Russian Roulette

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.

“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.