“What if they’re married?”
“Who cares?”
“What if they have children?”
“If you think like that, you shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t even be talking like this. If you were to say any of this to Marat or Sam, they’d go straight to Mr Nye.”
“I wouldn’t talk to them,” I said. “They’re not my friends.”
“And you think I am?”
I still remember that moment. Colette was leaning towards me and she was wearing a jacket with a very soft, close-fitting jersey beneath. She took off her sunglasses and looked at me with brown eyes that, I’m sure, had more warmth in them than she intended. Right then, I wished that we could be just like all the other people strolling by us; a Russian boy and a French girl who had just happened to bump into each other in one of the most romantic places on the earth. But of course it couldn’t be. It would never be.
“I’m not your friend,” she said. “We’ll never have friends, Yassen. Either of us.”
She finished her coffee, stood up and walked away.
Colette left a few weeks later and after that there were just the three of us continuing with the training, day and night.
None of the instructors ever said as much but I knew I was doing well. I was the fastest across the assault course. On the shooting range, my targets always came whirring back with the bullets grouped neatly inside the head. I had mastered all sixteen body strikes – the so-called “secret fists” – that are essential to ninjutsu and during one memorable training session I even managed to land a blow on HS. I could see the old man was pleased… although he flattened me half a second later. After hours in the gym, I was in peak physical condition. I could run six times around the island and I wouldn’t be out of breath.
And yet I couldn’t forget what I had talked about with Colette. When I fired at a target, I would always imagine a real human being and not the cut-out soldier with his fixed, snarling face in front of me. Instead of the quick snap, the little round hole that appeared in the paper as the bullet passed through, there would be the explosion of bone fragmenting, blood splashing out. The paper soldier’s eyes ignored me. He felt nothing. But what would a man be thinking as he died? He would never see his family again. He would never feel the warmth of the sun. Everything that he had and everything he was would have been stolen away by me. Could I really do that to someone and not hate myself for ever?
I had not chosen this. There was a time when I’d thought I was going to work in a factory making pesticides. I was going to live in a village that nobody had ever heard of, dreaming of being a helicopter pilot, pinning pictures to the wall. Looking back, it felt as if some evil force had been manipulating me every inch of the way to bring me here. From the moment my parents had been killed, my own life had no longer been mine to control. And yet, it occurred to me, it was still not too late. Scorpia had taught me how to fight, how to change my identity, how to hide and how to survive. Once I left Malagosto, I could use these skills to escape from them. I could steal money and go anywhere in the world that I wanted, change my name, begin a new life. Lying in bed at night, I would think about this but at the same time I knew, with a sense of despair, that I was wrong. Scorpia was too powerful. No matter how far I ran, eventually they would find me and there was no escaping what the result would be. I would die young. But wasn’t that better than becoming what they wanted? At least I would have stayed true to myself.
I was terrified of giving any of this away while with Dr Steiner. I always thought before I answered any of his questions and tried to tell him what he wanted to hear, not what I really thought. I was afraid that if he caught sight of my weakness, my training would be cancelled and the next recruit would end up burying me in the woods. The secret was to be completely emotionless. Sometimes he showed me horrible pictures – scenes of war and violence. I tried not to look at the dead and mutilated bodies, but then he would ask me questions about them and I would find myself having to describe everything in detail, trying to keep the quiver out of my voice. And yet I thought I was getting away with it. At the end of each session, he would take my hand – cupping it in both of his own – and purr at me, “Well done, Yassen. That was very, very good.” As far as I could tell, he had no idea at all what was really going on in my head.
And then, at last, the day came when Oliver d’Arc called me to his study. As I entered, he was tuning the cello, which was an instrument he played occasionally. The room was a mess, with books everywhere and papers spilling out of drawers. It smelled of tobacco, although I never saw him smoke.
“Ah, Yassen!” he exclaimed. “I’m afraid you’re going to miss evening training. Mrs Rothman is back in Venice. You’re to have dinner with her. Make sure you wear your best clothes. A launch will pick you up at seven o’clock.”
When I had first come to the island, I might have asked why she wanted to see me but by now I knew that I would always be given all the information I needed, and to ask for more was only to show weakness.
“It looks like you’re going to be leaving us,” he went on.
“My training is finished?”
“Yes.”
He plucked one of the strings. “You’ve done very well, my dear boy,” he said. “And I must say, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed tutoring you. And now your moment has come. Good luck!”
From this, I understood that my final test had arrived… the solo kill. My training was over. My life as an assassin was about to begin.
And that night, I met Mrs Rothman for the second time. She had sent her personal launch to collect me, a beautiful vessel that was all teak and chrome with a silver scorpion moulded into the bow. It carried me beneath the famous Bridge of Sighs – I hoped that was not an omen – and on to the Widow’s Palace where we had first met. She was dressed, once again, in black; this time a very low-cut dress with a zip down one side, which I recognized at once as the work of the designer, Gianni Versace. We ate in her private dining room at a long table lit by candles and surrounded by paintings – Picasso, Cézanne, Van Gogh – all of them worth millions. We began with soup, then lobster, and finally a creamy custard mixed with wine that the Italians call zabaglione. The food was delicious but as I ate I was aware of her examining me, watching every mouthful, and I knew that I was still being tested.
“I’m very pleased with you, Yassen,” she said as the coffee was poured. The whole meal had been served by two men in white jackets and black trousers, her personal waiters. “Do you think you’re ready?”
“Yes, Mrs Rothman,” I replied.
“You can stop calling me that now.” She smiled at me and I was once again struck by her film-star looks. “I prefer Julia.”
There was a file on the table beside her. It hadn’t been there when we started. One of the waiters had brought it in with the coffee. She opened it. First she took out a printed report.
“You’re naturally gifted… an excellent marksman. Hatsumi Saburo speaks very highly of your abilities. I see also that you have learned from the Countess. Your manners are faultless. Six months ago you wouldn’t have been able to sit at a table like this without giving yourself away, but you are very different from the street urchin I met back then.”
I nodded but said nothing. Another lesson. Never show gratitude unless you hope to gain something from it.
“But now we must see if you can actually put into practice everything that we have taught you in theory.” She took out a passport and slid it across the table. “This is yours,” she said. “We have kept your family name. There was no reason not to, particularly as your first name had changed anyway. Yassen Gregorovich is what you are now and will always be… unless of course we 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 the European Finance Group. It’s a private bank based in Geneva. There are fifty thousand American dollars, fifty thousand euros and fifty thousand pounds in the account, and no matter how much you spend, these figures will always remain the same. Of course, we will be watching your expenses.”