He reached out a hand. I shook it. He had a firm clasp.
“Hello, Yassen,” he said. “I’m John Rider. The code name they’ve given me is Hunter.”
ОХОТНИК – HUNTER
What is it about Alex Rider?
The Stormbreaker business may have been the first time we crossed paths, but it seems to me that our lives were like two mirrors placed opposite each other, reflecting endless possibilities. It’s strange that when I met his father, Alex hadn’t even been born. That was still a few months away. But those months, my time with John Rider, made a huge difference to me. He wasn’t even ten years older than me but from the very start I knew that he had come from a completely different world and that we would never be on the same level. I would always look up to him.
We had dinner that night at a restaurant he knew near the Arsenale, a dark, quiet place run by a scowling woman who spoke no English and dressed in black. The food was excellent. Hunter had chosen a booth in the corner, tucked away behind a pillar, somewhere we would not be overheard. I call him that because it was the name he told me to use from the very start. He had good reason to hide his identity – there had been stories written about him in the British press – and there was less chance of my letting it slip out if it never once crossed my lips.
He ordered drinks – not alcohol but a red fruit syrup made from pomegranates called grenadine, which I had never tasted before. He spoke good Italian, though with an accent. And just as I had noted at our first meeting, he had an extraordinary ease about him, that quiet confidence. He was the sort of man you couldn’t help liking. Even the elderly owner warmed up a little as she took the order.
“I want you to tell me about yourself,” he said as the first course – pink slivers of prosciutto ham and chilled melon – was served. “I’ve read your file. I know what’s happened to you. But I don’t know you.”
“I’m not sure where to start,” I said.
“What was the best present anyone ever gave you?”
The question surprised me. It was the last thing anyone on Malagosto would have asked or would have wanted to know. I had to think for a moment. “I’m not sure,” I said. “Maybe it was the bicycle I was given when I was eleven. It was important to me because everyone in the village had one. It put me on the same level as all the other boys and it set me free.” I thought again. “No. It was this.” I slid back the cuff of my jacket. I was still wearing my Pobeda watch. After the loss of my mother’s jewels, it was the only part of my old life that had remained with me. In a way, it was quite extraordinary that I still had it, that I hadn’t been forced to pawn it in Moscow or had it stolen from me by Ivan at the dacha. After everything I had been through, it was still working, ticking away and never losing a minute. “It was my grandfather’s,” I explained. “He’d given it to my father and my father passed it onto me after he died. I was nine years old. I was very proud that he thought I was ready for it, and now, when I look at it, it reminds me of him.”
“Tell me about your grandfather.”
“I don’t really remember him. I only knew him when we were in Moscow and we left when I was two. He only came to Estrov a few times and he died when I was young.” I thought of the wife he had left behind. My grandmother. The last time I had seen her, she had been at the sink, peeling potatoes. Almost certainly she would have been standing there when the flames engulfed the house. “My father said he was a great man,” I recalled. “He was there at Stalingrad in 1943. He fought against the Nazis.”
“You admire him for that?”
“Of course.”
“What is your favourite food?”
I wondered if he was being serious. Was he playing psychological games with me, like Dr Steiner? “Caviar,” I replied. I had tasted it at dinner parties at the dacha. Vladimir Sharkovsky used to eat mounds of it, washed down with iced vodka.
“Which shoelace do you tie first?”
“Why are you asking me these questions?” I snapped.
“Are you angry?”
I didn’t deny it. “What does it matter which shoelace I tie first?” I said. I glanced briefly at my trainers. “My right foot. OK? I’m right-handed. Now are you going to explain exactly what that tells you about who I am?”
“Relax, Cossack.” He smiled at me and although I was still puzzled, I found it difficult to be annoyed with him for very long. Perhaps he was playing with me but there didn’t seem to be anything malicious about it. I waited to hear what he would ask next. Again, he took me by surprise. “Why do you think you were unable to kill that woman in New York?” he asked.
“You already know,” I said. “You were in the study when I told Sefton Nye.”
“You said it was because she spoke to you. But I don’t think I believe you… not completely. From what I understand, you could have gunned her down at any time. You could have done it when she turned the corner from the museum. You were certainly close enough to her when you were at Cleopatra’s Needle.”
“I couldn’t do it then. There were two people running, joggers…”
“I know. I was one of them.”
“What?” I was startled.
“Don’t worry about it, Cossack. Sefton Nye asked me to take a look at you so I was there. We flew here on the same plane.” He raised his glass as if he was toasting me and drank. “The fact is that you had plenty of opportunities. You know that. You waited until she turned round and talked to you. I think you wanted her to talk to you because it would give you an excuse. I think you’d already made up your mind.”
He wasn’t exactly accusing me. There was nothing in his face that suggested he was doing anything more than stating the obvious. But I found myself reddening. Although I would never have admitted it to Nye or d’Arc, it was possible he was right.
“I won’t fail again,” I said.
“I know,” he replied. “And let’s not talk about it any more. You’re not being punished. I’m here to try and help. So tell me about Venice. I haven’t had a chance to explore it yet. And I’d be interested to hear what you think about Julia Rothman. Quite a woman, wouldn’t you say…?”
The second course arrived, a plate of home-made spaghetti with fresh sardines. In my time on Malagosto, I had come to love Italian food and I said so. Hunter smiled but I got the strange feeling that, once again, I had said the wrong thing.
For the next hour we talked together, avoiding anything to do with Malagosto, my training, Scorpia or anything else. He didn’t tell me very much about himself but he mentioned that he lived in London and I asked him lots of questions about the city, which I had always hoped to visit. The one thing he let slip was that he had been married – although I should have noticed myself. He had a plain gold ring on his fourth finger. He didn’t say anything about his wife and I wondered if he was divorced.
The bill arrived. “It’s time to go back,” Hunter said as he counted out the cash. “But before we go, I think I should tell you something, Cossack. Scorpia have high hopes for you. They think you have the makings of a first-rate assassin. I don’t agree. I would say you have a long way to go before you’re ready. It’s possible you never will be.”
“How can you say that?” I replied. I was completely thrown. I had enjoyed the evening and thought there was some sort of understanding between the two of us. It was as if he had turned round and slapped me in the face. “You hardly know me,” I said.