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.”
“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.”