ifyouwanttobeinthisbusiness,sentimentalityisthelastthingyoucanafford.Trustme,itwillkillyou.”“Iunderstand,”Isaid.“I’mglad.Didyouenjoythemeal?”Iwasabouttoanswer.ThenIhadsecondthoughts.“Perhapsit’sbetterifIdon’ttellyou,”Isaid.Hunternoddedandgottohisfeet.“Well,youwolfeditdownfastenough.Let’sgetbacktotheisland.TomorrowIwanttoseeyoufight.”

Hemademefightlikenooneelse.The nextmorning, at nine o’clock,wemet in the gymnasium. The roomwas long andnarrowwithwalls thatcurvedoverheadandwindowsthatwere toohighuptoprovideaview.When thereweremonkson the island, thismighthavebeenwhere they took theirmeals, sitting in silence and contemplation. But since then it had been adaptedwith arclights,stadiumseatingandafightingareafourteenmetressquaremadeupofatatamimatthatofferedlittlecomfortwhenyoufell.Wewerebothdressedinkarate-gi,thewhite,loose-fitting tunics and trousers used in karate.Hatsumi Saburowaswatching fromone of thestands.Icouldtellthathewasnothappy.Hewassittingwithhislegsapart,hishandsonhis knees, almost challenging the new arrival to take him on.Marat and Samwere alsothere, alongwithanewstudentwhohad just joinedus, ayoungChineseguywhoneverspokeawordtomeandwhosenameIneverlearnt.Wewalkedontothemattogetherandstoodfacetoface.Hunterwasaboutthreeinchestaller thanmeandheavier,moremuscular. Iknewhewouldhaveanadvantageovermeboth in his physical reach and in the fact that he was more experienced. He began bybowing towards me, the traditional rei that is the first thing every combatant learns atkarate school. I bowed back.And thatwasmy firstmistake. I didn’t even see themove.SomethingslammedintothesideofmyfaceandsuddenlyIwasonmyback,tastingbloodwhereIhadbittenmytongue.Hunterleantoverme.“Whatdoyouthinkthisis?”hedemanded.“Youthinkwe’reheretoplay games, to be polite to each other? That’s your firstmistake, Cossack. You shouldn’ttrustme.Don’ttrustanyone.”He reached out a hand to help me to my feet. I took it – but instead of getting up Isuddenly changedmy grip, pulling him towardsme and pressing down on his wrist. I’dadapted a ninjutsu move known as Ura Gyaku, or the Inside Twist, and it should havebroughthimspinningontothemat.IthoughtIheardagruntofsatisfactionfromHSbutitmight just as well have been derision because Hunter had been expectingmymove andslammedhisknee intomyupperarm. If Ihadn’t let go,he’dhavebroken it. Instantly, Irolledaside,justmissingafootstrikethatwhistledpastmyhead.Asecondlater,Iwason

myfeet.Thetwoofussquaredupagain,bothofustakingtheNumberOnePosture–armsraised,ourbodiesturnedsoastoprovidethesmallesttargetpossible.IlearntmoreinthenexttwentyminutesthanIhadinmyentiretimeonMalagosto.No.That’s notquite true.WithHSandMrNye Ihadacquireda thoroughgrounding in judo,karateandninjutsu.Inanincrediblyshortamountoftime,theyhadtakenmeallthewayfromnovicetothirdorfourthkyu–whichistosay,brownorwhitebelt.Iwouldspendtherestofmylifebuildingonwhattheyhadgivenme,andtheywerebothfaraheadofHunterwhenitcametobasicmartialartstechniques.Buthehadsomethingtheyhadn’t.AsOliverd’Archadtoldme,HunterhadseenactionasasoldierinAfricaandIreland.IwouldlaterlearnthathehadbeenwiththeParachuteRegiment,arapidinterventionstrikeforceandoneof the toughestoutfits in theBritishArmy.Heknewhow to fight inaway that theydidn’t.Theytaughtmetherulesbuthebrokethem.Inthatfirstfightwehadtogether,hedidthingsthatsimplyshouldn’thaveworkedbutsomehowdid.OnceortwiceIglimpsedHSshaking his head in disbelief, watching his own training manual being torn up. I wasknockeddowncountlesstimesandnotoncedidIseethemovecoming.NothingIhadbeentaughtseemedtoworkagainsthim.After twentyminutes,he steppedbackand signalled that the fightwasover. “All right,Cossack, that will do for now.” He smiled and held out a hand – as if to say “no hardfeelings”. I reachedoutand took it,but this time Iwas ready.Beforehecould throwme,whichofcoursewaswhatheintended,Itwistedround,usinghisownweightagainsthim.Hunterdisappearedovermyshoulderandcrasheddownontothemat.Hehadlandedonhisbackbutsprangupatonce.“You’re learning.”He smiled his approval, thenwalked away, snatching up a bottle ofwater.Iwatchedhim,gratefulthatintheverylastmomentofthefightIhadatleastdonesomethingrightandhadn’tmadeacompletefoolofmyselfinfrontofmyteachers.Atthesametimeitcrossedmymindthathemightactuallyhaveallowedmetobringhimdown,simplytoletmesaveface.IhadlikedandadmiredHunterwhenIhadeatenwithhimthenight before. But now I felt a sort of closeness to him. I was determined not to let himdown.Wespentalotoftimetogetheroverthenextfewweeks–running,swimming,competingontheassaultcourse,facingeachotherwithmorehand-to-handcombatinthegym.HewasalsotrainingtheotherrecruitsandIknowthattheyfeltexactlythesamewayabouthimasIdid.Hewasanaturalteacher.Whetheritwastargetpracticeornight-timescuba-diving,he brought out the best in us. JuliaRothmanwas also an admirer. The twoof themhaddinnerseveraltimeswhenshereturnedtoVenice,althoughIwasneverinvited.IhavetosaythatIwasnotverycomfortableonMalagosto.ItwasasifIhadleftschoolafter takingmyexamsonlyto findmyself inexplicablybackagain.Everyoneknewthat Ihadfailed inNewYork.Andtimewasmovingon.Mynineteenthbirthdayhadcomeandgonewithoutanyonenoticingit…includingme.Itwastimetomoveon,tostandonmyowntwofeet.SoIwasverygladwhenSeftonNyecalledmetohisofficeandtoldmethatIwouldbeleavinginafewdays.“Weallagreethatthelasttimewastooearly,”hesaid.“ButonthisoccasionyouwillbetravellingwithJohnRider.Heis takingcareofsomebusiness forusand you will be there strictly as his assistant. You will do everything he says. Do you

understand?”“Yes.”Hehadbeenholdingmylatestreport,alltheworkofthelastfiveweeks.Iwatchedhimashe got up fromhis desk and slid it into the filing cabinet against thewall. “It is veryunusualforanyonetobegivenasecondchanceinthisorganization,”headded.Hetwistedroundandsuddenlyhewasgazingatme,hisgreat,whiteeyeschallengingme.“WecanputNew York behind us. John Rider speaks very highly of you and that’s whatmatters. It’sgood to learn from yourmistakes but Iwill give you one piece of advice, Yassen. Don’tmakeanymore.”Icouldnotsleep thatnight.TherewasastormoverVenice–nowindorrainbuthugesheetsoflightningthatflaredacrossthesky,turningthedomesandthetowersofthecityinto black cut-outs.Winterwas approaching and as I lay in bed, the curtains flapping, Icouldfeelachillintheair.Iwasexcitedaboutthemission.IwasflyingallthewaytoPeru–and if thatwentwell, Iwould findmyself inParis.But therewas somethingelse.JohnRiderhad toldmealmostnothingabouthimself. Iwas expected to followhimacross theworld,toobeyhimwithoutquestionandyetthemanwasacompletemysterytome.Washeacriminal?Hemighthavebeen in theBritishArmybutwhyhadhe left?HowhadhefoundhiswayintoScorpia?SuddenlyIwantedtoknowmoreaboutJohnRider.Itdidn’tseemfair.Afterall,he’dbeengiven my files. He knew everything about me. How could we travel together wheneverythingwassoone-sided?HowcouldIeverfacehimoneventerms?Islippedoutofbedandgotdressed.I’dmadeadecisionwithouteventhinkingitthrough.Itwasstupidanditmightbedangerousbutwhatwasmynewlifeaboutifitwasn’tabouttakingrisks?Nyekeptfilesoneveryoneinhisoffice.Ihadseenhimlockmineawayonlyafewhoursago.HewouldalsohaveafileonJohnRider.Hisofficewasontheothersideofthequadrangle, justa fewmetres fromwhere Iwas standingnow.Breaking inwouldbeeasy.Afterall,I’dbeentrained.Everyonewasasleep.NobodysawmeasIlefttheaccommodationblockandcrossedthecloistersofwhathadoncebeenthemonastery.ThedoortoNye’sofficewasn’tevenlocked.Thereweresomeontheislandwhowouldhaveregardedthatasanunforgivablebreachofsecurityanditpuzzledme–butIsupposehefelthewassafeenough.Itwouldhavebeenimpossible to reach Malagosto from the mainland without being detected and he kneweverythingabouteveryonewhowashere.Whowouldevenhaveconsideredbreaking in?ThelightningflashedsilentlyandforabriefmomentIsawtheironchandelier,thebooks,thedifferentclocks,thepiratefaces–allofthemstarkwhite,frozen.Itwasasifthestormwaswarningme,urgingmetoleavewhileIstillcould.Ifeltapulseofwarmair,pushingagainstme.Thiswasmadness.Ishouldn’tbehere.ButstillIwasdetermined.ThenextdayIwasleavingwithJohnRider.WeweregoingtobetogetherforaweekormoreandIwouldfeelmorecomfortable–lessunequal–ifIknewsomethingofhisbackground.I’lladmitthatIwascuriousbutitalsomadesense.IhadbeenencouragedtolearneverythingIcouldaboutmytargets.ItseemedonlyrightthatIshouldapplythesameruletoamanwhowastakingmeintodangerandonwhommylifemightdepend.Iwent over to the cabinet – the onewhereNye had depositedmy personal file. I had

broughtthetoolsIwouldneedfrommybedroom,althoughexaminingthelock,Isawitwasmuch more sophisticated than anything I had opened before. Another dazzling burst oflightning.Myownshadowseemedtoleapovermyshoulder.Ifocusedonthelock,testingitwiththefirstpick.Andthen,withshockingviolence,Ifeltmyselfseizedfrombehindinaheadlock,twofistscrossed behindmy neck, and although I immediately broughtmy hands up in a counter-move,reachingoutforthewrists,IknewIwastoolateandthatonesuddenwrenchwouldsnap my spinal cord, killing me instantly. How could it have happened? I was certainnobodyhadfollowedmein.ForperhapsthreesecondsIstayedwhereIwas,kneelingthere,caughtinthedeathgrip,waitingforthecrackthatwouldbethesoundofmyownneckbreaking.Itdidn’tcome.Ifeltthehandsrelax.Itwistedround.Hunterwasstandingoverme.“Cossack!”hesaid.“Hunter…”“Whatareyoudoinghere?”Thelightningflickeredbutperhapstheworstofthestormhadpassed.“Let’sgooutside,”Huntersaid.“Youdon’twanttobefoundinhere.”Wewentbackoutandstoodbeneaththebelltower.Icouldfeelthatstrangemixtureofhotandcoldintheair.Wewereenclosedbythewallsofthemonastery.Wewerealonebutwespokeinlowvoices.“Tellmewhatyouweredoing,”Huntersaid.HisfacewasinshadowbutIcouldfeelhiseyesprobingme.IhadalreadydecidedwhatIwasgoingtosay.Icouldn’ttellhimthetruth.“Nyehadmyfilethismorning,”Isaid.“Iwantedtoreadit.”“Why?”“Iwanted toknowIwasready.Afterwhathappened inNewYork, Ididn’twant to letyoudown.”“Andyouthoughtyourreportwouldtellyouthat?”Inodded.“You’reanidiot,Cossack.”Thatwaswhathesaidbuttherewasnoangerinhisvoice.Ifanything, hewas amused. “I saw you go in and I followed you,” he explained. “I didn’tknowwhoyouwere.Icouldhavekilledyou.”“Ididn’thearyou,”Isaid.Heignoredthat.“IfIdidn’tthinkyouwereready,Iwouldn’tbetakingyou,”hesaid.Hethought for amoment. “Ihavea feeling itwouldbebetter if neitherofus said anythingabout this little incident. If SeftonNye knew you’d been creeping about in his study, hemightgetthewrongidea.Isuggestyougobacktobed.We’vegotanearlystart.Theboat’scomingtomorrowatseveno’clock.”“Thanks,Hunter.”“Don’t thankme. Just don’t pull a stunt like this again. And…”He turned andwalkedaway.“Getsomesleep!”

Iwasupbeforesunrise.Mygearwaspacked.IhadmypassportandcreditcardsalongwiththedollarsI’dsavedfromNewYork.Allmyvisashadbeenarranged.TherewasnoonearoundasIwalkeddowntotheedgeofthelagoon,myfeetcrunching

onthegravel.ForalongtimeIstoodthere,watchingthesunclimboverVenice,differentshadesofpink,orangeandfinallyblueripplingthroughthesky. IknewthatmytrainingwasoverandthatIwouldnotbecomingbacktoMalagosto,atleastnotasastudent.IthoughtaboutHunter,allthelessonshehadtaughtme.Hewouldbewithmeverysoonandthetwoofusweregoingtotraveltogether.HewasgoingtogivemetheonethingthatIhadbeenunabletofindinallmytimeontheisland.Isupposeyoucouldcallitthekillerinstinct.ItwasallIlacked.Itrustedhimcompletely.TherewassomethingIhadtodo.Itookoffmywatch,myoldPobeda.AsIweigheditinmyhand,Isawmyfathergivingittome.Iheardhisvoice.Iwasjustnineyearsold,soyoung,stillinshorttrousers,livinginthehouseinEstrov.Mygrandfather’swatch.Ihelditonelasttime,thenswungmyarmandthrewitintothelagoon.

КОМАНДИP

THECOMMANDER

HisnamewasGabrielSweetmanandhewasadruglord,sometimesknownas“theSugarMan”,moreoftenas“theCommander”.HewasbornintheslumsofMexicoCity.Nothingisknownabouthisparentsbuthefirstcametotheattentionofthepolicewhenhewaseightyearsold,sellingmissingcarpartstomotorists.Thereasonthepartsweremissingwasbecausehehadstolenthem,helpedbyhistwelve-year-oldsister,Maria.Whenhewas twelve,hesoldhissister.By then, itwassaidthathehadkilledforthefirsttime.Hemovedintothedrugsbusinesswhenhewasthirteen,first dealing on the street, then working his way up until he became the lieutenant to“Sunny”Gomez,oneofthebiggesttraffickersinMexico.Atthetime,itwasestimatedthatGomezwassmugglingthreemilliondollars’worthofheroinandcocaineintoAmericaeveryday.SweetmanmurderedGomezandtookoverhisbusiness.HealsomarriedGomez’swife,aformerMissAcapulcocalledTracey.Thirtyyearslater,itwasrumouredthatSweetmanwasworth twenty-fivebilliondollars.Hewas transportingcocaineallover theworld,usingafleetofBoeing727jetaircraftwhichhealsoowned.Hehadmurderedovertwothousandpeople, including fifteen judges and two hundred police officers. Sweetman would killanyonewhocrossedhispathandhe liked todo it slowly.Someofhisenemiesheburiedalive. It was well known that he was mad, but only his family doctor had been braveenoughtosayso.Hehadkilledthefamilydoctor.IdonotknowhoworwhyhehadcometotheattentionofScorpia.Itispossiblethattheybeenhiredtotakehimoutbyanotherdruglord. ItmightevenhavebeentheMexicanorthe American government. He certainly was not being executed because he was bad.Scorpiawasoccasionallyinvolvedindrugtraffickingitself,althoughitwasadirtyandanunpleasantbusiness.Peoplewhospendlargeamountsofmoneydoingharmtothemselvesandtotheircustomersarenotusuallyveryreliable.Sweetmanhadtodiebecausesomeonehadpaid.Thatwasallitcamedownto.Anditwasgoingtobeexpensivebecausethiswasnotaneasykill.Sweetmanlookedafterhimself.Infact,hemadeVladimirSharkovskylookclumsyandcarelessbycomparison.Sweetmankeptapermanentretinuearoundhim–not justsixbodyguardsbutanentireplatoon. This was how he had got the name of the Commander. He had houses in LosAngeles,MiamiandMexicoCity,eachoneaswellfortifiedasanarmycommandpost.Thehouseswerekept in twenty-four-hour readiness.Henever let anyoneknowwhenhewasleavingorwhenhewasabouttoarrive,andwhenhedidtravelitwasfirstbyprivatejetandtheninanarmour-plated,bulletprooflimousinewithtwooutridersonmotorbikesandmore bodyguards in front and behind. He had four food tasters, one in each of hisproperties.ThehousewherehespentmostofhistimewasinthemiddleoftheAmazonjungle,onehundredmiles south of Iquitos. This is one of the few cities in theworld that cannot bereachedbyroad,andtherewerenoroadsgoinganywherenearthehouseeither.Tryingto

approachonfootwouldbetoriskattacksfromjaguars,vipers,anacondas,blackcaimans,piranhas,tarantulasoranyotherofthefiftydeadlycreaturesthatinhabitedtherainforest…assumingyouweren’tbitten todeathbymosquitoes first.Sweetmanhimselfcameandwentbyhelicopter.Hehad complete faith in thepilot, largelybecause thepilot’s elderlyparentswerehis permanent guests andhehad given instructions for them to suffer veryhorriblyifanythingeverhappenedtohim.Scorpia had looked into the situation and had decided that Sweetmanwas at his mostvulnerableintherainforest.Itisinterestingthattheyhadapermanentteamofadvisers–strategy planners and specialists –who had prepared a consultation document for them.The house in Los Angeles was too close to its neighbours, the one in Miami too wellprotected.InMexicoCity,Sweetmanhadtoomanyfriends.Itwasanothermeasureoftheman that he spent tenmilliondollars a year onbribes.Hehad friends in the police, thearmy and the government, and if anyone asked questions about him or tried to get tooclose,hewouldknowaboutitatonce.Inthejungle,hewasaloneand–likesomanysuccessfulmen–hehadaweakness.Hewas punctual. He ate his breakfast at exactly seven-fifteen. He worked with a personaltrainerfromeightuntilnine.Hewenttobedateleven.Ifhesaidhewasgoingtoleaveatmidday, then thatwould bewhen hewould go. This is exactlywhatHunter had tried toexplaintomethenightwemet,inVenice.Sweetmanhadtoldussomethingabouthimself.Hehadahabitandwecoulduseitagainsthim.HunterandIhadflownfirstfromRometoLimaandfromtherewehadtakenasmallerplane to Iquitos, an extraordinary city on the south bank of the Amazon with Spanishcathedrals, French villas, colourful markets and straw huts built on stilts, all tangled uptogetheralongthenarrowstreets.Thewholeplaceseemedtoliveandbreathefortheriver.Itwashotandhumid.Youcouldtastethemuddywaterintheair.We stayed two days in a run-down hotel in the downtown area, surrounded bybackpackersandtouristsandplaguedbycockroachesandmosquitoes.Sincesomanyofthetravellerswere from Britain and America,we communicated only in French. I spoke thelanguagequitebadlyatthisstageandthepracticewasgoodforme.Hunterusedthetimetobuyafewmoresuppliesandtobookourpassagedownriveronacargoboat.Wewerepretendingtobebirdwatchers.WeweresupposedtocampontheedgeofthejunglefortwoweeksandthenreturntoIquitos.ThatwasourcoverstoryandwhileIwasonMalagostoIhad learned thenamesof twohundreddifferent species– fromthewhite-frontedAmazonparrot to the scarlet macaw. I believe I could still identify them to this day. Not thatanybody asked too many questions. The captain would have been happy to drop usanywhere–providedwewereabletopay.Wedidnotcamp.As soonas theboathaddroppedusoffona smallbeachwitha fewAmazonIndianhousesscatteredinthedistanceandchildrenplayinginthesand,wesetoffintotheundergrowth.Wewerebothequippedwiththefiveitemswhicharethedifferencebetween life and death in the rainforest: a machete, a compass, mosquito nets, waterpurificationtabletsandwaterproofshoes.Thelastitemmaysoundunlikelybutthemassiverainfallandthedensehumiditycanrotyourfleshinnotime.HunterhadsaiditwouldtakesixdaystoreachthecompoundwhereSweetmanlived.Infact,wemadeitinfive.HowdoIbegintodescribemyjourneythroughthatvast,suffocatinglandscape…Idonot

knowwhethertocallitaheavenorahell.Theworldcannotlivewithoutitsso-calledgreenlungsandyettheenvironmentwasashostileasitispossibletoimaginewiththousandsofunseendangerseverystepof theway. Icouldnotgaugeourprogress.Wewere two tinyspecksinanareathatencompassedonebillionacres,hackingourwaythroughleavesandbranches, always with fresh barriers in our path. All manner of different life formssurroundedusandthenoisewasendless:thescreamingofbirds,thecroakingoffrogs,themurmuroftheriver,thesuddensnappingofbranchesassomelargepredatorhurriedpast.Wewerelucky.Weglimpsedaredandyellowcoralsnake…muchdeadlierthanitsredandblackcousin.Inthenight,ajaguarcamecloseandIhearditsawful,throatywhisper.Butallthethingsthatcouldhavekilledusleftusaloneandneitherofusbecamesick.Thatissomethingthathasbeentruethroughoutmywholelife.Iamneverill.Isometimeswonderifitisaside-effectoftheinjectionmymothergaveme.Itprotectedmefromtheanthrax.Perhapsitstillprotectsmefromeverythingelse.Wedidnotspeaktoeachotheraswewalked.Itwouldhavebeenawasteofenergyandallourattentionwas focusedonthewayahead.Butevenso, I feltasortofkinshipwithHunter.My lifedependedonhim.He seemed to find thewayalmost instinctively. I alsoadmiredhisfitnessandstaminaaswellashisgeneralknowledgeofsurvivaltechniques.Heknew exactly which roots and berries to eat, how to follow the birds and insects towaterholesor,failingthat,howtoextractwaterfromvines.Heneveroncelosthistemper.Thejunglecanplaywithyourmind.It ishotandoppressive. Italwaysseemstostandinyourway.Theinsectsattackyou,nomatterhowmuchcreamyouputon.Youaredirtyandtired.ButHunterremainedgood-naturedthroughout.IsensedthathewaspleasedwithourprogressandsatisfiedthatIwasabletokeepup.Weonlysleptforfivehoursatnight,usingthemoontoguideusafterthesunhadset.Wesleptinhammocks.Itwassafertobeabovetheground.Afterwe’deatenourjunglerations– what we’d found or what we’d brought with us – we’d climb in and I always lookedforwardtothebriefconversation,themomentofcompanionship,wewouldhavebeforeweslept.OnthefourthnightwesetupcampinanareawhichwecalledTheLog.Itwasacircularclearingdominatedbyafallentree.WhenIhadsatonitIhadalmostfallenrightthrough,as it was completely rotten and crawlingwith termites. “You’ve done verywell so far,”Huntersaid.“Itmaynotbesoeasycomingback.”“Why’sthat?”“It’spossiblewe’llbepursued.Wemayhavetomovemorequickly.”“Theredpins…”“That’sright.”Whenever we came to a particular landmark, a place with a choice ofmore than oneroute,IhadseenHunterpressingaredpinclosetothebaseofatreetrunk.Hemusthavepositionedmore thanahundredof them.Nobodyelsewouldnotice thembut theywouldprovideuswithaseriesofpointersifweneededtomoveinahurry.“Whatwillwedoifheisn’tthere?”Iasked.“Sweetmanmayhaveleft.”“Accordingtoourintelligence,he’snotleavinguntiltheendoftheweek.Andnevercallhimbyhisname,Cossack.Itpersonalizeshim.Weneedtothinkofhimasanobject…asdeadmeat.That’sallheistous.”Hisvoicefloatedoutofthedarkness.Overhead,aparrot

begantoscreech.“CallhimtheCommander.That’showhelikestoseehimself.”“Whenwillwebethere?”“Tomorrowafternoon.Iwanttogettherebeforesunset…togiveustimetoreconnoitretheplace.Ineedtofindaposition,tomakethekill.”“Icouldshoothimforyou.”“No,Cossack,thanksallthesametime.Thistimeyou’restrictlyherefortheride.”Wewereupagainatfirstlight,theskysilver,thetreesandundergrowthdark.Wesippedsomewaterandtookenergytablets.Werolledupourhammocks,packedourrucksacksandleft.Sure enough, we reached the compound in the late afternoon. As we folded back thevegetation, wewere suddenly aware of the sun glinting off ametal fence and croucheddown,keepingoutof sight. Itwas alwayspossible that therewouldbeguardspatrollingoutside the perimeter, although after half an hour we realized that the Commander hadfailedtotakethiselementaryprecaution.Presumablyhefelthewassafeenoughinside.Movingverycarefully,wecircledround,alwaysstayinginthecoverofthejunglesomedistancefromthefence.Hunterwasafraidthattherewouldberadar,tripwiresandallsortsofotherdevicesthatwemightactivateifwegottooclose.Lookingthroughthegapsinthetrees, we could see that the fence was electrified and enclosed a collection of colonialbuildingsspreadoutoverapalegreenlawn.Theyweresimilarinstyletotheoneswehadseen in Iquitos.Therewerea lotofguards indarkgreenuniforms,patrolling theareaorstandingwithbinocularsandassaultriflesinrustingmetaltowers.Theirlongisolationhaddonethemnogood.Theywereshabbyandlistless.HunterandIwerebothwearingjunglecamouflagewithourfacespaintedinstreaks,butifwe’dbeeninbrightredtheywouldnothavenoticedus.The compound had begun life twenty years before as a research centre for anenvironmentalgroupstudyingthedamagebeingdonetotherainforest.TheyhadalldiedfromamysterioussicknessandaweeklatertheCommanderhadmovedin.Sincethen,hehadadaptedittohisownneeds,addinghutsforhissoldiersandbodyguards,ahelicopterlandingpad,aprivatecinema,all thedevicesheneededforhissecurity. Insomeways itremindedmeof thedacha inSilverForest,althoughthesettingcouldnothavebeenmoredifferent.Itwasonlytheirpurposethatwasthesame.The Commander lived in the largest house, which was raised off the ground, with averanda and electric fans. Presumably therewould be a generator somewhere inside thecomplex. We watched through field glasses for more than an hour, when suddenly heemerged,oddlydressedinasilkdressinggownandpyjamas.Itwasstillearlyevening.Hewentover tospeaktoasecondmanin fadedblueoveralls.Hispilot?Thehelicopterwasparkednearby,afour-seaterRobinsonR44.Thetwoofthemexchangedafewwords,thentheCommanderwentbackintothehouse.“It’sashamewecan’thearthem,”Isaid.“TheCommanderisleavingateighto’clocktomorrowmorning,”Hunterreplied.Istaredathim.“Howdoyouknow?”“Icanlip-read,Cossack.Itcomesinquiteusefulsometimes.Maybeyoushouldlearntodothesame.”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 aword.Weswalloweddownsomecoldrationsandclosedoureyes.ButIlaythereforalongtime,allsortsofthoughtsrunningthroughmyhead.IreallyhadhopedthatHuntermightletmemakethekill.Myoldpsychiatrist,DrSteiner,wouldnothavebeenhappyifIhadtoldhimthis,butIthoughtitwouldbemucheasiertoassassinateadruglord,anobviouslyevilhumanbeing,thanadefencelesswomaninNewYork.Itwouldhavebeenagoodtestforme…myfirstkill.ButIcouldseenowthatitwasoutofthequestion.Thepositionofthehelicopterinrelationtothemainhousemeantthatwewouldhave,atmost,tensecondstomaketheshot.JusttenstepsandtheCommanderwouldbe safely inside. If I hesitatedor,worse still,missed,wewouldnothavea secondopportunity.SeftonNyehadalreadytoldme.IwasheretoassistandtoobserveandIknewIhadtoacceptit.Hunterwastheoneincharge.Wewere inpositionmuchearlier thanweneeded tobe– at seveno’clock.HunterhadbeencarryingtheweaponhewasgoingtouseeversincewehadleftIquitos.Itwasa.88Winchestersniperrifle;averygoodweapon,perfectforlong-rangeshootingwithminimalrecoil. Iwatchedashe loaded itwith a single cartridge andadjusted the sniper scope. Itseemedtomethatheandtheweaponwereone.IhadnoticedthisalreadyontheshootingrangeonMalagosto.WhenHunterheldagun,itbecamepartofhim.Theminutes tickedaway. Iusedmyfieldglasses toscanthecompound,waiting for theCommander toreappear.Thesoldierswere in their towersorpatrolling the fencebut theatmospherewaslazy.Theywerereallyonlyhalfawake.Attentoeight,thepilotcameoutofhisquarters,yawningandstretching.Wewatchedasheclimbedintothehelicopter,wentthrough his checks and started the rotors. Very quickly, they began to turn, thendisappeared in a blur. All around us, birds andmonkeys scattered through the branches,frightenedawaybythenoise.TheCommanderhadstillnotsteppedoutattwominutestoeightandIbegantowonderifhehadchangedhismind.Iknewthetimefromthecheapwatch that I had bought formyself at the airport. I was sweating. I wondered if it wasnervesortheclose,stiflingheatofthemorning.Somethingtouchedmyshoulder.Myfirstthoughtwasthat itwasa leafthathadfallenfromatree–butIknewatoncethatitwastooheavyforaleaf.Itmoved.MyhandtwitchedanditwasallIcoulddotostopmyselfreachingoutandattemptingtoflick this … thing, whatever it was… away. I felt its weight shift as it went from myshoulderontomyneckandIrealizedthatitwasaliveandthatitwasmoving.Itreachedthe top ofmy shirt and I shuddered as it legs prickled delicately against my skin. Evenwithoutseeingit,Iknewitwassomesortofspider,alargeone.IthadlowereditselfontomewhileIcrouchedbehindHunter.Mymouthhadgonedry.Icouldfeelthebloodpoundinginthejugularveinthatranupthe side ofmy neck and I knew that the creaturewould have been drawn to that area,fascinatedbythewarmthandbythemovement.Andthatwaswhereitremained,clingingtome like some hideous growth. Hunter had not seen what had happened. He was stillfocusedonthecompound,hiseyepressedagainstthesniperscope.Ididn’tdarecallout.Ihadtokeepmybreathsteadywithoutturningmyhead.Straining,Ilookedoutofthecorner

ofmyeyeandsawit. I recognized itatonce.Ablackwidow.Oneof themostvenomousspidersintheAmazon.Itstillrefusedtomove.Whywouldn’titcontinueonitsway?Itensedmyself,waitingforittocontinueitsjourneyacrossmyfaceandintomyhair,butstillitstayedwhereitwas.Ididn’tknowifHunterhadbroughtanti-venomwithhimbutitwouldmakenodifferenceifhehad. If itbitme in theneck, Iwoulddieveryquickly.Maybe itwaswaiting to strikeevennow,savouringthemoment.Thespiderwashuge.Myskinwasrecoiling,mywholebodysendingoutalarmsignalsthatmybraincouldnotignore.Iwanted to call toHunter, but even speakingonewordmight be enough to alarm thespider. Iwas filledwith rage.After the failureofNewYork Ihadbeendetermined that Iwould give a good account of myself in Peru, and so far I hadn’t put a foot wrong. Icouldn’tbelievethatthishadhappenedtome…andnow!ItriedtothinkofsomethingIcould do … anything … but I was helpless. There was no further movement in thecompound.Everyonewaswaiting for theCommander tomakehis appearance. I knew itwouldhappenatanymoment.ItwasstrangelyironicthatImightdieatexactlythesametimeashim.Intheend,Iwhistled.ItwassuchanoddthingtodothatitwouldsurelyattractHunter’sattention.Itdid.Heturnedandsawmestandingthere,paralysed,nocolourinmyface.Hesawthespider.And itwas right then that thedoorof thehouseopenedand theCommandercameout,wearinganolivegreen tunicandcarryingabriefcase, followedby twomenwitha thirdwalkingahead.IknewatthatmomentthatIwasdead.TherewasnothingHuntercoulddoforme.Hehadhis instructions fromScorpia and less than ten seconds inwhich to carrythem out. I had almost forgotten about the helicopter but now the whine of its rotorsenvelopedme.TheCommanderwaswalkingsteadilytowardsthecockpit.Huntermade an instant decision.He sprang to his feet andmoved behindme.Was hereally going to abort themission and savemy life? Surely it had to be oneor the other.ShoottheCommanderorgetridofthespider.Hecouldn’tdobothandaftereverythinghehadtoldme,hischoicewasobvious.Ididn’tknowwhathewasdoing.Hehadpositionedhimselfbehindme.TheCommanderhadalmostreachedthehelicopter,hishandstretchingouttowardsthedoor.Then,withnowarningatall,Hunterfired.Iheardtheexplosionandfeltastreakofpainacrossmyneck,asifIhadbeenslicedwitharedhotsword.TheCommandergrabbedholdofhischestandcrumpled,bloodoozingoverhisclenchedfingers.Hehadbeenshotintheheart.Themensurrounding him threw themselves flat, afraid they would be targeted next. I was alsobleeding.Bloodwaspouringdownthesideofmyneck.Butthespiderhadgone.That was when I understood. Hunter had aimed through the spider and at theCommander.Hehadshotthembothwiththesamebullet.“Let’smove,”hewhispered.There was no time to discuss what had happened. The bodyguards were alreadypanicking,shoutingandpointinginourdirection.Oneofthemopenedfire,sendingbulletsrandomly into the rainforest. The guards in the towerswere searching for us.Moremenwererunningoutofthehuts.We snatched up our equipment and ran, allowing the mass of leaves and branches to

swallowusup.Weleftbehindusadeaddruglordwithasinglebulletandahundredtinyfragmentsofblackwidowinhisheart.

“Yousavedmylife,”Isaid.Huntersmiled.“Takingalifeandsavingalife…andwithjustonebullet.That’snotbadgoing,”hesaid.We had put fifteenmiles between ourselves and the compound, following the red pinsuntilthefadinglightmadeitimpossibletocontinueandwehadtostopforfearoflosingourway.WehadreachedTheLog,thecampsitewherewehadspentthenightbefore,andthistimeIwascarefulnottositonthehollowtree.Hunterspenttenminutesstretchingouttripwiresallaroundus.Thesewerealmostinvisible,connectedtolittleblackboxesthathescrewedintothetrunksofthetrees.Onceagain,wedidn’tdarelightafire.Afterwehadhooked up our hammocks, we ate our dinner straight out of the tin. It amusedme thatHunter insisted on carrying the empty tins with us. He had just killed a man, but hewouldn’tlittertherainforest.Neitherofuswasreadyforsleep.Wesatcross-leggedontheground,listeningoutforthesound of approaching feet. Itwas a bright night. Themoonwas shining and everythingaround us was a strange silvery green. Tomy surprise, Hunter had produced a quarter-bottle ofmaltwhisky. Itwas the last thing Iwould have expected him to bring along. Iwatchedhimasheheldittohislips.“It’salittletraditionofmine,”heexplained,inalowvoice.“Agoodmaltwhiskyafterakill. This is a twenty-five-year-oldGlenmorangie.Older than you!”He held it out tome.“Have some, Cossack. I expect your nerves need it after that little incident. That spidercertainlychoseitsmoment.”“I can’t believe what you did,” I said. There was a bandage aroundmy neck, alreadystainedwith sweat and blood. It hurt a lot and I knew that Iwould always have a scarwhereHunter’sbullethadcutme,butinastrangewayIwasglad.Ididnotwanttoforgetthisnight.Isippedthewhisky.Itburntthebackofmythroat.“Whatnow?”Iasked.“Aslogbackto IquitosandthenParis.At least it’llbea littlecoolerover there.Andnodamnmosquitoes!”Heslappedoneonthesideofhisneck.Wewerebothatpeace.TheCommanderwasdead,killedinextraordinarycircumstances.Wehadthewhisky.Themoonwasshining.Andwewerealoneintherainforest.That’stheonlywaythatIcanexplaintheconversationthatfollowed.Atleast,thatwashowitseemedatthetime.“Hunter,”Isaid.“WhyareyouwithScorpia?”Iwouldnevernormallyhaveasked.Itwaswrong.Itwasinsolent.Butouthere,itdidn’tseemtomatter.I thought hemight snap atmebut he reached out for the bottle and answered quietly,“WhydoesanyonejoinScorpia?Whydidyou?”“Youknowwhy,”Isaid.“Ididn’treallyhaveanychoice.”“Weallmakechoices,Cossack.Whoweareinthisworld,whatwedoinit.Generousorselfish.Happyorsad.Goodorevil.It’salldowntochoice.”“Andyouchosethis?”“I’mnotsureitwastherightchoicebutI’vegotnobodyelsetoblame,ifthat’swhatyoumean.”Hepaused,holdingthebottleinfrontofhim.“Iwasinapub,”hesaid.“ItwasinthemiddleofLondon…inSoho.Meandacoupleoffriends.Wewerejusthavingadrink,

mindingourownbusiness.Buttherewasamaninthere,ataxidriverasitturnedout…abigfatguyinasheepskincoat.Heoverheardustalkingandrealizedwewereallarmy,andhe began to make obnoxious remarks. Stupid things. I should have just ignored him orwalkedout.Thatwaswhatmyfriendswantedtodo.“But I’dbeendrinkingmyselfandthetwoofusgot intoanargument. Itwassobloodystupid. The next thing I knew, I’d knocked him to the ground. Even then, there were adozenwaysIcouldhavehithim.ButI’dletmytraininggetthebetterofme.Hedidn’tgetupandsuddenlythepolicewerethereandIrealizedwhatI’ddone.”Hepaused.“I’dkilledhim.”Hefellsilent.Allaroundus,theinsectscontinuedtheirchatter.Therewasn’tabreathofwind.“Iwas dismissed from the army and thrown into jail,” hewent on. “As it happened, Iwasn’t locked up for very long.My old regiment pulled a few strings and I had a goodlawyer.Hemanagedtoputinaclaimofself-defenceandIwasletoutonappeal.Butafterthat Iwas finished.No onewas going to employme and even if they did, d’you think Iwantedtospendtherestofmylifeasasecurityguardorbehindadesk?Ididn’tknowwhattodo.AndthenScorpiacamealongandofferedmethis.AndIsaidyes.”“Areyoumarried?”Iasked.Henodded.“Yeah.I’vebeenmarriedthreeyearsandthere’sakidontheway.AtleastI’mgoingtohaveenoughmoneytobeabletolookafterhim.”Hepaused.“Ifitisaboy.YouseewhatImean?Mychoice.”Thewhiskybottlepassedbetweenusonelasttime.Itwasalmostempty.“Maybeit’snottoolateforyoutochangeyourmind,”hesaid.Iwasstartled.“Whatdoyoumean?”“I’mthinkingaboutNewYork.I’mthinkingaboutthelastfewweeks…andtoday.Youseemlikeanicekidtome,Cossack.NotoneofScorpia’susualrecruitsatall. Iwonderifyou’vereallygotitinyoutobelikeme.MaratandSam…theydon’tgiveadamn.They’vegotnoimagination.Butyou…?”“Icandothis,”Isaid.“Butdoyoureallywantto?I’mnottryingtodissuadeyou.That’sthelastthingIwanttodo.Ijustwantyoutobeawarethatonceyoustart,there’snogoingback.Afterthefirstkill–that’sit.”Hehesitated.Webothdid.Iwasn’tsurehowtorespond.“IfIbackedoutnow,Scorpiawouldkillme.”“Iratherdoubtit.They’dbeannoyed,ofcourse.ButIthinkyou’reexaggeratingyourownimportance.They’dveryquickly forgetyou.Anyway,you’ve learntenough tokeepawayfrom them.You could change your identity, your appearance, start somewhere new. Theworldisabigplace–andthereareallsortsofdifferentthingsyoucouldbedoinginit.”“Isthatwhatyou’readvisingme?”Iasked.“I’mnotadvisingyouanything.I’mjustlayingouttheoptions.”I’mnot surewhat Iwouldhave said if theconversationhadcontinuedbut just thenweheardsomething;thecroakingofafrogattheedgeoftheclearing.Atleast,thatwaswhatitwouldhavesoundedliketoanyoneapproaching,butitwasn’tafrogthatwasnativetotheAmazon rainforest.Oneof thewires thatHunterhad set downhad just been tripped

andwhatwewerehearingwasarecording,awarning.Hunterwasonhis feet instantly,crouching down, signalling to me with an outstretched hand. I had a gun. It had beensuppliedtomewhenwewereinIquitos–aBrowning9mmsemi-automatic,popularwiththePeruvianArmyandunusualinthatitheldthirteenroundsofammunition.Itwasfullyloaded.Iheardanothersound.Thesinglecrackofabranchbreaking,abouttwentymetresaway.Abeamoflightflickeredbetweenthetrees,thrownbyapowerfultorch.Therewasnotimetogatherupourthingsandnopointinwonderingwhotheywere,howtheyhadfollowedus here.We had already plannedwhat to do if this happened.We got up and began tomove.Theycameinfromallsides.SixoftheCommander’smenhadtakenituponthemselvestofollowusintotherainforest.Why?Theiremployerwasdeadandtherewasgoingtobenoreward for bringing inhis killers. Perhaps theywere genuinely angry.Wehad, after all,removedthesourceoftheirlivelihood.Isawallofthemastheyarrived.Themoonwassobright that theybarelyhadanyneedof their torches.Theywerehighondrugs,dirtyanddishevelledwithhollowfaces,brighteyesandstragglybeards.Two of them had cigarettes dangling from their mouths. They were wearing bits andpiecesofmilitaryuniformwithmachinegunsslungovertheirshoulders.Oneofthemhadadog, a pit bull terrier, on a chain. The dog had brought them here. It began to bark,strainingagainsttheleash,knowingwewereclose.Butthemensawnoone.Theyhadarrivedatanemptyclearingwithatreelyingonitsside, nobody in front of it, nobody behind, termites crawling over the bark. Our emptyhammockswereinfrontofthem.Perhapstheirtorchespickeduptheemptywhiskybottleontheground.“¡Vamosahacerlo!”OneofthemgavetheorderinSpanish,hisvoicedeepandguttural.As one, the men opened fire, spraying the clearing with bullets, shooting into thesurroundingjungle.Afterthepeaceofthenight,thenoisewasdeafening.Foratleastthirtysecondstheclearingblazedwhiteandthesurroundingleavesandbrancheswerechoppedtosmithereens.Noneofthemenknewwhattheyweredoing.Theydidn’tcarethattheyhadnotarget.Wewaiteduntil theirclipshadrunoutand thenwestoodup,deadwoodcascadingoffourshoulders.Wehadbeenrightnexttothesoldiers,lyingfacedown,insidethefallentree.Wewerecoveredwithtermites,whichwerecrawlingoverourbacksandintoourclothes.But termites donot bite you.Theydonot sting.Wehaddisturbed their habitat and theywerealloverusbutwedidn’tcare.Weopenedfire.Thesoldierssawustoolate.Iwasnotsurewhathappenednext,whetherIactuallykilledanyofthem.Therewasablazeofgunfire,againincrediblyloud,andIsawthe ragged figuresbeingblownoff their feet.Oneof themmanaged to fireagainbut thebulletswentnowhere, into theair. Iwas firingwildlybutHunterwasutterlypreciseandmechanical,choosinghistargetsthensqueezingthetriggeragainandagain.Itwasalloververyquickly.Thesixmenweredead.Theredidn’tseemtobeanymoreontheway.Ibrushedtermitesoffmyshouldersandoutofmyhair.“Isthatallofthem?”Iwhispered.“Idon’tthinkso,”Huntersaid.“Butwe’dbettergetmoving.”Wecollectedourthings.

“Ishotthem,”Isaid.“Whatyouweresayingtome…youwerewrong.Iwaswithyou.Ikilled someof them.” Iwasn’t even sure itwas true.Hunter couldhave takenout all sixhimself.Butweweren’tgoingtoargueaboutitnow.Heshookhishead.“Ifyoukilled…”Heputtheemphasisonthefirstword.“Youdiditinthedark,inself-defence.Thatdoesn’tmakeyouamurderer.It’snotthesame.”“Whynot?”Icouldn’tunderstandhim.Whatwashetryingtoachieve?Heturnedandsuddenlytherewasarealdarknessinhiseyes.“Youwanttoknowwhatthedifferenceis,Yassen?”Hehadusedmyrealnameforthefirsttime.“WehaveanotherjobinParis,verydifferenttothisone.Youwanttoknowwhatit’sreallyliketokill?You’reabouttofindout.”

ПАРИЖ

PARIS

Our target in Paris was a man called Christophe Vosque, a senior officer in the Policenationale.Hewas,as ithappens, totallycorrupt.Hehadreceivedpayments fromScorpia,andinreturnhadturnedablindeyetomanyoftheiroperationsinFrance.Butrecentlyhehadgotgreedy.Hewasdemandingmorepaymentsand,worsestill,hehadbeeninsecrettalkswiththeDGSE,theFrenchsecretservice.Hewasplanningadouble-crossandScorpiahaddecided tomakeanexampleofhimby takinghimout.Thiswas tobeapunishmentkilling.Ithadtomakeheadlines.However,foronceScorpiahadgottheirintelligencewrong.NosoonerhadwearrivedatCharlesdeGaulleAirportthanwewereinformedthatVosquewasnotinthecityafterall.He had gone on a five-day training course, meaning that we had the entire week toourselves.Hunterwasn’tatallputout.“Weneedarest,”hesaid.“AndsinceScorpia’spaying,wemightaswellcheckourselvesinsomewheredecent.IcanshowyouaroundParis.I’msureyou’lllikeit.”Hebookedus intothe luxuriousHotelGeorgeV,closetotheChamps-Elysées. Itwasfarmorethandecent.Infact, Ihadneverstayedanywherelikethis.Thehotelwasallvelvetcurtains, chandeliers, thick carpets, tinkling pianos and massive flower displays. Mybathroomwasmarble.Thebathhadgoldtaps.Everyonewhostayedherewasrichandtheyweren’tafraidtoshowit.IwonderedifHunterhadbroughtmehereforareason.Normallywewouldhavestayedsomewheremorediscreetandout-of-the-waybutIsuspectedthathewas testing me, throwing me into this gorgeous, alien environment to see how I wouldcope.He spokeexcellentFrench;minewas rudimentary.Hewas inhis late twenties andalreadywell travelled; Iwas nineteen. I think it amusedhim to seemedealingwith thereceptionists, themanagers and thewaiters in their stiff collars and black ties, trying toconvincethemthatIhadasmuchrighttobethereasanyone…tryingtoconvincemyself.Itwascertainlytruethatwebothdeservedarest.Thejourneyintotherainforestandoutagain, thedeathof theCommander, the shoot-out thathad followed, our time in Iquitos,even the long flightback toEuropehadexhaustedus,andwebothhad tobe in first-rateconditionwhenwecameupagainstVosque.And if thatmeant eating thebest food, andwakingupinfive-starluxury,Iwasn’tgoingtoargue.We had adjoining rooms on the third floor and both spent the first twenty-four hoursasleep.WhenIwokeup,Iorderedroomservice…thebiggestbreakfastIhaveevereaten,eventhoughitwasthemiddleoftheafternoon.Ihadahotbathwiththefoamspillingovertheedges.IsprawledonthebedandwatchedTV.TheyhadEnglishandRussianchannelsbutIforcedmyselftolisteninFrench,tryingtoattunemyselftothelanguage.The next day, Hunter showedme the city. I had donemore travelling in the past fewweeks–Venice,NewYork,Peru–thanIhadinmyentirelife,butIlovedeveryminuteofmytimeinParis.Afewofthethingswedidwereobvious.WewentuptheEiffelTower.WevisitedNotre-Dame.We strolled around the Louvre and stood in front of itsmost famousworksofart.Allthiscouldhavebeenboring.Ihaveneverbeenveryinterestedintourism,

staringatthingsandtakingphotographsofthemsimplybecausetheyarethere.ButHuntermadeitfun.Hehadstoriesandinsightsthatbroughteverythingtolife.StandinginfrontoftheMona Lisa he told me how it had once been stolen – that was back in 1911 – andexplainedhowhewouldsetaboutstealingitnow.HedescribedhowNotre-Damehadbeenconstructed,anincrediblefeatofengineering,morethaneighthundredyearsbefore.Andhe took me to many unexpected places: the sewers, the flea markets, Père-LachaiseCemeterywith its bizarremausoleums and famous residents, the sculpture gardenwhereRodinhadoncelived.ButwhatIenjoyedmostwasjustwalkingthestreets–alongtheSeine,throughtheLatinquarter,aroundtheMarais. Itwasquitecold–springhadstillnotquitearrived–butthesunwasoutandtherewasasparkleintheair.Wedriftedinandoutofcoffeehouses.WebrowsedinantiqueshopsandboughtclothesontheAvenueMontaigne.Weatefantasticicecream at Maison Berthillon on the Île-St-Louis. Curiously, this was where the foundermembersofScorpiahadfirstcometogether–butperhapswiselytherewasnoblueplaquetocommemoratetheevent.We ate extremelywell in restaurants thatwere empty of tourists.Hunter didn’t like tospendafortuneonfoodandneverorderedalcohol.Hepreferredgrenadine,theredsyruphehadintroducedmetoinVenice.Idrinkittothisday.We never once discussed the business that had brought us here but we were quietlypreparingforit.Atsixo’clockeverymorningwewentonatwo-hourruntogether…ItwasaspectacularcircuitdowntheChamps-Elysées,throughtheJardinsdesTuileriesandacrosstheSeine.Therewasapoolandagymatthehotelandweswamandworkedoutfortwohoursormore.Isometimeswonderedwhatpeoplemadeofus.Wecouldhavebeenfriendsonholidayorperhaps,givenouragedifference,anolderandayoungerbrother.Thatwashowitfeltsometimes.Hunterneverreferedbacktoourconversationinthejungle,althoughsomeofthethingshehadsaidremainedinmymind.We had arrived on a Monday. On the Thursday, Hunter received a note from theconciergeaswewereleavingthehotelandreaditquicklywithoutshowingittome.Afterthat,Isensedthatsomethinghadchanged.WetooktheMetrotoMontmartrethatdayandwalkedaroundthenarrowstreetswithalltheartists’studiosanddrankcoffeeinoneofthesquares. Itwas justwarmenough to sit outside.Bynowwewere relaxed in eachother’scompanybut Icould tell thatHunterwasstillagitated. Itwasonlywhenwereached thegreatwhitechurchofSacré-Cœur,withitsastonishingviewsofParis,thatheturnedtome.“Ineedtohavesometimeonmyown,”hesaid.“Doyoumind?”“Ofcoursenot.”Iwassurprisedthatheevenneededtoask.“There’ssomeoneIhavetomeet,”hewenton.HewasmoreuneasythanIhadeverseenhim. “But I’m breaking the rules. We’re both under cover. We’re working. Do youunderstand what I’m saying? If Julia Rothman found out about this, she wouldn’t bepleased.”“Iwon’ttellheranything,”Isaid.AndImeantit.IwouldneverhavebetrayedHunter.“Thankyou,”hesaid.“Wecanmeetbackatthehotel.”IwalkedawaybutIwasstillcurious.ThemoreIknewaboutHunterthemoreIgotthefeelingthatthereweresomanythingshewasn’t tellingme.SowhenIreachedthestreetcorner,Iturnedback.Iwantedtoknowwhathewasgoingtodo.

AndthatwaswhenIsawher.Shewasstandingontheterraceinfrontofthemainentranceofthechurch.Therewerequiteafewtouristsaroundbutshestoodoutbecauseshewasaloneandpregnant.Shewasquite small – the Frenchwould saypetite –with long fair hair andpale skin,wearing aloose,baggyjacketwithherhandstuckedintoherpockets.Shewaspretty.Hunterwaswalkingtowardsher.ShesawhimandIsawherfacelightupwithjoy.Shehurried over to him.And then the twoof themwere in eachother’s arms.Her headwaspressedagainsthischest.Hewasstrokingherhair.TwoloversonthestepsofSacré-Cœur…whatcouldbemoreParisian?Iturnedthecornerandwalkedaway.Thenextday,Vosquereturned.Helivedinthefiftharrondissement, inaquietstreetofflatsandhousesnotfarfromthePanthéon,theelaboratechurchthathadbeenmodelledonasimilarbuildinginRomeandwhere many of the great and good of France were buried. Hunter had received a fullbriefinginanenvelopesealedwithascorpion.IguessedithadbeendeliveredtohishotelroombysomeonelikeMarcus,whohaddonethesameformeinNewYork.Thetwoofuswent to a café on the Champs-Elysées. It might have seemed odd to discuss this sort ofbusinessinapublicplacebutinfactitwassafertochoosesomewherecompletelyrandom.Wecouldmakesureweweren’tbeingfollowed.Andweknewitcouldn’tbebugged.Vosque provided a very different challenge to the Commander. He might be easier toreach but he probably knewwewere coming so therewas a good chance he had takenprecautions.Hewouldcarryagun.HecouldexpectprotectionfromtheFrenchpolice.Asfarastheywereconcerned,hewasoneofthem,aseniorofficerandamantoberespected.If he was gunned down in the street, there would be an immediate outcry. Ports andairports would be closed. We would find ourselves at the centre of an internationalmanhunt.He lived alone. Hunter produced some photographs of his address. They had beenprovided by Scorpia and showed a ground-floor apartment with glass doors and double-heightwindowson the far sideofa courtyard sharedby twomore flats.Althoughoneofthesewasempty,theotherwasoccupiedbyayoungartist,apotentialwitness.Anarchwayopenedontothestreet.Therewasnootherwayinandanarmedpoliceman–agendarme–had been stationed in the little room that had once been the porter’s lodge. To reachVosque,wehadtogetpasthim.In all our discussions, we called Vosque “the Cop”. As always, it was easier todepersonalizehim.On theSaturday,wewatchedhim leave the flatandwalk tohis localsupermarket, two streets away. He was a short, bullish man, in his late forties. As hewalked,heswunghisfistsandyoucouldimaginehimlashingoutatanyonewhogotinhisway.Hewasalmostbaldwithathickmoustachethatdidn’tquitestretchtotheendofhislip.Hewaswearinganold-fashioned suit butno tie.Afterhehaddonehis shopping,hestoppedatacafé foracigarandademi-pression ofbeer.Nobodyhadescortedhimand Ithoughtitwouldbeasimplemattertoshoothimwherehesat.Wecoulddoitwithoutbeingseen.ButHunterwasn’thavinganyofit.“That’snotwhatScorpiawants,”hesaid.“Hehastobekilledinhishome.”“Why?”

“You’llsee.”Ididn’tlikethesoundofthatbutIknewbetterthantoaskanythingmore.OurParisholidaywasover.Eventheweatherhadchanged.OnSundaymorningitrainedandthewholecityseemedtobesulking,thewaterspittingoffthepavementsandformingpuddlesintheroads.ThiswasthedaywhenVosquewasgoingtodie.Ifwewantedtofindhimaloneinhisflat,itmadesense.MondaytoFridayhewouldbeinhisoffice,whichwassituated inside the Interior Ministry. According to his file, most evenings he went outdrinkingoratewithfriendsincheaprestaurantsaroundtheGareSt-Lazare.Sundayforhimwasdeadtime–inmorethanonesense.That morning, Annabelle Finnan, the artist who lived next door to Vosque, received atelephonecall fromthetownofOrléans, tellingherthatherelderlymotherhadbeenrunoverbyavanandwasunlikelytosurvive.ThiswasuntruebutAnnabelleleftatonce.Wewerewaitinginthestreetandsawherflagdownataxi.Thenwemovedforward.Wewerebothwearingcheapsuits,whiteshirtsandblackties.Wewerecarryingbibles.ThedisguisehadbeenHunter’sideaanditwasabrilliantone.WehadcomeasJehovah’sWitnesses.Therehadbeen realones, apparently,working in theareaandnobodywouldhavenoticedtwomore,followingintheirwake.Thegendarmeintheporter’slodgesawusanddismissedus in thesame instant.Wewere the last thingheneededonawetSundaymorning,twoBible-basherscometopreachtohimabouttheendoftheworld.“Not here!” the gendarme grunted. “Thank you very much, my friends. We’re notinterested.”“But,monsieur…”Hunterbegan.“Justmovealong…”Hunterwasholdinghis bible at a strange angle and I sawhishandpressdownon thespine. Therewas a soft hissing sound and the gendarme jerked backwards and collapsed.ThebiblemusthavebeensuppliedbyGordonRoss,allthewayfromMalagosto.Ithadfiredaknock-outdart.Icouldseethelittletuftstickingoutoftheman’sneck.“Andontheseventhday,herested,”HuntermutteredandIrecognizedthequotationfromthesecondchapterofGenesis.Thetwoofusmovedintotheoffice.Hunterhadbroughtropeandtapewithhim.“Tiehimup,”hesaid.“We’llbegonelongbeforehewakesupbutit’sbestnottotakechances.”I did as Iwas told, securely fastening hiswrists and ankles, and using the tape and aballed-uphandkerchieftogaghismouth.AftereverythingHunterhadtoldme,Iwasalittlesurprised that he hadn’t simply shot the policeman.Wouldn’t that have been easier? Butperhaps,attheendofthedayanddespiteeverythinghehadsaid,hepreferrednottotakealifeunlessitwasreallynecessary.Withthegendarmehiddenaway,wewalkedacrossthecourtyard,ourbiblesinourhands.I thoughtwewouldgostraighttoVosque’sdoorbut insteadHuntersteeredusovertotheartist’s flat and rang the bell there. It was a nice touch. Shewasn’t in, of course, but ifVosquehappenedtobewatchingoutofhiswindow,thefactthatwewerepatientlywaitingthere would make us look completely innocent. We stood outside for a minute or two,ignoringthethindrizzlethatwasslantingdownontothecobblestones.Hunterpretendedtoslipanotethroughtheletterbox.ThenwewentovertoVosque’splaceandrangthebell.Hemusthaveseenuscomingandhedidn’tsuspectathing.Hewasalreadyinabadmood

asheopenedthedoor,wearingavestandpantswithastripeddressinggownfallingoffhisshoulders.Hehadn’tshavedyet.“Getthehelloutofhere,”hesnarled.“Ihaven’t—”Thatwasas far ashegot.Hunterdidn’tuseanother anaestheticdart.Hehithim,veryhard,underthechin.Itwasn’takillerblow,althoughitcouldhavebeen.HecaughttheCopashefellanddraggedhimintotheapartment.Iclosedthedoorbehindus.Wewerein.Theflatwasalmostbare.Thefloorwasuncarpeted,thefurnitureminimal.Therewerenopictures on the walls. It was private. Net curtains hung over the windows and althoughtherewas a glass door leading into a tiny back garden – unusual for a Paris property –nobodycouldseein.Abedroomledofftooneside.Therewasanopen-plankitchen,where,fromthelooksofit,Vosquehardlyevercookedanythingmuchmorethanaboiledegg.Hunter had manhandled the Cop across the floor and onto a wooden chair. “Findsomethingto tiehimupwith,”hesaid.“Heshouldhavesometies in thebedroom. Ifyoucan’tfindany,useasheetoffthebed.Tearitintostrips.”Iwasmystified.Whatwerewedoing?Ourorderswere tokill theman,not threatenorinterrogatehim.Whywasn’thealreadydead?Butonceagain Ididn’targue.Vosquehadquiteacollectionofties.Itookfiveofthemfromhiswardrobeandusedthemtobindhisarmsandlegs,keepingthelastonetogaghismouth.HuntersaidnothingwhileIworked.Ihadalreadyseenthatintenseconcentrationofhiswhenwewereinthejunglebutthistimetherewas something else. Iwas aware that he had something in hismind and for somereasonitmademeafraid.HecheckedthattheCopwassecure,thenwentovertothesink,filledaglassofwaterandthrew it in his face. The cop’s eyes flickered open. I saw the jolt as he returned toconsciousnessand the fearashe took inhispredicament.Hebegan to struggleviolently,rockingbackandforth,asiftherewasanychanceofhimbreakingfree.Huntersignalledathim to stop. The Cop swore and shouted at him but the words were muffled,incomprehensiblebeneath thegag.Eventually,hestoppedfighting.Hecouldsee itwoulddonogood.Ididn’tdarespeak.Iwasn’tevensurewhatlanguageIwouldbeexpectedtouse.Hunterturnedtome.“Youwanttobeanassassin,”hesaid,speakinginRussiannow.“Whenyouwereinthejungle,youtoldmeyoukilledsomeof themenwhocameafterus. I’mnotsosureaboutthat.ItwasdarkandIhaveafeelingIwastheonewhoknockedallofthemoff.Butthatdoesn’t matter. You said you were ready to kill. I didn’t believe you. Well, now’s yourchancetoproveit.IwantyoutokillVosque.”Ilookedathim.ThenIturnedtotheCop.I’mnotsurethattheFrenchmanhadunderstoodwhatweweresaying.Hewassilent,gazingstraightaheadasifhewasoutraged,asifwehadnorighttobehere.“Youwantmetokillhim,”IsaidinRussian.“Yes.Withthis.”Heheldoutaknife.HehadbroughtitwithhimandIstaredatitwithcompletehorror.Icouldn’tbelievewhatIwasseeing.Theknifewasrazor-sharp.Therecouldbenodoubtofthat.Ihadneverseenanythingquitesoevil.Butitwastiny.Thebladewasmorelikeanold-fashionedsafetyrazor.Itcouldn’thavebeenmorethanfourorfivecentimetreslong.

“That’s crazy,” I said. Iwas clinging to the thought that perhaps thiswas some sort ofjoke,althoughtherewasnochanceofthat.Hunterwasdeadlyserious.“Givemeagun.I’llshoothim.”“That’snotwhatI’masking,Yassen.Thisismeanttobeapunishmentkilling.Iwantyoutousetheknife.”Hehadnamedmeinfrontofthevictim.EventhoughhewasspeakinginRussian,therewasnogoingback.“Why?”“Whyareyouarguing?Youknowhowwework.Doasyou’retold.”He pressed the knife into my hand. It was terribly light, barely more than a sliver ofsharpenedmetalinaplastichandle.AndatthatmomentIunderstoodthepointofallthis.IfIkilledVosquewiththisweapon,itwouldbeslowanditwouldbepainful.IwouldfeeleverycutthatImade.Anditmighttakeseveralcuts.Thiswasn’tgoingtobejustaquickstabtotheheart.HoweverIdidit,Iwouldendupdrenchedintheman’sblood.Apunishmentkilling.Forbothofus.Something deep inside me rose to the surface. I was shocked, disgusted that he couldbehave this way.We’d just had five amazing days in Paris. In a way, they’d wiped outeverything bad that had happened tome before.He’d been almost like a brother tome.Certainly,hehadbeenmyfriend.Andnow,suddenly,hewasutterlycold.Fromthewayhewasstandingthere, IcouldseethatImeantnothingtohim.Andhewasaskingmetodosomethingunspeakable.Butchery.Andyethewasright.Attheendoftheday,itwasalessonIhadtolearn…ifIwasgoingtodothiswork.Noteveryassassinationwouldtakeplacefromthetopofabuildingortheothersideofaperimeterfence.Ihadtogetmyhandsdirty.Iexamined theCop.Hewas strugglingagain,his stomachheavingunderneathhisvest,jerkingthechairfromsidetoside,whimpering.Hiswholefacehadgonered.Hehadseentheknife. Ibalancedit inmyhand,onceagainfeelingtheflimsyweight.WherewasI tostart?Isupposedtheonlyanswerwastocuthisthroat.GordonRosshadevengivenusademonstrationonce,buthehadusedaplasticdummy.“Youneedtogetonwithit,Yassen,”Huntersaid.“Wehaven’tgotallday.”“Ican’t.”Ihadspokenthewordswithoutrealizingit.Theyhadsimplyslippedoutofmymouth.“Whycan’tyou?”“Because…”I didn’twant to answer. I couldn’t explain. Vosquemight not be a goodman.Hewascorrupt.He tookbribes.Buthewasamannonetheless.Notapaper target.Hewas righthere,infrontofme,terrified.IcouldseethesweatonhisforeheadandIcouldsmellhim.Ijust didn’t have it inme to take his life… and certainly notwith this hideous, patheticknife.“Areyousure?”Inodded,nottrustingmyselftospeak.“Allright.Gooutside.Waitformethere.”ThistimeIdidwhatIwastoldwithoutquestioning.IfIhadstayedthereaminutelonger,

I’dhavebeensick.AsIopenedthefrontdoorIheardthesoftthudofabulletfiredfromasilencedpistolandknewthatHunterhadtakencareofmattershimself.Iwasstillholdingtheknife.Icouldn’tleaveitbehind.Itwascoveredinforensicevidencethatmightleadthepolicetome.Icarefullysliditintothetoppocketofmyjacketwhereitnestled,thebladeovermyheart.Huntercameout.“Let’sgo,”hesaid.Hedidn’tseemangry.Heshowednoemotionatall.Walkingbackacrossthecity,Itoldhimmydecision.“I’mtakingyouradvice,”Isaid.“Idon’twanttobeanassassin.I’mleavingParis.I’mnotcomingbacktoRome.I’mgoingtodisappear.”“Ididn’tgiveyouthatadvice,”Huntersaid.“ButIthinkit’sagoodidea.”“Scorpiawillfindme.”“Goback toRussia,Yassen. It’sahugecountry.Russian isyour first languageandnowyouhaveskills.Findsomewheretohide.Startagain.”“Yes.”Ifeltasenseofsadnessandhadtoexpressit.“Iletyoudown,”Isaid.“No, you didn’t. I’m glad itworked out thisway. Themoment I first saw you, I had afeelingthatyouweren’tsuitedtothissortofworkandI’mpleasedyou’veprovedmeright.Don’tbelikeme,Yassen.Havealife.Startafamily.Keepawayfromtheshadows.Forgetallthiseverhappened.”Wecametoabridge.ItookouttheknifeanddroppeditintotheSeine.Thenwewalkedontogether,makingourwaybacktothehotel.

МОЩНОСТЬПЛЮС

POWERPLUS

Wewenttotheairport,sittingtogetherinthebackofataxiwithourluggageintheboot.HunterwasflyingtoRomeandthentoVenice,toreporttoJuliaRothman.IwasheadingforBerlin.ItwouldhavebeenmadnesstotakeaplanetoMoscoworanywhereinRussia.ThathaveprovidedScorpiawithagiantarrowpointingintherightdirectiontocomeafterme.BerlinwasatthehubofEuropeandgavemeahostofdifferentoptions…Icouldheadwest to the Netherlands or east to Poland. I would be only a few hours from the CzechRepublic.Icouldtravelbytrainorbybus.Icouldbuyacar.Icouldevengoonfoot.ThereweredozensofbordercrossingpointswhereIcouldpassmyselfoffasastudentandwheretheyprobablywouldn’tevenbother tocheckmy ID. ItwasHunterwhohadsuggested it.Therewasnobetterplacefromwhichtodisappear.Iwasawareofallsortsofdifferent feelingsfightinginsidemeaswedroveoutthroughthe shabby and depressing suburbs to the north of Paris. I still felt that I had letHunterdown,althoughhehadassuredmeotherwise.Hehadbeenfriendlybutbusiness-likewhenwemetforbreakfastthatmorning,keentobeonhisway.HecalledmeYassenallthetime,as if Ihadbeenstrippedofmycodename,but Iwasstillusinghis.Andthatmorninghehadrunbyhimself.Aloneinmyroom,Ihadreallymissedoursprintaroundthecityandfeltexcluded.ItremindedmeofthetimewhenI’dbrokenmyleg,whenIwastwelve,andhadbeenforcedoutofatripwiththeYoungPioneers.Iwondered if Iwouldmiss all this luxury: the five-star hotels, the international travel,buying clothes in high-class boutiques. Itwas veryunlikely that Iwould be visitingParisagain and if I did, it certainlywouldn’t have the pleasure and the excitement of the lastweek. I had thought that Iwas becoming something, turning into something special. Butnowitwasallover.Ihadalreadybeguntoconsidermyfutureandhadevencometoadecision.TherewerestillpartsofmytrainingthatIcouldputtogooduse.Ihadlearnedlanguages.MyEnglishwas excellent. The Countess had shown me how to hold my own with people muchwealthierthanme.AndevenSharkovsky,inhisownway,hadbeenhelpful.Iknewhowtoironshirts,polishshoes,makebeds.Theanswerwasobvious.IwouldfindworkinahoteljustliketheGeorgeV.NewhotelswerebeingbuiltalloverRussiaandIwascertainI’dbeable to get a job in one, starting as a bellboyorwashingdishes in the kitchen and thenworkingmywayup.Moscowwastoodangerousforme.ItwouldhavetobeStPetersburgorsomewherefurtherafield.ButIwouldbeabletosupportmyself.Ihadnodoubtofit.I did not tell Hunter this. I would have been too ashamed. Anyway, we had alreadyagreedthatwewouldnotdiscussmyplans.Itwasbetterforbothofusifhedidn’tknow.Iwasnotsorry.Iwasrelieved.FromthemomentIhadmetJuliaRothmaninVenice,Ihadbeendrawnintosomethingdeadlyand,deepdown, Ihadworriedthat Ihadnoplace there.Whatwouldmyparentshave thought ofme becoming a paid killer? It was true that they had not been entirelyinnocent themselves. Theyhadworked in a factory that producedweapons of death. But

theyhadbeenforcedintoitandinasensetheyhadspenttheirwholelivesprotectingmefromhavingtodothesame.Theyhadfedthedreamofmybecomingauniversitystudent,ahelicopterpilot…whatever.AnythingtogetmeoutofEstrov.AndwhatofLeo,aboywhohad never hurt anyone in his life? He wouldn’t have recognized the man I had almostbecome.Forbetteror forworse, itwasover.Thatwaswhat I toldmyself. Ihadagreatdealofmoneywithme.OnlythatmorningIhaddrawnonehundredandfiftythousandeurosfrommybankaccount,knowingthatwhenScorpiadiscoveredIhadgonetheywouldfreezethemoney.Ihadmyfreedom.HoweverIlookedatit,mysituationwasalotbetterthanithadbeenthreeandahalfyearsago.Ishouldn’tcomplain.Wearrivedattheairportandcheckedin.Asithappened,myflightwasleavingjustthirtyminutesafterHunter’sandwehadabitoftimetokill.Sowewentthroughpassportcontrolandsattogetherinthedeparturelounge.Wedidnotspeakverymuch.Hunterwasreadingapaperbackbook.Ihadamagazine.“Ifancyacoffee,”Huntersaid,suddenly.“CanIgetyouone?”“No.I’mallright,thanks.”Hegotup.“Itmay takeawhile.There’sabitofaqueue.Willyoukeepaneyeonmythings?”“Sure.”Despiteallwehadbeenthrough,wewereliketwostrangers…casualacquaintancesatbest.Hemovedaway,disappearinginthedirectionofthecafeteria.Hehadn’tcheckedinanyluggageandwascarryingtwobags–asmallsuitcaseandacanvasholdall.TheywerebothonthefloorandfornogoodreasonIpickeduptheholdallandplaceditontheemptyseatnexttome.AsIdidso,Inoticedthatoneofthezipswaspartiallyundone.Iwentbacktomymagazine.ThenIstopped.Somethinghadcaughtmyeye.Whatwasit?Moving the holdall had folded back the canvas, causing a side pocket to bulge open.Inside,therewasawallet,amobiletelephone,Hunter’sboardingpass,abatteryandapairofsunglasses.Itwasthebatterythathadcaughtmyattention.ThebrandwasPowerPlus.WherehadIseenthenamebeforeandwhydiditmeansomethingtome?Iremembered.Afewmonths ago,when Iwas onMalagosto, Gordon Ross had shown us all a number ofgadgetssuppliedby thedifferent intelligenceservicesaroundtheworld.Oneof themhadbeenaPowerPlusbatterythatactuallyconcealedaradiotransmitterthatagentscouldusetosummonhelp.But itwas aBritishgadget, suppliedby theBritish secret service.Whatwas it doing inHunter’sbag?Ilookedaroundme.TherewasnosignofHunter.Quickly,Ipluckedthebatteryoutandexaminedit,stillhopingthatitwasperfectlyordinaryandthatIwasmakingamistake.Ipressed thepositive terminal, the little goldbuttonon the top. Sure enough, therewas aspringunderneath.Pushing itdown releasedamechanism inside, allowing thebattery toseparateintotwoconnectedparts.IfIgavethewholethingahalf-twist,IwouldinstantlysummonBritishintelligencetoTerminalTwoofCharlesdeGaulleAirport.Britishintelligence…Horriblethoughtswerealreadygoingthroughmymind.Atthesametime,somethingelse

occurred tome.Hunterhadsaidhewasgoing togetacoffee.Perhaps Iwas reading toomuchintoitbuthehadlefthiswalletbehind.Howwashegoingtopay?Igottomyfeetandmovedawayfromtheseats,ignoringtherowsofwaitingpassengers,leavingtheluggagebehind.Ifeltlight-headed,disconnected,asifIhadbeentornoutofmyownbody.Iturnedacornerandsawthecafeteria.Therewasn’taqueueatallandHuntercertainlywasn’tthere.He’dliedtome.Wherewashe?IlookedaroundandthenIsawhim.HewassomedistanceawaywithhisbackpartlyturnedtomebutIwasn’tmistaken.Itwashim.Hewas talkingon the telephone…anurgent, serious conversation. Imight not beabletoreadhislipsbutIcouldtellthathedidn’twanttobeoverheard.Iwentbacktomyseat,afraidthattheluggagewouldbestolenifIdidn’tkeepaneyeonit–andhowwouldIexplainthat?Iwasstillholdingthebattery.Ihadalmostforgottenitwasinmyhand.Iunclickedtheterminalandreturnedittotheholdall,thenputthewholethingbackonthefloor.Ididn’tzipitup.Hunterwouldhavespottedadetaillikethat.ButIpressedthecanvaswithmyfootsothatthesidepocketappearedclosed.ThenIopenedmymagazine.ButIdidn’treadit.Iknew.Withoutashredofdoubt.JohnRider–Hunter–wasadoubleagent,aspysentinbyMI6.NowthatIthoughtaboutit,itwasobviousandIshouldhaveseenitlongago.Onthat last night in Malagosto, when we hadmet in Sefton Nye’s office, I had been quitecertainhehadn’t followedme inand Ihadbeenright.Hehadarrivedbeforeme.Hehadbeenthereallalong.Nyehadn’tlefthisdooropen.HuntermusthaveunlockeditmomentsbeforeIarrived.Hehadgoneinthereforexactlythesamereasonasme…togetaccesstoNye’sfiles.Butinhiscase,hehadbeensearchingforinformationaboutScorpiatopassontohisbosses.Nowonderhehadbeensokeentogetmeoutofthere.Hehadn’treportedmeto Nye… not because he was protectingme but because he didn’t want anyone askingquestionsabouthim.Now I understood why he hadn’t killed the young policeman at Vosque’s flat. A realassassinwouldn’thavethoughttwiceabout itbutaBritishagentcouldn’tpossiblybehavethe sameway.Hehad shot theCommander. Therewasnodoubt about that. ButGabrielSweetman had been a monster, a major drug trafficker, and the British and Americangovernmentswouldhavebeendelightedtoseehimexecuted.WhatofVosquehimself?HewasaseniorFrenchofficer,nomatterwhathisfailings.AnditsuddenlyoccurredtomethatIonlyhadHunter’swordforitthathewasdead.Ihadn’tactuallybeenintheroomwhentheshotwasfired.Rightnow,Vosquecouldbeanywhere.Injail,outofthecountry…butalive!AtthesametimeIsaw,withicyclarity,thatJohnRiderhadbeensenttodomorethanspyonScorpia.Hehadalsobeensent tosabotage them.Hehadbeendeceivingmefromtheverystart.Ontheonehandhehadbeenpretendingtoteachme.Icouldn’tdenythatIhad learned from him. But all the time he had been underminingmy confidence. In thejungle,everythinghehad toldmeabouthimselfwasuntrue.Hehadn’tkilledaman inapub.Hehadn’tbeen in jail.Hehadusedthestory togainmysympathyandthenhehadtwisteditagainstme,tellingmethatIwasn’tcutouttobelikehim.ItwasJohnRiderwhohadplantedtheideathatIshouldrunaway.Hehaddone thesamething inParis.Thewayhehadsuddenly turnedonmewhenwe

were inVosque’s flat, askingme to do something that nobody in their rightmindwouldeverdowhethertheywerebeingpaidornot.Hehadgivenmethathideouslittleknife.AndhehadcalledVosquebyhisrealname.Not“thevictim”.Not“theCop”.HehadwantedmetothinkaboutwhatIwasdoingsothatIwouldn’tbeabletodoit.Andtheresult?AllthetrainingScorpiahadgivenmewouldhavebeenwasted.Theywouldhavelosttheirnewestrecruit.OfcourseScorpiawouldtrackmedown.Ofcoursetheywouldhavekilledme.JohnRiderhadtriedtoconvincemeotherwisebuthewasprobablyonthephonetothemevennow,warningthemIwasabouttoabscond.Whywouldheriskleavingmealive?Scorpiawouldhavesomeonewaiting formeatBerlinairport.Afterall,Berlinhadbeenhis idea.A taxiwouldpullup.Iwouldgetin.AndIwouldneverbeseenagain.Iwasbarelybreathing.MyhandsweregrippingthemagazinesotightlythatIwasalmosttearingitinhalf.Whathurtmost,whatfilledmewithablack,unrelentinghatred,wastheknowledge that it had all been fake. It had all been lies. After everything I had beenthrough, the loss of everyone I loved, my daily humiliation at the hands of VladimirSharkovsky, the poverty, the hopelessness, I thought I had finally found a friend. I hadtrusted JohnRider and Iwouldhavedoneanything forhim.But in awayhewasworsethananyofthem.Iwasnothingtohim.Hehadsecretlybeenlaughingatme–allthetime.Ilookedup.Hewaswalkingtowardsme.“EverythingOK?”heasked.“Yes,”Isaid.“Youdidn’tgetyourcoffee?”“Thequeuewastoolong.Anyway,they’vejustcalledmyflight.”Iglancedatthescreen.That,atleast,wastrue.TheflighttoRomewasblinking.“Well,itlooksasifit’sgoodbye,Yassen.Iwishyouluck…whereveryoudecidetogo.”“Thankyou,Hunter.I’llneverforgetyou.”Weshookhands.Myfacegavenothingaway.HepickeduphiscasesandIwatchedhimjointhequeueandboardtheflight.Hedidn’tturnroundagain.Assoonashehadgone,Itookmyowncaseandlefttheairport.Ididn’tfly toBerlin.Any flightwith thepassengers’names listedonacomputerscreenwouldbetoodangerousforme.ItookthetrainbackintoParisandjoinedagroupofstudentsandbackpackersonaMagicBus toHamburg.Fromthere, Icaughta train toHanoverwithaconnectiontoMoscow.Itwasajourneythatwouldtakemethirty-sixhoursbutthatdidn’tbotherme.IknewexactlywhatIhadtodo.

УБИЙЦА

THEASSASSIN

IhadnotseenthedachaatSilverForestforaverylongtime.IhadthoughtIwouldneverseeitagain.It had been strange to findmyself back at Kazansky Station inMoscow. I rememberedsteppingoff thetrain inmyYoungPioneersuniform.Itseemedlikea lifetimeago.TherewasnosignofDima,RomanorGrigory,whichwasprobably justaswell. Ihaveno ideawhat Iwouldhavesaid to themif Ihadseen them.Ontheonehand, Iwouldhave likedthemtoknowthatIwassafeandwell.Butperhapsitwasbestthatwedidnotrenewouracquaintance.Myworldwasverydifferentnow.Itseemedtomethattherewerenowfewerhomelesschildrenthantherehadbeeninthesquareoutsidethestation.Perhapsthenewgovernmentwasfinallygettingitsacttogetherandlookingafter them.It ispossible, Isuppose, that theywereall in jail.Thefoodstallshadgonetoo. I thoughtoftheraspberryicecreamIhaddevoured.Haditreallybeenmethatday?Orhad itbeenYashaGregorovich,aboywhohaddisappearedandwhowouldneverbespokenaboutagain?ItravelledontheMetrotoShchukinskayaStationandfromthereItookatrolleybustothepark. After that, I walked. Itwas strange that I had never actually seen the dacha fromoutside.Ihadarrivedinthebootofacar.Ihadleft,inthedarkness,inahelicopter.ButIknewexactlywhereIwasgoing.AllthepapersrelatingtotheplanningandconstructionofSharkovsky’s home, alongwith thenecessary licences andpermits, hadbeen lodged, as Isuspected,withtheMoscowArchitectureandCityPlanningCommittee. Ihadvisitedtheiroffices in Triumfalnaya Square – curiously they were very close to Dima’s place offTverskayaStreet–veryearlyinthemorning.Breakinginhadpresentednoproblem.Theywerenotexpectingthieves.NowIunderstoodwhySharkovskyhadchosentolivehere.Thelandscape–flatandgreenwith its pine forests, lakes and beaches – was very beautiful. I saw a few riders onhorseback.ItwashardtobelievethatIhadbeensoclosetothecityduringmythreeyearsat thedacha. Buthere thenoise of the trafficwas replacedby soft breezes andbirdsong.Therewerenotallbuildingsbreakingtheskyline.Anarrowprivateroadledtothedacha.Ifolloweditforawhile,thenslippedbehindthetrees that grew on either side. It was unlikely that Sharkovsky had planted sensorsunderneath the concrete and therewas no sign of any cameras, but I could not be sure.Eventually,theouterwallcameintosight.Irecognizedtheshapeofit,therazorwireandthebrickworkevenfromtheoutside.It was not going to be difficult to break in. Sharkovsky prided himself on his securitynetworkbutIhadbeentrainedbyexperts.Hismenwentthroughthesameprocedures,dayin and day out. They actedmechanically, without thinking. And howmany times had itbeen drummed into me on Malagosto? Habit is a weakness. It is what gets you killed.Certaincarsanddeliverytrucksalwaysarrivedatthedachaatagiventime.Irememberednotingthemdowninmyformerlife,scribblinginthebackofanexercisebook.Madness!It

wasagifttotheenemy.The laundryvanarrived shortlyafter fiveo’clock,bywhich time itwasalreadydark. Iknew it would come. I had lost count of the number of times I had helped to empty it,carryingdirtysheetsoutandfreshlinenin.Asthedriverapproachedthemaingate,hesawabranchthatseemedtohavefallenfromatree,blockingtheway.Hestoppedthevan,gotout and moved it. When he got back in again, he was unaware that he had an extrapassenger. The back door hadn’t been locked. Why should it have been? It was onlycarryingsheetsandtowels.The van reached the barrier and stopped.Again, I knewexactlywhatwouldhappen. Ihadseenitoftenenoughanditwasimprintedinmymind.Therewerethreeguardsinsidethesecurityhut.OneofthemwasmeanttobemonitoringtheTVcamerasbuthewasoldand lazy andwasmore likely to have his head buried in a newspaper. The secondmanwouldstayontheleft-handsideofthevantocheckthedriver’sID,whilethethirdsearchedunderneath the vehicle, using a flatmirror onwheels. I timed themoment exactly, thenslippedoutofthebackandhidontheleft-handside,rightnexttothesecurityhut,lostinthe shadows.Now the firstguardopened thebackandchecked inside.Hewas too late. Ihadgone.Iheardhimrummagingaroundinside.Eventually,heemerged.“Allright,”hecalledout.“Youcanmoveon.”Itwasverykindofhimtoletmeknowwhenitwassafe.Idodgedround,stillshieldedbythevan,andclimbedbackinside.Thedriverstartedthevanandwerolledforward,onourwaytothehouse.Itwasasimplemattertoslipoutagainoncewehadstopped.Iknewwherewewouldbe,nexttothesidedoorthatalltheservantsanddeliverypeopleused.Iwascarefulnottosteponthegrass.Irememberedwherethesensorswerepositioned.IwasalsocarefultoavoidtheCCTVcamerasasIedgedforward.Evenso,Iwasastonishedtofindthatthedoorwasnot locked. Sharkovsky was a fool! I would have advised him to rethink all his securityarrangementsafterapaidassassinhadmadeitintothehouse–andcertainlyafterArkadyZelinandIhadescapedwithhim.Thatmadethreepeoplewhoknewhisweaknesses.Butthen again, he had been in hospital for a very long time. His mind had been on otherthings.Ifoundmyselfinside,backinthosefamiliarcorridors.Thelaundrymanhadgoneaheadandthehousekeeperhadgonewithhim.Ipassedthekitchen.Pavelwasstillthere.Thechefwasbendingoverthestove,puttingthefinishingtouchestothepiethathewasplanningtoserve that evening. I knew I didn’t have to worry about him. He was slightly deaf andabsorbedinhiswork.However,therewassomethingIneeded.IreachedoutandunhookedthekeytoSharkovsky’sLexus.HadIbeeninchargehere,Iwouldhavesuggestedthatallthekeysshould themselvesbekept lockedupsomewheremoresafe.But thatwasnotmyconcern.Itseemedonlyrightthatthecarthathadfirstbroughtmeherewouldalsoprovidemymeansofescape.Itwasbulletproof.Iwouldbeabletosmashthroughthebarrierandnobodywouldbeabletostopme.Howeasyitallwas–andithadbeeninfrontofmeallthetime!Butofcourse,Ihadbeenseeingthingswithverydifferenteyesbackthen.Iwasavillageboy.IhadneverheardofScorpia.Iknewnothing.I continued forward,knowing that Iwouldhave tobemore careful from thispointon.

Thingsmust have changed inside the house. For a start, the two bodyguards – Josef andKarl–wouldhavebeenreplaced,oneofthemburiedandtheotherfired.Sharkovskymighthaveanew,moreefficientteamaroundhim.Butthehallwassilent.Everythingwasas Irememberedit,rightdowntotheflowerdisplayonthecentraltable. I tiptoedacrossandslippedthroughthedoorthatleddowntothebasement.ThiswaswhereIwouldwaituntildinnerhadbeen served, in the sameroomwhere Ihadbeenshown thebodyof thedeadfoodtaster.I did not climb upstairs again until eleven o’clock, bywhich time I imagined everyonewouldbeinbed.Ihadbeenabletomakeoutsomeofthesoundscomingfromaboveanditwascleartomethattherehadbeennoformaldinnerpartythatnight.Thelightswereout.Therewasnobodyinsight.IwentstraightintoSharkovsky’sstudy.IwasconcernedthattheDalmatianmightbetherebutthoughtitwouldremembermeandprobablywouldn’tbark.In fact, there was no sign of it. Perhaps Sharkovsky had got rid of it. There was a fireburning low in the hearth and the glow guidedme across the room as I approached thedesk.Iwaslookingforsomethingandfounditinthebottomdrawer.NowallthatremainedwastoclimbupstairstothebedroomattheendofthecorridorwhereSharkovskyslept.Butasitturnedout,itwasnotnecessary.Tomysurprise,thedooropenedandthelightsin the room were turned on. It was Sharkovsky, on his own. He did not see me. I washiddenbehindthedeskbutIwatchedasheclosedthedoorand,withdifficulty,manoeuvredhimselfintotheroom.Hewasnolongerwalking.Hewasinawheelchair,dressedinasilkdressinggownandpyjamas.Eitherhewasnowsleepingdownstairsorhehadbuilthimselfalift.Hewasmoregaunt than I remembered.Hisheadwas still shaved,hiseyesdarkandvengefulbutnowtheyseemedtosparklewith thememoryofpain.Hismouthwas twisteddownwards inapermanentgrimaceandhis skinwasgrey, stretchedover thebonesofhis face.Even thecoloursofhis tattooseemedtohave faded. Icould justmakeout theeagle’swingsonhischestbeneathhispyjamatop.Everymovementwasdifficultforhim.Iguessedthathehadindeedbrokenhis neckwhenhehad fallen.And although thebullets hadnot killedhim,theyhaddonecatastrophicharm,leavinghimawreck.Thedoorwasshut.Wewerealone.IhadquicklytakenoutapairofwirecuttersandusedthembutnowIstoodup,revealingmyself.Iwasholdingthegun,therevolverthathehadhandedtomethefirsttimeIhadcometothisroom.Inmyotherhand,therewasaboxofbullets.“YassenGregorovich!”heexclaimed.Hisvoicewasveryweakas if something insidehisthroathadbeensevered.Hisfaceshowedonlyshock.EventhoughIwasholdingagun,hedidnotthinkhimselftobeinanydanger.“Ididn’texpecttoseeyouagain.”Hesneeredatme.“Haveyoucomebackforyouroldjob?”“No,”Isaid.“That’snotwhyI’mhere.”Hewheeledhimselfforward,headingforhissideofthedesk.Imovedaway,makingroomforhim.Itwasrightthatitshouldbethisway…asithadbeenallthoseyearsbefore.“WhathappenedtoArkadyZelin?”heasked.“Idon’tknow,”Ireplied.“Theywereinittogether,weren’tthey?Heandthemechanic.”Ididn’tsayanythingsohewenton.“Iwill find themeventually. Ihavepeople looking for themallover theworld.

They’vebeenlookingforyou,too.”Hewasraspingandhisvoicewasthickwithhatred.Hedidn’tneedtotellmewhattheywouldhavedonewithmeifthey’dfoundme.“Didyouhelpthem?”heasked.“Wereyoupartoftheplot?”“No.”“Butyouleftwiththem.”“Ipersuadedthemtotakeme.”“Sowhyhaveyoucomeback?”“Wehaveunfinishedbusiness.WehavetotalkaboutEstrov.”“Estrov?”Thenametookhimbysurprise.“Iusedtolivethere.”“Butyousaid…”Hethoughtbackandsomehowheremembered.“YousaidyoucamefromKirsk.”“Myparents,allmyfriendsdied.Youwereresponsible.”Hesmiled.Itwasahorrible,death’s-headsmilewithmoremalevolenceinitthanIwouldhavethoughtpossible.“Well,well,well,”hecroaked.“Ihavetosay,I’msurprised.Andyoucamehereforrevenge?That’snotverycivilofyou,Yassen.Ilookedafteryou.Itookyouintomyhouse.Ifedyouandgaveyouajob.Where’syourgratitude?”Hehadbeen fiddling around as he spoke, reaching for somethingunderneath thedesk.ButIhadalreadyfoundwhathewaslookingfor.“I’ve disconnected the alarm button,” I told him. “If you’re calling for help, it won’tcome.”Forthefirsttime,helookeduncertain.“Whatdoyouwant?”hehissed.“Notrevenge,”Isaid.“Completion.Wehavetofinishthebusinessthatstartedhere.”Iplacedthegunonthedeskinfrontofhimandspiltoutthebullets.“Whenyoubroughtmehere,youmademeplayagame,”Isaid.“Itwasahorrible,viciousthingtodo.Iwasfourteenyearsold!Icannotthinkofanyotherhumanbeingwhowoulddothattoachild.Well,nowwearegoingtoplayitagain–butthistimeaccordingtomyrules.”Sharkovskycouldonlywatch,fascinated,asIpickedupthegun,flickedopenthecylinderandplacedabulletinside.Ipaused,thenfolloweditwithasecondbullet,athird,afourthandafifth.OnlythendidIshutit.Ispunthecylinder.Fivebullets.Oneemptychamber.TheexactreverseoftheoddsthatSharkovskyhadofferedme.He hadworked it out for himself. “Russian roulette? You think I’m going to play?” hesnarled.“I’mnotgoingtocommitsuicideinfrontofyou,YassenGregorovich.Youcankillmeifyouwantto,butotherwiseyoucangotohell.”“That’sexactlywhereyoukeptme,”Isaid.Iwasholdingthegun,rememberingthefeelofit. Icouldevenrememberitstaste.“Iblameyouforeverythingthathashappenedtome,VladimirSharkovsky.Ifitwasn’tforyou,Iwouldstillbeinmyvillagewithmyfamilyandfriends.Butfromthemomentyoucameintomylife,Iwassentonajourney.IwasgivenadestinywhichIwasunabletoavoid.“Idonotwanttobeakiller.Andthisismylastchance…mylastchancetoavoidexactlythat.” I felt somethinghot, trickling down the side ofmy face.A tear. I did notwant toshowweakness in front of him. I did not wipe it away. “Do you understandwhat I am

sayingtoyou?Whatyouwant,whatScorpiawants,whateveryonewants…itisnotwhatIwant.”“Idon’tknowwhatyou’retalkingabout,”Sharkovskysaid.“I’mtiredandI’vehadenoughofthis.I’mgoingtobed.”“Ididn’tcomeheretokillyou,”Isaid.“Icameheretodie.”Iraisedthegun.Fivebullets.Oneemptychamber.Ipresseditagainstmyhead.Sharkovskystaredatme.Ipulledthetrigger.Theclickwasas loudasanexplosionwouldhavebeen.Againstall theodds, Iwasstillalive.Andyet,Ihadexpectedit.Ihadbeenchosen.Myfuturelayaheadofmeandtherewastobenoescape.“You’remad!”Sharkovskywhispered.“Iamwhatyoumademe,”Isaid.I swung the gun round and shot him between the eyes. The wheelchair was propelledbackwards, crashing into the wall. Blood splattered onto the desk. His hands jerkeduselessly,thenwentlimp.Iheardfootstepsinthehallwayoutsideandamomentlaterthedoorcrashedopen.IhadexpectedtoseethenewbodyguardsbutitwasIvanSharkovskywhostoodthere,wearingadinner jacketwithablack tiehanging loosearoundhisneck.He sawhis father.Thenhesawme.“Yassen!”heexclaimedinthevoiceIknewsowell.Ishothimthreetimes.Onceinthehead,twiceintheheart.ThenIleft.

EPILOGUE

THEKILL

King’sCross,London.Threeo’clockinthemorning.Thestationwasclosedandsilent.Thestreetswerealmostempty.Afewshopswerestillopen–akebabrestaurantandaminicaboffice,theirplasticsignsgarishlybright.Buttherewerenocustomers.Insidehishotel room,YassenGregorovich tookout thememorystickandturnedoff thecomputer. He had read enough. He was still sitting at the desk. The tray with the dirtydishes fromhissupperwasonthecarpetbesidehim.He lookedat theblankscreen, thenyawned.Heneededtosleep.Hestrippedoffhisclothesandleft them,folded,onachair.Thenheshowered,driedhimselfandwent tobed.Hewasasleepalmost immediately.Hedidnotdream.SincethatfinalnightintheSilverForest,heneverdreamed.Hewokeagainatexactlyseveno’clock.ItwasaSaturdayandthestreetwasquieterthanit had been the day before. The sun was shining but he could see from the flag on thebuilding opposite that there was a certain amount of wind. He quickly scanned thepavements looking for anythingout of place, anyonewho shouldn’t be there.Everythingseemednormal.Heshoweredagain,thenshavedandgotdressed.Thecomputerwaswherehe had left it on the table and he powered it up so that he could check for any newmessages. He knew that the order he had received the day before would still be active.Scorpia were not in the habit of changing their minds. The screen told him that he hadreceiveda singleemailandheopened it.Asusual, ithadbeenencryptedand sent toanaccountthatcouldnotbetracedtohim.Hereadit,consideringitscontents.Heplannedthedayahead.Hewentdownstairsandhadbreakfast–tea,yoghurt,freshfruit.Therewasagymatthehotel but it was too small and ill-equipped to beworth using, and anyway, hewouldn’thavefeltsafeintheconfinedspace,downinthebasement.Itwasalmostasbadasthelift.Afterbreakfast,hereturnedtohisroom,checkingthedoorhandleonelasttime,packedthefewitemshehadbroughtwithhimandleft.“Goodbye,MrReddy.Ihopeyouenjoyedyourstay.”“Thankyou.”ThegirlatthecheckoutdeskwasRomanian,quiteattractive.Yassenhadnogirlfriend,ofcourse. Any such relationship was out of the question but for a brief moment he felt atwingeofregret.HethoughtofColette,thegirlwhohaddiedinArgentina.Atonce,hewasannoyedwithhimself.Heshouldn’thavespentsomuchtimereadingthediary.He paid the bill using a credit card connected to the same gymnasium where hesupposedlyworked.He took the receipt but later onhewouldburn it.A receiptwas thebeginningofapapertrail.Itwasthelastthingheneeded.Asheleftthehotel,henoticedamanreadinganewspaper.Theheadlinesscreamedoutathim:

SHOOTINGATSCIENCEMUSEUMPRIMEMINISTERINVOLVED“NOONEHURT,”SAYSMI6

Itwas interesting that therewasnomentionofeitherHerodSayleorAlexRider.NobodywouldwanttosuggestthatabillionaireandmajorbenefactorintheUKhadbeeninvolvedinanassassinationattempt.AsforAlexRider,thesecretservicewouldhavekepthimwellawayfromthepress.Theyhadrecruitedafourteen-year-oldschoolboy.Thatwasonestorythatwouldneverseethelightofday.Yassen passed through the revolving doors and walked round to the car park. He hadhiredacar,aRenaultClio,chargingittothesamecompanyasthehotelroom.Heputhisthings in the boot, then drove west, all the way across London and over to a street inChelsea, not far from the river. He parked close to a handsome terraced housewith ivygrowingupthewall,asmall,squaregardenatthefrontandawrought-irongate.So this was where Alex Rider lived. Yassen assumed he would be somewhere inside,perhapsstillasleep.Therewouldbenoschooltoday,ofcourse,buteveniftherehadbeenitwasunlikelythatAlexwouldhaveattended.Onlythedaybefore,hehadhijackedacargoplane inCornwalland forced thepilot to flyhim toLondon.Hehadparachuted into theScienceMuseuminSouthKensingtonandshotHerodSayle,woundinghimsecondsbeforehecouldpressthebuttonthatwouldactivatetheStormbreakercomputers.Therehadbeenafurore. Just as the newspapers had reported, the Prime Minister had been present. Thepolice,theSASandMI6hadbeeninvolved.Yassentriedtoimaginethescene.Itmusthavebeenchaos.Hesatbehindthewheel,stillwatchingthehouse.Yes.AlexRidermostcertainlydeservedafewextrahoursinbed.About an hour later, the front door opened and a young woman came out. She waswearing jeans and a loose-fitting jersey with red hair tumbling down to her shoulders.Yassenhadnevermetherbutheknewwhoshewas:JackStarbright,Alex’shousekeeper.Itmusthavebeenratheroddthetwoofthemlivingtogetherbuttherewasnooneelse.JohnRiderhaddiedalongtimeago.Therehadbeenanuncle,IanRider,whohadbecomeAlex’sguardian,buthewasdeadtoo.Yassenknewbecausehehadbeenpersonallyresponsibleforthatkilling.Howhadhebecome so tangledupwith this family?Would theynever leavehimalone?JackStarbrightwascarryingastrawbag.Shewasgoingshopping.Whileshewasaway,Yassen could slip into the house and tiptoe upstairs. If Alex Rider was in bed asleep, itwould all be over very quickly. Itwouldbe easier for him thatway.He simplywouldn’twakeup.ButYassenhadalreadydecidedagainstit.Thereweretoomanyuncertainties.Hehadn’tyet checked out the layout of the house. He didn’t know if there were alarms. Thehousekeepercouldreturnatanymoment.Atthesametime,hethoughtabouttheemailthathehad received. It presentedhimwith a newpriority. The Stormbreaker businesswasn’tquite over. Dealingwith Alex Rider nowmight compromisewhat lay ahead. He reached

downandturnedtheenginebackon.ItwasusefultoknowwhereAlexlived,toacquainthimselfwiththeterritory.Hecouldreturnatanothertime.Hedroveoff.Yassenspenttherestofthedaydoingverylittle.Itwasoneofthestrangeraspectsofhiswork.He’dhadtolearnhowtofilllonggapsofinactivity,effectivelyhowtokilltime.Hehadoftenfoundhimselfwaitinginhotelroomsfordaysorevenweeks.Thesecretwastoputyourselfinneutralgear,tokeepyourselfalertbutwithoutwastingphysicalormentalenergy. There were meditation techniques that he had been taught when he was onMalagosto.Heusedthemnow.Laterthatafternoon,hedroveintotheBatterseaHeliport,situatedbetweenBatterseaandWandsworthbridges.ItistheonlyplaceinLondonwherebusinessmencanarriveorleaveby helicopter. Themachine that he had orderedwaswaiting for him – a red and yellowColibri EC-120B,whichhe likedbecause itwas so remarkably silent.Hehad receivedhishelicopter pilot’s licence five years ago, finally realizing a dreamwhich he hadhad as achild, althoughhehadnever, after all,worked in air-sea rescue. Itwas just another skillthatwasusefulforhislineofwork.Hekeptmoving.Hekeptadapting.Thatwashowhesurvived.He had telephoned ahead. The helicopter was fuelled and ready. All the necessaryclearanceshadbeenarranged.Takinghis casewithhim,Yassen climbed into the cockpitandafewminuteslaterhewasairborne,followingtheRiverThameseasttowardstheCity.Theemailthathehadreceivedhadspecifiedatimeandaplace.Hesawthatplaceaheadofhim,anofficebuilding thirty storeyshighwitha flat roofanda radiomast.Therewasacross,paintedbrightred,signallingwhereheshouldland.HerodSaylewasthere,waitingforhim.Itwas Saylewho had sent him the email thatmorning andwho had arranged all this,payinganextraonemillioneurosintothespecialaccountthatYassenhadinGeneva.Thepolice were looking for the billionaire all over Britain. The airports and main railwaystationswerebeingwatched.Therewereextrapolicemenall around thecoast. SaylehadpaidYassentoflyhimoutofthecountry.TheywouldlandoutsideParis,whereaprivatejetwaswaitingforhim.FromtherehewouldbeflowntoahideoutinSouthAmerica.Hoveringintheair,stillsomedistanceaway,YassenrecognizedSayle…eventhoughtheman was dressed almost comically in an ill-fitting cardigan and corduroy trousers, verydifferentfromthesuitsheusuallyfavoured,andpresumablysomesortofdisguise.Butthedarkskin,thebaldheadandthesmallnessofhisstaturewereunmistakable.Saylelikedtowearagoldsignetringandthereitwas,flashingintheafternoonsun.Hewasholdingagun. And hewas not alone. Yassen’s eyes narrowed. Therewas a boy standing oppositehim,closetotheedgeoftheroof.ItwasAlexRider!Thegunwasbeingaimedathim.Saylewas talking and it was obvious to Yassen that he was about to fire. He had somehowmanagedtocapturetheboyandhadbroughthimhere–tokillhimbeforeheleft.YassenwonderedhowAlexhadallowedhimselftofallintoSayle’shands.Hecametoadecision.Itwasn’teasy,slidingopenthecockpitdoor,reachingintohiscaseandkeepingcontroloftheColibri,allatsametime–buthemanagedit.Hetookoutthegunhehadbroughtwithhim.ItwasaGlocklong-rangeshootingpistol,accurateatuptotwohundredmetres.Infact,Yassenwasmuchnearerthanthat,whichwasjustaswell.This

wasn’tgoingtobeeasy.Itwastimetomakethekill.Heaimedcarefully, theguninonehand,thecyclicrodintheother.Thehelicopterwassteady,hangingintheair.Hegentlysqueezedthetriggerandfiredtwice.Evenbeforethebulletshadreachedtheirtarget,heknewhehadn’tmissed.HerodSayletwistedandfell.Hehitthegroundandlayquitestill,unawareofthepoolofbloodspreadingaroundhim.Theboydidn’tmove.Yassenadmiredhimforthat.IfAlexhadtriedtorun,hewouldhavereceivedabulletinthebackbeforehehadtakentwopaces.Muchbettertotalk.Thetwoofthemhadunfinishedbusiness.Yassenlandedthehelicopterasquicklyashecould,neveroncetakinghiseyesoffAlex.ThegunthathadjustkilledSaylewasstillrestinginhislap.Thelandingskidtouchedtheroofofthebuildingandsettled.Yassenswitchedofftheengineandgotout.Thetwoofthemstoodfacetoface.Itwasextraordinaryhowsimilarhewastohisfather.Alex’shairwaslongeranditwaslighterincolour,remindingYassenofthewomanhehadglimpsedwithJohnRideratSacré-Cœur.Hehadthesamebrowneyesandtherewassomethingaboutthewayhestoodwithexactlythesamecomposureandself-confidence.Hehadjustseenamandiebuthewasn’tafraid.Itseemedremarkable–andstrangelyappropriate–thathewasonlyfourteen,thesameagethatYassenhadbeenwhenthoseotherhelicoptershadcometohisvillage.Alex’s parentswere dead, just like his. They had been killed by a bomb, planted in anaeroplaneontheordersofScorpia.Yassenwasgladthathe’dhadnothingtodowithit.HehadnevertoldJuliaRothmanwhatheknewaboutJohnRider.BythetimehereturnedtoVenice, Hunter had already left, travelling with one of the other recruits.What was thepointof sentencinghim todeath?Yassenhadalreadydecided.Whoeverhemightbeandwhateverhemighthavedone,therecouldbenodenyingthatHunterhadsavedhislifeinthePeruvianrainforestandthathadcreatedadebtofhonour.Yassenwouldsimplyblotouttheknowledgeinhismind.Hewouldpretendhehadn’tseenthePowerPlusbattery,thatithadneverhappened.Andwhat ifRidercausedmoredamagetoScorpia?Itdidn’tmatter.Yassenowedno loyalty to themor toanyoneelse. In thisnew lifeofhis,hewouldoweloyaltytonoone.Hewouldstillhavehisrevenge.JohnRiderhadbetrayedhimandinreturn,Yassenwouldbecomethemostefficient, themostcold-bloodedassassin intheworld.VladimirandIvanSharkovskyhadbeen just the start. Since then, there hadbeen…howmanyof them?Ahundred? Almost certainlymore. And every time Yassen hadwalked away from anothervictim, he had proved that John Riderwaswrong. He had become exactlywhat hewasmeanttobe.AndherewasJohnRider’s son. Itwas somehow inevitable that the twoof themshouldfinallymeet.HowmuchdidAlexknowaboutthepast,Yassenwondered.Didhehaveanyideawhathisfatherhadbeen?“You’reYassenGregorovich,”Alexsaid.Yassennodded.“Whydidyoukillhim?”AlexglancedatthebodyofHerodSayle.“Thoseweremy instructions,”Yassen replied,but in facthewas lying.Scorpiahadnot

orderedhimtokillSayle.Hehadmadeaninstantdecision,actingonhisowninitiative.Heknew,however,thattheywouldbepleased.Saylehadbecomeanembarrassment.Hehadfailed.Itwasbetterthathewasdealtwithonceandforall.“Whataboutme?”Alexasked.Yassenpausedbeforereplying.“Ihavenoinstructionsconcerningyou.”Itwasanotherlie.Themessageonhiscomputercouldnothavebeenclearer.ButYassenknewthathecouldnotkillAlexRider.Thebondofhonourthathadonceexistedwiththefatherextendedtotheson.Verybriefly,hethoughtbacktoParis.Itwashardtoexplainbuttherewas a sort of parallel. He saw it now and it waswhy, at the lastminute, he haddivertedhisaim.HowhehadbeentoJohnRiderwhenthetwoofthemweretogether,insomewayAlexRiderwastohimnow.Therewouldbenomorekillingtoday.“YoukilledIanRider,”Alexsaid.“Hewasmyuncle.”IanRider.JohnRider’syoungerbrother.Itwastrue–Yassenhadshothimashehadtriedtoescape fromHerodSayle’scompound inCornwall.Thatwashowthishadallbegun. ItwasthereasonAlexRiderwashere.Yassenshrugged.“Ikillalotofpeople.”“OnedayI’llkillyou.”“Alotofpeoplehavetried,”Yassensaid.“Believeme,itwouldbebetterifwedidn’tmeetagain.Go back to school. Go back to your life. And the next time they ask you, say no.Killingisforgrown-upsandyou’restillachild.”ItwasthesameadvicethatAlex’sfatherhadoncegivenhim.ButYassenwasofferingitforaverydifferentreason.Thetwoofthemhadcomefromdifferentworldsbuttheyhadsomuchincommon.Atthesame age, they had lost everything that mattered to them. They had found themselvesalone.Andtheyhadbothbeenchosen.InAlex’scaseithadbeentheBritishsecretservice,MI6SpecialOperations,whohadcomecalling.ForYassenithadbeenScorpia.Hadeitherofthemeverhadanychoice?Itmightstillnotbetoolate.Yassenthoughtabouthislife,thediaryhehadreadthenightbefore.Ifonlysomeonecouldhavereachedoutandtakenholdofhim…beforehegotonthe train to Moscow, before he broke into the flat near Gorky Park, before he reachedMalagosto. For him, there had been nobody. But for Alex Rider, it didn’t need to be thesame.HehadgivenAlexachance.Itwasenough.Therewasnothingmoretosay.Yassenturnedroundandwalkedbacktothehelicopter.Alexdidn’tmove.Yassenflickedontheengine,waiteduntilthebladeshadreachedfullvelocityandtookoffasecondtime.Atthelastmoment,heraisedahandinagestureoffarewell.Alexdidthesame.Thetwoofthemlookedateachother,bothofthemtrappedindifferentways,onoppositesidesoftheglass.FinallyYassenpulledat the controls and thehelicopter liftedoff theground.HewouldhavetoreporttoScorpia,explaintothemwhyhehaddonewhathehaddone.Wouldtheykill himbecause of it? Yassen didn’t think so.Hewas too valuable to them. Theywouldalreadyhaveanothernameinanotherenvelopewaitingforhim.Someonewhoseturnhadcometodie.

Hecouldn’tstophimself.HighabovetheThameswiththesunsettingoverthewater,hespunthecockpitroundandglancedbackonelasttime.Butnowtheroofwasemptyapartfromthebodystretchedoutbesidetheredcross.AlexRiderhadgone.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

IhadagreatdealofhelpwiththeRussiansectionsofthebook.OlgaSmirnovareluctantlytook me through some of her childhood memories and translated the chapter headings.SimonJohnsonandAnneCleminson introducedme to their friendsand family, includingOlgaCleminson,whocookedmeaRussianlunchandhelpedcreatethevillageofEstrov.InMoscow, Konstantin Chernozatonsky showed me the buildings where Yassen might havelivedandfirstdrewmyattentiontothefortochniks.SianValvistookmeroundthecityandtoldme of her experiencesworking for an oligarch. Ilia Tchelikidi also shared his schoolmemories with me from his home in London. Finally, Alex Kteniadakis gave me thetechnicalinformationforYassen’scomputer.Agreatmanyofthedetailsinthisbookarethereforebasedonfactbutit’sfairtosaythattheoverallpicturemaynotbeentirelyaccurate.Somuchchangedbetween1995and2000–theapproximatesetting for thestory– that I’vebeenforcedtouseacertainamountofdramaticlicence.My assistant Olivia Zampi organized everything right up to the photocopying andbinding.IoweaveryspecialdebtofthankstomysonCassian,whowasthefirsttoreadthe manuscript and who made some enormously helpful criticisms, and to both SarahHandleyatWalkerBooksandHarryFatHMPAshfieldwhobothsuggestedthetitle.Iam,asever,gratefultoJaneWinterbotham,mysqueamishbutincisiveeditoratWalkerBooks.Finally,mywife–JillGreen– lived through thewritingof thiswithouthiringacontractkillertohavemeeliminated.Shemusthavebeentempted.

CollectalltheAlexRiderbooks:

STORMBREAKER

AlexRider–you’renevertooyoungtodie…

POINTBLANC

HighintheAlps,deathwaitsforAlexRider…

SKELETONKEY

Sharks.Assassins.Nuclearbombs.AlexRider’sindeepwater.

EAGLESTRIKE

AlexRiderhas90minutestosavetheworld.

SCORPIA

Oncestung,twiceasdeadly.AlexRiderwantsrevenge.

ARKANGEL

He’sback–andthistimetherearenolimits.

SNAKEHEAD

AlexRiderbitesback…

CROCODILETEARS

AlexRider–inthejawsofdeath…

SCORPIARISING

Onebullet.Onelife.Theendstartshere.

TheAlexRidergraphicnovels:

www.alexrider.comwww.facebook.com/alexriderukwww.youtube.com/alexriderinsider

WELCOMETOTHEDARKSIDEOFANTHONYHOROWITZ

BOOKONE

Healwaysknewhewasdifferent.Firsttherewerethedreams.Thenthedeathsbegan.

BOOKTWO

ItbeganwithRaven’sGate.Butit’snotoveryet.

Onceagaintheenemyisstirring.

BOOKTHREE

Darknesscoverstheearth.TheOldOneshavereturned.Thebattlemustbegin.

BOOKFOUR

Anancientevilisunleashed.Fivehavethepowertodefeatit.Butoneofthemhasbeentaken.

BOOKFIVE

FiveGatekeepers.Onechancetosavemankind.Chaosbeckons.Oblivionawaits.

OTHERBOOKSBYANTHONYHOROWITZ

London is dirty, distant and dangerous … but that’s where orphan Tom Falconer isheading.Andhe’sgotawholeassortmentofviciouscriminalshotonhisheels.

Tom is helpless and alone until he meets Moll Cutpurse, a thirteen-year-old pickpocket.TogetherthetwoofthemfindthemselveschasedacrossthecitybythemurderousRatsey.Butit’sonlyonthefirstnightofanewplay–TheDevilandhisBoy–thatTomrealizesthefateoftheQueenandindeedtheentirecountryrestsinhishands.

Hecouldseeitinthewickedglimmerinhereyes,inthehalf-turnedcornerofhermouth.Anditwassostrong,sohorriblethatheshivered.Shewasevil.

“Wickedlyfunny.”DailyTelegraph

“Ahoot…AnthonyHorowitzhascreatedascaryandunmissableoldhag.”DailyMail

Becarefulwhatyouwishfor…TadSpencerhaseverythingaboycouldwant–incrediblyrichparents,andawholesummeraheadtoenjoyhoweverhepleases.Untiloneeveninghemakesthehugemistakeofwishinghewassomeoneelse.

THEDIAMONDBROTHERSSERIES

MeetTimDiamond,theworld’sworstprivatedetective,andhisquick-thinkingwisecrackingyoungerbrotherNick!

“Hisfirstjobwastofindsomerichlady’spedigreeSiamesecat.Hemanagedtorunitoveronthewaytoseeher.Thesecondjobwasadivorcecase–whichyoumaythinkisrun-of-the-mill until I tell you that the clients were perfectly happily married until he camealong…Therehadn’tbeenathirdcase.”

Collectall4hilariousDiamondBrothersinvestigations!

TitlesbyAnthonyHorowitz

TheAlexRiderseries:StormbreakerPointBlancSkeletonKeyEagleStrikeScorpiaArkAngelSnakehead

CrocodileTearsScorpiaRising

ThePowerofFive(BookOne):Raven’sGateThePowerofFive(BookTwo):EvilStarThePowerofFive(BookThree):NightriseThePowerofFive(BookFour):NecropolisThePowerofFive(BookFive):Oblivion

TheDevilandHisBoyGranny

GrooshamGrangeReturntoGrooshamGrange

TheSwitchMoreBloodyHorowitz

TheDiamondBrothersbooks:TheFalcon’sMalteser

PublicEnemyNumberTwoSouthbySouthEastFourofDiamonds

Thisisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,placesandincidentsareeithertheproductoftheauthor’simaginationor,ifreal,usedfictitiously.Allstatements,activities,stunts,

descriptions,informationandmaterialofanyotherkindcontainedhereinareincludedforentertainmentpurposesonlyandshouldnotbereliedonforaccuracyorreplicatedasthey

mayresultininjury.

Firstpublished2013byWalkerBooksLtd87VauxhallWalk,LondonSE115HJ

Text©2013StormbreakerProductionsLtdCoverdesignbyWalkerBooksLtdTrademarksAlexRider™;BoywithTorchLogo™©2013StormbreakerProductionsLtdTherightofAnthonyHorowitztobeidentifiedasauthorofthisworkhasbeenassertedbyhim

inaccordancewiththeCopyright,DesignsandPatentsAct1988

Allrightsreserved.Nopartofthisbookmaybereproduced,transmittedorstoredinaninformationretrievalsysteminanyformorbyanymeans,graphic,electronicormechanical,includingphotocopying,tapingandrecording,withoutpriorwritten

permissionfromthepublisher.

BritishLibraryCataloguinginPublicationData:acataloguerecordforthisbook

isavailablefromtheBritishLibraryISBN978-1-4063-5085-2(ePub)

www.walker.co.uk