Hovering in the air, still some distance away, Yassen recognized Sayle… even though the man was dressed almost comically in an ill-fitting cardigan and corduroy trousers, very different from the suits he usually favoured, and presumably some sort of disguise. But the dark skin, the bald head and the smallness of his stature were unmistakable. Sayle liked to wear a gold signet ring and there it was, flashing in the afternoon sun. He was holding a gun. And he was not alone. Yassen’s eyes narrowed. There was a boy standing opposite him, close to the edge of the roof. It was Alex Rider! The gun was being aimed at him. Sayle was talking and it was obvious to Yassen that he was about to fire. He had somehow managed to capture the boy and had brought him here – to kill him before he left. Yassen wondered how Alex had allowed himself to fall into Sayle’s hands.
He came to a decision. It wasn’t easy, sliding open the cockpit door, reaching into his case and keeping control of the Colibri, all at same time – but he managed it. He took out the gun he had brought with him. It was a Glock long-range shooting pistol, accurate at up to two hundred metres. In fact, Yassen was much nearer than that, which was just as well. This wasn’t going to be easy.
It was time to make the kill.
He aimed carefully, the gun in one hand, the cyclic rod in the other. The helicopter was steady, hanging in the air. He gently squeezed the trigger and fired twice. Even before the bullets had reached their target, he knew he hadn’t missed.
Herod Sayle twisted and fell. He hit the ground and lay quite still, unaware of the pool of blood spreading around him.
The boy didn’t move. Yassen admired him for that. If Alex had tried to run, he would have received a bullet in the back before he had taken two paces. Much better to talk. The two of them had unfinished business.
Yassen landed the helicopter as quickly as he could, never once taking his eyes off Alex. The gun that had just killed Sayle was still resting in his lap. The landing skid touched the roof of the building and settled. Yassen switched off the engine and got out.
The two of them stood face to face.
It was extraordinary how similar he was to his father. Alex’s hair was longer and it was lighter in colour, reminding Yassen of the woman he had glimpsed with John Rider at Sacré-Cœur. He had the same brown eyes and there was something about the way he stood with exactly the same composure and self-confidence. He had just seen a man die but he wasn’t afraid. It seemed remarkable – and strangely appropriate – that he was only fourteen, the same age that Yassen had been when those other helicopters had come to his village.
Alex’s parents were dead, just like his. They had been killed by a bomb, planted in an aeroplane on the orders of Scorpia. Yassen was glad that he’d had nothing to do with it. He had never told Julia Rothman what he knew about John Rider. By the time he returned to Venice, Hunter had already left, travelling with one of the other recruits. What was the point of sentencing him to death? Yassen had already decided. Whoever he might be and whatever he might have done, there could be no denying that Hunter had saved his life in the Peruvian rainforest and that had created a debt of honour. Yassen would simply blot out the knowledge in his mind. He would pretend he hadn’t seen the Power Plus battery, that it had never happened. And what if Rider caused more damage to Scorpia? It didn’t matter. Yassen owed no loyalty to them or to anyone else. In this new life of his, he would owe loyalty to no one.
He would still have his revenge. John Rider had betrayed him and in return, Yassen would become the most efficient, the most cold-blooded assassin in the world. Vladimir and Ivan Sharkovsky had been just the start. Since then, there had been… how many of them? A hundred? Almost certainly more. And every time Yassen had walked away from another victim, he had proved that John Rider was wrong. He had become exactly what he was meant to be.
And here was John Rider’s son. It was somehow inevitable that the two of them should finally meet. How much did Alex know about the past, Yassen wondered. Did he have any idea what his father had been?
“You’re Yassen Gregorovich,” Alex said.
Yassen nodded.
“Why did you kill him?” Alex glanced at the body of Herod Sayle.
“Those were my instructions,” Yassen replied, but in fact he was lying. Scorpia had not ordered him to kill Sayle. He had made an instant decision, acting on his own initiative. He knew, however, that they would be pleased. Sayle had become an embarrassment. He had failed. It was better that he was dealt with once and for all.
“What about me?” Alex asked.
Yassen paused before replying. “I have no instructions concerning you.”
It was another lie. The message on his computer could not have been clearer. But Yassen knew that he could not kill Alex Rider. The bond of honour that had once existed with the father extended to the son. Very briefly, he thought back to Paris. It was hard to explain but there was a sort of parallel. He saw it now and it was why, at the last minute, he had diverted his aim. How he had been to John Rider when the two of them were together, in some way Alex Rider was to him now. There would be no more killing today.
“You killed Ian Rider,” Alex said. “He was my uncle.”
Ian Rider. John Rider’s younger brother. It was true – Yassen had shot him as he had tried to escape from Herod Sayle’s compound in Cornwall. That was how this had all begun. It was the reason Alex Rider was here.
Yassen shrugged. “I kill a lot of people.”
“One day I’ll kill you.”
“A lot of people have tried,” Yassen said. “Believe me, it would be better if we didn’t meet again. Go back to school. Go back to your life. And the next time they ask you, say no. Killing is for grown-ups and you’re still a child.”
It was the same advice that Alex’s father had once given him. But Yassen was offering it for a very different reason.
The two of them had come from different worlds but they had so much in common. At the same age, they had lost everything that mattered to them. They had found themselves alone. And they had both been chosen. In Alex’s case it had been the British secret service, MI6 Special Operations, who had come calling. For Yassen it had been Scorpia. Had either of them ever had any choice?
It might still not be too late. Yassen thought about his life, the diary he had read the night before. If only someone could have reached out and taken hold of him… before he got on the train to Moscow, before he broke into the flat near Gorky Park, before he reached Malagosto. For him, there had been nobody. But for Alex Rider, it didn’t need to be the same.
He had given Alex a chance.
It was enough. There was nothing more to say. Yassen turned round and walked back to the helicopter. Alex didn’t move. Yassen flicked on the engine, waited until the blades had reached full velocity and took off a second time. At the last moment, he raised a hand in a gesture of farewell. Alex did the same.
The two of them looked at each other, both of them trapped in different ways, on opposite sides of the glass.
Finally Yassen pulled at the controls and the helicopter lifted off the ground. He would have to report to Scorpia, explain to them why he had done what he had done. Would they kill him because of it? Yassen didn’t think so. He was too valuable to them. They would already have another name in another envelope waiting for him. Someone whose turn had come to die.
He couldn’t stop himself. High above the Thames with the sun setting over the water, he spun the cockpit round and glanced back one last time. But now the roof was empty apart from the body stretched out beside the red cross.
Alex Rider had gone.