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I looked up. He was walking towards me.

“Everything OK?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “You didn’t get your coffee?”

“The queue was too long. Anyway, they’ve just called my flight.”

I glanced at the screen. That, at least, was true. The flight to Rome was blinking.

“Well, it looks as if it’s goodbye, Yassen. I wish you luck… wherever you decide to go.”

“Thank you, Hunter. I’ll never forget you.”

We shook hands. My face gave nothing away.

He picked up his cases and I watched him join the queue and board the flight. He didn’t turn round again. As soon as he had gone, I took my own case and left the airport. I didn’t fly to Berlin. Any flight with the passengers’ names listed on a computer screen would be too dangerous for me. I took the train back into Paris and joined a group of students and backpackers on a Magic Bus to Hamburg. From there, I caught a train to Hanover with a connection to Moscow. It was a journey that would take me thirty-six hours but that didn’t bother me.

I knew exactly what I had to do.

УБИЙЦА – THE ASSASSIN

I had not seen the dacha at Silver Forest for a very long time. I had thought I would never see it again.

It had been strange to find myself back at Kazansky Station in Moscow. I remembered stepping off the train in my Young Pioneers uniform. It seemed like a lifetime ago. There was no sign of Dima, Roman or Grigory, which was probably just as well. I have no idea what I would have said to them if I had seen them. On the one hand, I would have liked them to know that I was safe and well. But perhaps it was best that we did not renew our acquaintance. My world was very different now.

It seemed to me that there were now fewer homeless children than there had been in the square outside the station. Perhaps the new government was finally getting its act together and looking after them. It is possible, I suppose, that they were all in jail. The food stalls had gone too. I thought of the raspberry ice cream I had devoured. Had it really been me that day? Or had it been Yasha Gregorovich, a boy who had disappeared and who would never be spoken about again?

I travelled on the Metro to Shchukinskaya Station and from there I took a trolleybus to the park. After that, I walked. It was strange that I had never actually seen the dacha from outside. I had arrived in the boot of a car. I had left, in the darkness, in a helicopter. But I knew exactly where I was going. All the papers relating to the planning and construction of Sharkovsky’s home, along with the necessary licences and permits, had been lodged, as I suspected, with the Moscow Architecture and City Planning Committee. I had visited their offices in Triumfalnaya Square – curiously they were very close to Dima’s place off Tverskaya Street – very early in the morning. Breaking in had presented no problem. They were not expecting thieves.

Now I understood why Sharkovsky had chosen to live here. The landscape – flat and green with its pine forests, lakes and beaches – was very beautiful. I saw a few riders on horseback. It was hard to believe that I had been so close to the city during my three years at the dacha. But here the noise of the traffic was replaced by soft breezes and birdsong. There were no tall buildings breaking the skyline.

A narrow private road led to the dacha. I followed it for a while, then slipped behind the trees that grew on either side. It was unlikely that Sharkovsky had planted sensors underneath the concrete and there was no sign of any cameras, but I could not be sure. Eventually, the outer wall came into sight. I recognized the shape of it, the razor wire and the brickwork even from the outside.

It was not going to be difficult to break in. Sharkovsky prided himself on his security network but I had been trained by experts. His men went through the same procedures, day in and day out. They acted mechanically, without thinking. And how many times had it been drummed into me on Malagosto? Habit is a weakness. It is what gets you killed. Certain cars and delivery trucks always arrived at the dacha at a given time. I remembered noting them down in my former life, scribbling in the back of an exercise book. Madness! It was a gift to the enemy.

The laundry van arrived shortly after five o’clock, by which time it was already dark. I knew it would come. I had lost count of the number of times I had helped to empty it, carrying dirty sheets out and fresh linen in. As the driver approached the main gate, he saw a branch that seemed to have fallen from a tree, blocking the way. He stopped the van, got out and moved it. When he got back in again, he was unaware that he had an extra passenger. The back door hadn’t been locked. Why should it have been? It was only carrying sheets and towels.

The van reached the barrier and stopped. Again, I knew exactly what would happen. I had seen it often enough and it was imprinted in my mind. There were three guards inside the security hut. One of them was meant to be monitoring the TV cameras but he was old and lazy and was more likely to have his head buried in a newspaper. The second man would stay on the left-hand side of the van to check the driver’s ID, while the third searched underneath the vehicle, using a flat mirror on wheels. I timed the moment exactly, then slipped out of the back and hid on the left-hand side, right next to the security hut, lost in the shadows. Now the first guard opened the back and checked inside. He was too late. I had gone. I heard him rummaging around inside. Eventually, he emerged.

“All right,” he called out. “You can move on.”

It was very kind of him to let me know when it was safe. I dodged round, still shielded by the van, and climbed back inside. The driver started the van and we rolled forward, on our way to the house.

It was a simple matter to slip out again once we had stopped. I knew where we would be, next to the side door that all the servants and delivery people used. I was careful not to step on the grass. I remembered where the sensors were positioned. I was also careful to avoid the CCTV cameras as I edged forward. Even so, I was astonished to find that the door was not locked. Sharkovsky was a fool! I would have advised him to rethink all his security arrangements after a paid assassin had made it into the house – and certainly after Arkady Zelin and I had escaped with him. That made three people who knew his weaknesses. But then again, he had been in hospital for a very long time. His mind had been on other things.

I found myself inside, back in those familiar corridors. The laundry man had gone ahead and the housekeeper had gone with him. I passed the kitchen. Pavel was still there. The chef was bending over the stove, putting the finishing touches to the pie that he was planning to serve that evening. I knew I didn’t have to worry about him. He was slightly deaf and absorbed in his work. However, there was something I needed. I reached out and unhooked the key to Sharkovsky’s Lexus. Had I been in charge here, I would have suggested that all the keys should themselves be kept locked up somewhere more safe. But that was not my concern. It seemed only right that the car that had first brought me here would also provide my means of escape. It was bulletproof. I would be able to smash through the barrier and nobody would be able to stop me.

How easy it all was – and it had been in front of me all the time! But of course, I had been seeing things with very different eyes back then. I was a village boy. I had never heard of Scorpia. I knew nothing.