She was enjoying this, sending me out for the first time, almost challenging me to show reluctance or any sign of fear. She took out a second envelope, thicker than the first. This one was sealed with a strip of black tape. There was a scorpion symbol stamped in the middle.
“This envelope contains a return air ticket to New York, which is where your first assignment will take place. There is another thousand dollars in here too… petty cash to get you started. You are flying economy.”
That didn’t surprise me. I was young and I was entering the United States on my own. Travelling business or first class might draw attention to myself.
“You will be met at the airport and taken to your hotel. You will report back to me here in Venice in one week’s time. Do you want to know who you are going to kill?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me when you want to,” I said.
“That’s right.” She smiled. “You’ll get all the information that you need once you arrive. A weapon will also be delivered to you. Is that all understood?”
“Yes,” I said. Of course I had questions. Above all I wanted a name and a face somewhere; on the other side of the world, a man was going about his business with no knowledge that I was on my way. What had he done to anger Scorpia? Why did he have to lose his life? But I stayed silent. I was being very careful not to show any sign of weakness.
“Then I think our evening is almost over,” Mrs Rothman said. She reached out and, just for a moment, her fingers brushed against the back of my hand. “You know, Yassen,” she said, “you are incredibly good-looking. I thought that the moment I saw you and your five months on Malagosto have done nothing but improve you.” She sighed and drew her hand away. “Russian boys aren’t quite my thing,” she continued. “Or else who knows what we might get up to? But it will certainly help you in your work. Death should always come smartly dressed.”
She got up, as if about to leave. But then she had second thoughts and turned back to me. “You were fond of that girl, Colette, weren’t you?”
“We spent a bit of time together,” I said. “We came into Venice once or twice.” Julia Rothman would know that, anyway.
“Yes,” she murmured. “I had a feeling the two of you would hit it off.”
She was daring me to ask. So I did.
“How is she?”
“She’s dead.” Mrs Rothman brushed some imaginary dust from the sleeve of her dress. “Her first assignment went very wrong. It wasn’t entirely her fault. She took out the target but she was shot by the Argentinian police.”
And that was when I knew what she had done to me. That was when I knew exactly what Scorpia had made me.
I felt nothing. I said nothing. If I was sad, I didn’t show it. I simply watched impassively as she left the room.
НЬЮ-ЙОРК – NEW YORK
I had never spent so long in an aeroplane.
Nine hours in the air! I found the entire experience fascinating; the size of the plane, the number of people crammed together, the unpleasant food served in plastic trays, night and day refusing to behave as they should outside the small, round windows. I also experienced jet lag for the first time. It was a strange sensation, like being dragged backwards down a hill. But I was in excellent shape. I was full of excitement about my mission. I was able to fight it off.
I was entering the United States under my own name and with a cover story that Scorpia had supplied. I was a student on a scholarship from Moscow State University, studying American literature. I was here to attend a series of lectures on famous American writers being given at the New York Public Library. The lectures really were taking place. I carried with me a letter of introduction from my professor, a copy of my thesis and an NYPL programme. I would be staying with my uncle and aunt, a Mr and Mrs Kirov, who had an apartment in Brooklyn. I also had a letter from them.
I joined the long queue in the immigration hall and watched the uniformed men and women in their booths stamping the passports of the people in front of me. At last it was my turn. I was annoyed to feel my heart was thumping as I found myself facing a scowling black officer who seemed suspicious of me before I had even opened my mouth.
“What’s your business in the United States?” he asked.
“I’m studying American literature. I’m here to attend some lectures.”
“How long are you staying…?” He squinted at my name in the passport. “…Yassen?”
“One week.”
I thought that would be it. I was waiting for him to pick up the stamp and allow me in. Instead, he suddenly asked, “So how do you like Scott Fitzgerald?”
I knew the name. F. Scott Fitzgerald had been one of the greatest American writers of the twentieth century. “I really enjoyed The Great Gatsby,” I said. “I think it’s his best book. Although his next one, Tender is the Night, was fantastic too.”
He nodded. “Enjoy your stay.”
The stamp came down. I was in.
I had one suitcase with me. Both the suitcase and all the clothes inside it had been purchased in Moscow. Of course I carried no weapon. It might have been possible to conceal a pistol somewhere in my luggage but it wasn’t a risk worth taking. Thanks to America’s absurd gun laws, it would be much easier to arm myself once I arrived. I waited by the luggage carousel until my case arrived. I knew at once that nobody had looked inside the case either at Rome Airport or here. If the police or airport authorities had opened one of the catches, they would have broken an electrical circuit which ran through the handle. There was a blue luggage tag attached and it would change colour, giving me advance warning of what had happened. The tag was still blue. I grabbed the case and went out.
My contact was waiting for me in the arrivals hall, holding up my name on a piece of white card. He looked like all the other limo drivers: tired and uninterested, dressed in a suit with a white shirt and sunglasses, even though it was early evening and there was little sign of the sun. He had misspelt my name. The card read: YASSEN GREGORIVICH. This was not a mistake. It was an agreed signal between the two of us. It told me that he was who he said he was and that it was safe for us to meet.
He did not tell me his name. Nor did I ask. I doubted that the two of us would meet again. We walked to the car park – or the parking garage as the Americans called it – without speaking. He had parked his car, a black Daimler, close to the exit and held the door open for me as I slid into the back seat. He climbed into the front, then handed me another envelope. This one was also marked with a scorpion.
“You’ll find your instructions inside,” he said. “You can read them in the car. The drive is about forty minutes. I’m taking you to the SoHo Plaza Hotel, where a room has been reserved in your name. You are to stay there this evening. There’ll be a delivery at exactly ten o’clock. The man will knock three times and will introduce himself as Marcus. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. There’s a bottle of water in the side pocket if you need it…”
He started the engine and a moment later, we set off.
Nothing quite prepares you for the view of New York as you come over the Brooklyn Bridge; the twinkling lights behind thousands and thousands of windows, the skyscrapers presenting themselves to you like toys in a shop window, so much life crammed into so little space. The Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, the Rockefeller Centre, the Beekman, the Waldorf-Astoria… your eye travels from one to the other but all too soon you’re overwhelmed. You cannot separate them. They merge together to become one island, one city. Every time you return you will be amazed. But the first time you will never forget.