Russian Roulette: The Story of an Assassin Page 16

  “Do you fly these?” I asked the mechanic.

  “Not me,” he said. “I just take them apart and put them back together.”

  “Is it difficult?”

  “You have to know what you’re doing.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to fly?”

  He shook his head. “Not really.” He took out a cigarette and lit it. “I wouldn’t know what to do with a joystick between my legs. I prefer to keep my feet safely on the ground.”

  “That’s enough, Yassen,” Zelin growled. “Don’t you have work to do? Go and do it.”

  “Yes, Mr Zelin.”

  I picked up the tray with the dirty glasses and carried it back to the house. But I’d already discovered 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 cyclic control which transmits instructions to the rotor blades. And it’s not in front of you. It’s to one side. Zelin had lied about the malfunction just as he had lied about the usual mechanic, Borodin, being sick. I was sure of it.

  From that moment, I didn’t let them out of my sight. I knew I would get into trouble. There were ten pairs of shoes I was meant to polish and a whole pile of crates to be broken up in the cellar. But there was no way I was going to disappear inside. Zelin was planning something. If Rykov wasn’t a helicopter mechanic, what was he? A thief? A spy? It didn’t matter. Zelin had brought him into the compound and had to be part of it. This was the opportunity I’d been waiting for. I could blackmail him. Suddenly I saw him with his hand on the cyclic. He could fly me out.

  My biggest worry was that Ivan would return to the dacha. He’d gone into Moscow for the day, driving the new Mercedes sports car that his father had bought him for his birthday, but if he came back and saw me, the chances were that he would find some task for me to do. At five o’clock there was still no sign of him but Sharkovsky and his wife returned from a ride and I helped them down from the saddle and walked the horses back to the stable. All the gardeners had gone. There were just the usual guards, walking in pairs, unaware that anything unusual was going on.

  As I got back to the house, I heard the helicopter start up, the whine of the engine rising as the rotors picked up speed. There was no sign of Rykov but the van with the MVZ logo was still parked close by so I knew he couldn’t have left. I pretended to walk into the house but at the last minute I hurried forward and ducked behind one of the cars. It was actually the Lexus that had first brought me here. If anyone found me there, I would pretend I was cleaning it.

  I could see Arkady Zelin inside the cockpit, checking the controls, and suddenly the mechanic emerged from the other side of the helicopter and began to walk towards me, towards the house, carrying a sheaf of papers. If the guards had seen him, it would have looked completely natural. He had finished the job and he needed someone to sign the documentation. But he was being careful. He kept to the shadows. Nobody except me saw him go in through the side door.

  I followed. I didn’t know what I was going to do because I still hadn’t worked out what was happening. All I knew was, it wasn’t what it seemed.

  I crept down the corridor past the service rooms – the laundry and the boot room, where I had spent so many hundreds of hours, day and night, in mindless drudgery. There was nobody around and that was very unusual. The mechanic couldn’t have just walked into the house. One of the housekeepers would have challenged him and then made him wait while she went to fetch Josef or Karl. Rykov had only entered a few seconds ahead of me. He should have been here now. I felt the silence all around me. None of the lights were on. I glanced into the kitchen. There was a pot of soup or stew bubbling away on top of the stove but no sign of Pavel.

  I was tempted to call out but something told me to stay quiet. I continued past the pantry. The door was ajar and that too was strange, as it was always kept locked in case the dog went in. I pushed it open and at that moment everything made sense. It should have been obvious from the start. How could I have been so slow not to see it?

  The housekeeper was there, lying on the floor. I had lost count of the number of times that Nina had snapped at me, scolding me for being too slow or too clumsy, hitting me on the head whenever she got the chance. I could see the wooden spoon still tucked into her apron but she wasn’t going to be using it. She had been shot at close range, obviously with a silencer because I hadn’t heard the sound of the gun. She was on her back with her hands spread out, as if in surprise. There was a pool of blood around her shoulders.

  Arkady Zelin had been bribed. There was no other explanation. He never had any money but suddenly he had an expensive new watch. Rykov was an assassin who had come here to kill Sharkovsky. The safest way to smuggle a gun into the compound – perhaps the only way to get past the metal detectors and X-ray machines – was to bring it in a truck packed with metal equipment. It would have been easy enough to dismantle it and scatter the separate parts among the other machinery. And the fastest way out after he had done his work was the helicopter, which was waiting even now, with the rotors at full velocity.

  My mouth was dry. My every instinct was to turn and run. If Rykov saw me, he would kill me without even thinking about it, just as he had killed Nina. But I didn’t leave. I couldn’t. This was the only chance I would ever get and I had to take it. There was a small axe hanging in the pantry. I had used it until there were blisters all over my hands, chopping kindling for the fire in Sharkovsky’s study. Making as little noise as possible and doing my best not to look at the dead woman, I unhooked it. An axe would be little use against a gun, but even so, I felt safer having some sort of weapon. I continued to the door that led into the main hall. It was half open. Hardly daring to breathe, I looked through.

  I had arrived just in time for the endgame.

  The hall was in shadow. The sun was setting behind the house and its last rays were too low to reach the windows. The lights were out. I could hear the shrill whine of the helicopter outside in the distance but a curtain of silence seemed to have fallen on the house. Josef was lying on the stairs, where he had been gunned down. Rykov was standing in front of me, edging forward, an automatic pistol with a silencer in his hand.

  He was making his way towards the study, his feet making no sound on the thick carpet. But even as I watched, the door of the study opened and Vladimir Sharkovsky came out, dressed in a suit and tie but with his jacket off. He must have heard the disturbance, the body tumbling down the stairs, and had come out to see what was happening.

  “What…?” he began.

  Rykov didn’t say anything. He stepped forward and shot my employer three times, the bullets thudding into his chest and stomach so quietly that I barely heard them. The effect was catastrophic. Sharkovsky was thrown backwards … off his feet. His head hit the carpet first. If the bullets hadn’t killed him, he would surely have broken his neck. His legs jerked then became still.

  What did I feel at that moment? Nothing. Of course I wasn’t going to waste any tears on Sharkovsky. I was glad he was dead. But I couldn’t find it in myself to celebrate the death of another human being. I was frightened. I was still wondering how I could turn this to my advantage. Everything was happening so quickly that I didn’t have time to work out my emotions. I suppose I was in a state of shock.

  And then a voice came floating out of the darkness.

  “Don’t turn round. Put the gun down!”

  Rykov twisted his head but saw nothing. I was hiding behind the door, out of sight. It was Karl. He had come up from the cellar. Maybe he had been looking for me, wondering why I hadn’t broken up those crates. He was behind Rykov and over to one side, edging into the hall with a gun clasped in both hands, holding it at the same level as his head.

  Rykov froze. He was still holding the gun he had used to kill Sharkovsky and I wondered if he’d had time to reload. He had fired at least five bullets. Rykov couldn’t see where the order had come from but he remained completely calm. “I
will pay you one hundred thousand rubles to let me leave here,” he said. He sounded very different from the mechanic I had spoken to. His voice was younger, more cultivated.

  “Who sent you?”

  “Scorpia.”

  The word meant nothing to me. Nor did it seem to have any significance for Karl. “Lower your gun very slowly,” he said. “Put it on the carpet where I can see it … in front of you.”

  There was nothing Rykov could do. If he couldn’t see the bodyguard, he couldn’t kill him. He lowered the gun to the floor.

  “Kick it away.”

  “If it hadn’t been me, it would have been someone else,” Rykov said. “Do yourself a favour. You’re out of a job. Take the money and go.”

  Silence. Rykov knew he had to do what he was told. He kicked the gun across the carpet. It came to a halt a few inches away from the dead man.

  Karl stepped further into the hall, still holding his gun in both hands. It was aimed at the back of Rykov’s neck. He glanced to the right and saw Josef lying spreadeagled on the stairs. Something flickered across his face and I had no doubt that he was going to shoot down the man who had been responsible for the death of his brother. As he moved forward, his path took him in front of the door where I was standing and suddenly I was behind him.

  “One hundred and fifty thousand rubles,” Rykov said. “More money than you will ever see in your life.”

  “You have killed my brother.”

  Rykov understood. There was no point in arguing. In Russia, blood ties, particularly between brothers, are strong.

  Karl was very close to him now and without really thinking about it, I made the decision – probably the most momentous of my life. I slipped through the door and, raising the axe, took three steps into the hall. The bodyguard heard me at the very last moment but it was too late. Using the blunt end, I brought the axe swinging down and hit him on the back of the head. He collapsed in front of me, his arms, his legs, his entire body suddenly limp. The mechanic moved incredibly fast. He didn’t know what had happened but he dived forward, reaching out for the gun he had just kicked away. But I was faster. Before he could grab it, I had dropped the axe and swept up Karl’s gun and already I was aiming it straight at him, doing my best to stop my hand shaking.

  Rykov saw me and stared. He was unarmed. He couldn’t believe what had just happened. “You!” he exclaimed.

  “Listen to me,” I said. “I could shoot you now. If I fire a single shot, everyone will come. You’ll never get away.”

  “What do you want?” he demanded.

  “I want to get out of here.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Yes, you can. You have to help me!” I scrabbled for words. “I knew you weren’t really a mechanic. I knew you and Zelin were working together. But I didn’t say anything. It’s thanks to me that you managed to do what you came for.” I nodded at the body of Vladimir Sharkovsky.

  “I will give you money…”

  “I don’t want money. I want you to take me with you. I never chose to come here. I’m a prisoner. I’m their slave. All I’m asking is for you to take me as far away as you can and then to leave me. I don’t care about you or who you’re working for. I’m glad he’s dead. Do you understand? Is it a deal?”

  He pretended to think … but only very briefly. The helicopter was still whining outside and very soon one of the guards might ask what was happening. Arkady Zelin might panic and take off without him. Rykov didn’t have any time. “Let me get my gun,” he said. He stretched out his hand.

  “No!” I tightened my grip. “We’ll leave together. It’ll be better for you that way. The guards know me and they’re less likely to ask questions.” He still seemed to be hesitating, so I added, “You do it my way or you never leave.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  БОЛТИНО

  BOLTINO

  I had done it. For the first time in three long years I was outside the compound. Even if I hadn’t been sitting in a helicopter, I would have felt as if I was flying.

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

  I was not safe yet. Far from it.

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

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

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

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

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