“Where are we?” I demanded.
“On the edge of a town called Boltino. To the north of Moscow.” He unfastened his seat belt. “You have your wish, Yassen. You have escaped from Vladimir Sharkovsky. I’m sure we all agree that the world is a better place without him. As for Arkady and me, we have a plane waiting to take us on the next leg of our journey. I’m afraid we have to say goodbye.”
Ignoring the gun, almost forgetting I was there, Rykov opened the door and let himself out of the helicopter.
Arkady Zelin faced me. “You shouldn’t have done this,” he hissed. “You don’t know these people…”
“Who are they?” I asked. I remembered the name I had heard. “Scorpia…”
“They will kill you.” He undid his own belt and scrambled out, following the mechanic.
Suddenly I didn’t want to be left on my own. I went after them. Looking around me, I had no idea why we had landed here. The helicopter was resting on a strip of mud that was so light-coloured that on second thoughts I realized it must be sand. An expanse of water stretched out next to it with about thirty sailing boats and cruisers moored to a jetty. There were trees on either side of us and what looked like wooden hangars or warehouses behind. The mechanic had been doing something to himself as I climbed down and by the time I reached him I was astonished to see that he had completely changed his appearance. The tangled grey hair was a wig. His hair was the same colour as mine, short and neatly cut. There had been something in his mouth, which had changed the shape of his face, and the folds of flesh around his chin had gone. He was suddenly slimmer and younger. He stripped out of his oily overalls. Underneath he was wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. The man who had come to the dacha in a green van marked MVZ Helicopters had disappeared. Nobody would ever see him again.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“We are leaving the country.”
“In a boat?”
“In a plane, Yassen.” I looked around me, confused. How could a plane possibly land here? “A seaplane,” he went on. “Don’t you see it?”
And there it was, sitting flat on the water with a pilot already in the cockpit, waiting to fly them to their next destination. The seaplane was white. It had two propellers perched high up on the wings and a tail that was higher still so that even without moving it looked as if it was trying to lift itself into the air.
“Take me with you,” I said.
The mechanic who was no longer a mechanic smiled once again. “Why should I do that?”
I still had the gun. I could have forced him to take me … or tried to. But I knew that was a bad idea, that it would only end up getting me killed. Instead, I had to make a gesture, to show them I could be trusted. It was a terrible risk but I knew there was no other way. I turned the gun round in my hand and gave it to him. He looked genuinely surprised. He could shoot me where I stood and no one would be any the wiser. Apart from Zelin and the waiting pilot, there was nobody near.
“I saved your life,” I said. “Back at the dacha … Karl would have shot you. And I don’t know why you killed Sharkovsky but you couldn’t have hated him more than I did. We’re on the same side.”
He weighed the gun. Zelin watched the two of us, his face pale.
“I’m not on any side. I was paid to kill him,” Rykov said.
“Then take me with you. It doesn’t matter where you’re going. Maybe I can work for you. I can be useful to you. I’ll do anything you tell me. I speak three languages. I…” My voice trailed away.
Rykov was still holding the gun. Perhaps he was amused. Perhaps he was wondering where to fire the next bullet. It was impossible to tell what was going on in his head. Eventually he spoke – but not to me. “What do you think, Arkady?” asked.
“I think we should leave,” Zelin said.
“With or without our extra passenger?”
There was a pause and I knew my life was hanging in the balance. Arkady Zelin had known me for three years. He had played cards with me. I had never been a threat to him. Surely he wouldn’t abandon me now.
At last he made up his mind. “With him, if you like. He’s not so bad. And they treated him like a dog.”
“Very well.” Rykov slid the gun into his waistband. “It may well be that my employers have a use for you. They can make the final decision. But until then, you do exactly as you’re told.”
“Yes, sir.”
“There’s no need to call me that.”
He was already walking down the jetty to the plane. The pilot saw him and flicked on the engine. It sounded like one of the petrol lawnmowers at the dacha and, looking at the tiny propellers, the ungainly wings, I wondered how it could possibly separate itself from the water and fly. Arkady Zelin was carrying a travel bag, which he had brought from the helicopter. It occurred to me that everything he owned must be inside it. He was leaving Russia and, if he was wise, he would never come back. Sharkovsky’s people might leave me alone but they would certainly be looking for him. It was impossible to say how much Zelin had been paid for his part in all this but I hoped the price included a completely new identity.
We got into the plane, a four-seater. I was lucky there was room for me. The new pilot ignored me. He knew better than to ask unnecessary questions.
But I had to know. “Where are we going?” I asked for a second time.
“To Venice,” Rykov said.
“And to Scorpia,” he might have added. The most dangerous criminal organization in the world. And I was about to walk right into its arms.
ВЕНЕЦИЯ
VENICE
It was night-time when we landed.
Once again we came plunging out of the darkness with only the sound of the engine and the rising feeling in my stomach to tell me we had reached the end of our journey. The seaplane hit the water, bounced, then skimmed along the surface before finally coming to rest. The pilot turned off the engine and we were suddenly sitting in complete silence, rocking gently on the water. Looking out of the window, I could make out a few lights twinkling in the distance. I glanced at Rykov, his face illuminated by the glow of the control panels, trying to work out what was going on in his mind. I was still afraid he would turn round and shoot me. He gave nothing away.
What next?
Although I didn’t know it at the time, Venice was a perfect destination for those travelling by seaplane, particularly if they wished to arrive without being seen. It is possible, of course, that the Italian police and air traffic control had been bribed but nobody seemed to have noticed that we had landed. For about two minutes, no one spoke. Then I heard the deep throb of an engine and, with my face pressed against the window, I saw a motor launch slip out of the darkness and draw up next to us. The pilot opened the door and we climbed out.
The motor launch was about thirty feet long, made of wood, with a cabin at the front and leather seats behind. There were two men on board, a captain and a deckhand who helped us climb down. If they were surprised to find themselves with an extra passenger, they didn’t show it. They said nothing. Rykov gestured and I sat out in the open at the back of the launch, even though the night was chilly. Zelin sat opposite me. He was clutching his travel bag, deep in thought.
We set off and as we went I heard the seaplane start up and take off again. I was already impressed. Everything about this operation had been well planned and executed down to the last detail. There had been only one mistake … and that was me. It took us about ten minutes to make the crossing, pulling into a ramshackle wooden jetty with striped poles slanting in different directions. Rykov stepped out and waited for me to follow but Zelin stayed where he was and I realized he was not coming with us.
I held out a hand to the helicopter pilot. “Thank you,” I said. “Thank you for letting me come with you.”
“That place was horrible and Sharkovsky was beneath contempt,” Zelin replied. “All those things they did to you… I’m sorry I didn’t help.”
“It’s over now.”
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“For both of us.” He shook my hand. “I hope it works out for you, Yassen. Take care.”
I climbed onto the jetty and the boat pulled away. Moments later it had disappeared over the lagoon.
Rykov and I continued on foot. He took me to a flat in an area near the old dockyards where we had disembarked. Why do I call him Rykov? As I was soon to discover, it was not his name. He was not a mechanic. I’m not even sure that he was Russian, although he spoke my language fluently. He told me nothing about himself in the time I was with him and I was wise enough not to ask. When you are in his sort of business – now my business – you are not defined by who you are but who you are not. If you want to stay ahead of the police and the investigation agencies, you must never leave a trace of yourself behind.
We reached a doorway between two shops in an anonymous street. Rykov unlocked it and we entered a hallway with a narrow, twisting staircase leading up. His flat was on the fourth floor. He unlocked a second door and turned on the light. I found myself in a square, whitewashed room with a high ceiling and exposed beams. It had very little personality and I guessed it was merely somewhere he stayed when he was in Venice rather than a home. The furniture looked new. There was a sofa facing a television, a dining table with four chairs, and a small kitchen. The pictures on the wall were views of the city, probably the same views you could see if you opened the shutters. It did not feel as if anyone had been here for some time.
“Are you hungry?” Rykov asked.
I shook my head. “No. I’m OK.”
“There are some tins in the cupboard if you want.”
I was hungry. But I was tired too. In fact, I was exhausted as all the suffering of the last three years suddenly drained out of me. It had ended so quickly. I still couldn’t quite accept it. “What happens now?” I asked.
Rykov pointed at a door which I hadn’t noticed, next to the fridge. “There’s only one bedroom here,” he said. “You can sleep on the couch. I have to go out but I’ll be back later. Don’t try to leave here. Do you understand me? You’re to stay in this room. And don’t use the telephone either. If you do, I’ll know.”
“I don’t have anyone to call,” I said. “And I don’t have anywhere to go.”
He nodded. “Good. I’ll get you some blankets before I leave. Help yourself to anything you need.”
A short while later, he left. I drank some water, then made up a bed on the couch and lay down without getting undressed. I was asleep instantly. It was the first time I had slept outside my small wooden cabin in three years.
I didn’t hear Rykov come back but I was woken up by him the following morning as he folded back the shutters and let in the sun. He had changed once again and it took me a few moments to remember who he was. He was wearing a suit and sunglasses. There was a gold chain around his neck. He looked slim and very fit, ten years younger than the mechanic who had come to mend the Bell JetRanger.
“It’s nine o’clock,” he said. “I can’t believe Sharkovsky let you sleep this long. Is that when you started work?”
“No,” I replied. At the dacha, I’d woken at six every morning.
“You can use my shower. I’ve left you a fresh shirt. I think it’s your size. Don’t take too long. I want to get some breakfast.”
Ten minutes later, I was washed and dried, wearing a pale blue T-shirt that fitted me well. Rykov took me out and for the first time I saw Venice in the light of an autumn day.
There is simply nowhere in the world like it. Even today, when I am not working, this is somewhere I will come to unwind. I love to sit outside while the sun sets, watching the seagulls circling and the traffic crossing back and forth across the lagoon … the water taxis, the water ambulances, the classic speedboats, the vaporettos and, of course, the gondolas. I can walk for hours through the streets and alleyways that seem to play cat and mouse with the canals, suddenly bringing you to a church, a fountain, a statue, a tiny humpback bridge … or perhaps depositing you in a great square with bands playing, waiters circling and tourists all around. Every corner has another surprise. Every street is a work of art. I am glad I have never killed anyone there.
Rykov took me to a café around the corner from his flat, an old-fashioned place with a tiled floor, a long counter and a giant-sized coffee machine that blew out clouds of steam. We sat together at a little antique table and he ordered cappuccinos, orange juice and tramezzini – little sandwiches, made out of soft bread with smoked ham and cheese. I hadn’t eaten for about twenty hours and this was my first taste of Italian food. I wolfed them down and didn’t complain when he ordered a second plate. There was a canal running past outside and I was fascinated to see the different boats passing so close to the window.
“So your name is Yassen Gregorovich,” he said. He had been speaking in English ever since we had arrived in Venice. Perhaps he was testing me – although it was more likely that he had decided to leave the Russian language behind … along with the rest of the character he had been. “How old are you?”
I thought for a moment. “Eighteen,” I said.
“Sharkovsky kidnapped you in Moscow. He kept you his prisoner for three years. You were his food taster. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“You’re lucky. We tried to poison him once and we were considering a second attempt. Your parents are dead?”
“Yes.”
“Arkady Zelin told me about you in the helicopter. And about Sharkovsky. I don’t know why you put up with it so long. Why didn’t you just put a knife into the bastard?”
“Because I wanted to live,” I said. “Karl or Josef would have killed me if I’d tried.”
“You were prepared to spend the rest of your life working for him?”
“I did what I had to to survive. Now he’s dead and I’m here.”
“That’s true.”
Rykov took out a cigarette and lit it. He did not offer me one but nor did I want it. This was the one good thing that had come out of my time at the dacha. I had not been allowed to have cigarettes and so I had been forced to give up smoking. I have never smoked since.
“Who are you?” I asked. “And who are Scorpia? Did they pay you to kill Sharkovsky?”
“I’ll give you a piece of advice, Yassen. Don’t ask questions and never mention that name again. Certainly not in public.”
“I’d like to know why I’m here. It would have been easier for you to kill me when we were in Boltino.”
“Don’t think I wasn’t tempted. As it is, it may be that I’ve made a bad mistake. We’ll see.” He drew on the cigarette. “The only reason I didn’t kill you is because I owed you. It was stupid of me not to see the second bodyguard. I don’t usually make mistakes and I’d be dead if it wasn’t for you. But before you get any fancy ideas, we’re quits. The debt is cancelled. From now on, you’re nothing to me. You’re not going to work for me. And I don’t really care whatever happens to you.”
“So why am I here?”
“Because the people I work for want to see you. We’re going there now.”
“There?”
“The Widow’s Palace. We’ll get a boat.”
From the name, I expected somewhere sombre, an old, dark building with black curtains drawn across the windows. But in fact the Widow’s Palace was an astonishing place, like something out of the story books I had read as a child, built out of pink and white bricks with dozens of windows glittering in the sun. There was a covered walkway on the level of the first floor, stretching from one end to the other, held up by slender pillars with archways below. And the palace wasn’t standing beside the canal. It was actually sinking into it. The water was lapping at the front door with the white marble steps disappearing below the murky surface.
We pulled in and stepped off the boat. There was a man standing at the entrance with thick shoulders and folded arms, wearing a white shirt and a black suit. He examined us briefly, then nodded for us to continue forward. Already I was regretting this. As I passed f
rom the sunlight to the shadows of the interior, I was thinking of what Zelin had said as he left the helicopter. You don’t know these people. They will kill you. Maybe three long years of taking orders from Vladimir Sharkovsky had clouded my judgement. I was no longer used to making decisions.
It would have been better if I had run away before breakfast. I could have sneaked on a train to another city. I could have gone to the police for help. I remembered something my grandmother used to say when she was cooking: out of the latki, into the fire.
A massive spiral staircase – white marble with wrought-iron banisters – rose up, twisting over itself. Rykov went first and I followed a few steps behind, neither of us speaking. I was nervous but he was completely at ease, one hand in his trouser pocket, taking his time. We came to a corridor lined with paintings: portraits of men and women who must have died centuries before. They stood in their gold frames, watching us pass. We walked down to a pair of doors and before he opened them, Rykov turned and spoke briefly, quietly.
“Say nothing until you are spoken to. Tell the truth. She will know if you’re lying.”
She? The widow?
He knocked and without waiting for an answer opened the doors and went through.
The woman who was waiting for us was surely too young to have married and lost a husband. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-six or twenty-seven and my first thought was that she was very beautiful. My second was that she was dangerous. She was quite short, with long, black hair, tied back. It contrasted with the paleness of her skin. She wore no make-up apart from a smear of crimson lipstick that was so bright it was almost cruel. She was dressed in a black silk shirt, open at the neck. A simple gold necklace twisted around her neck. She could have been a model or an actress but there was something that danced in her eyes and told me she was neither.
She was sitting behind a very elegant, ornate table with a line of windows behind her, looking out over the Grand Canal. Two chairs had been placed in front of her and we took our places without waiting to be told. She had not been doing anything when we came in. It was clear that she had simply been waiting for us.