Russian Roulette- the Story of an Assassin pdfdrive com

¡Vamos a hacerlo!
” One of them gave the order in Spanish, his voice
deep and guttural.
As one, the men opened fire, spraying the clearing with bullets,
shooting into the surrounding jungle. After the peace of the night, the
noise was deafening. For at least thirty seconds the clearing blazed white
and the surrounding leaves and branches were chopped to smithereens.
None of the men knew what they were doing. They didn’t care that they
had no target.
We waited until their clips had run out and then we stood up, dead
wood cascading off our shoulders. We had been right next to the
soldiers, lying face down, inside the fallen tree. We were covered with
termites, which were crawling over our backs and into our clothes. But
termites do not bite you. They do not sting. We had disturbed their
habitat and they were all over us but we didn’t care.
We opened fire. The soldiers saw us too late. I was not sure what
happened next, whether I actually killed any of them. There was a blaze
of gunfire, again incredibly loud, and I saw the ragged figures being
blown off their feet. One of them managed to fire again but the bullets
went nowhere, into the air. I was firing wildly but Hunter was utterly

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precise and mechanical, choosing his targets then squeezing the trigger
again and again. It was all over very quickly. The six men were dead.
There didn’t seem to be any more on the way.
I brushed termites off my shoulders and out of my hair. “Is that all of
them?” I whispered.
“I don’t think so,” Hunter said. “But we’d better get moving.”
We collected our things.
“I shot them,” I said. “What you were saying to me … you were wrong.
I was with you. I killed some of them.” I wasn’t even sure it was true.
Hunter could have taken out all six himself. But we weren’t going to
argue about it now.
He shook his head. “
If
you killed…” He put the emphasis on the first
word. “You did it in the dark, in self-defence. That doesn’t make you a
murderer. It’s not the same.”
“Why not?” I couldn’t understand him. What was he trying to achieve?
He turned and suddenly there was a real darkness in his eyes. “You
want to know what the difference is, Yassen?” He had used my real
name for the first time. “We have another job in Paris, very different to
this one. You want to know what it’s really like to kill? You’re about to
find out.”

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ПАРИЖ

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PARIS
Our target in Paris was a man called Christophe Vosque, a senior officer
in the 
Police nationale
. He was, as it happens, totally corrupt. He had
received payments from Scorpia, and in return had turned a blind eye to
many of their operations in France. But recently he had got greedy. He
was demanding more payments and, worse still, he had been in secret
talks with the DGSE, the French secret service. He was planning a
double-cross and Scorpia had decided to make an example of him by
taking him out. This was to be a punishment killing. It had to make
headlines.
However, for once Scorpia had got their intelligence wrong. No sooner
had we arrived at Charles de Gaulle Airport than we were informed that
Vosque was not in the city after all. He had gone on a five-day training
course, meaning that we had the entire week to ourselves. Hunter wasn’t
at all put out.
“We need a rest,” he said. “And since Scorpia’s paying, we might as
well check ourselves in somewhere decent. I can show you around Paris.
I’m sure you’ll like it.”
He booked us into the luxurious Hotel George V, close to the Champs-
Elysées. It was far more than decent. In fact, I had never stayed
anywhere like this. The hotel was all velvet curtains, chandeliers, thick
carpets, tinkling pianos and massive flower displays. My bathroom was
marble. The bath had gold taps. Everyone who stayed here was rich and
they weren’t afraid to show it. I wondered if Hunter had brought me
here for a reason. Normally we would have stayed somewhere more
discreet and out-of-the-way but I suspected that he was testing me,
throwing me into this gorgeous, alien environment to see how I would
cope. He spoke excellent French; mine was rudimentary. He was in his
late twenties and already well travelled; I was nineteen. I think it
amused him to see me dealing with the receptionists, the managers and
the waiters in their stiff collars and black ties, trying to convince them
that I had as much right to be there as anyone … trying to convince

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myself.
It was certainly true that we both deserved a rest. The journey into the
rainforest and out again, the death of the Commander, the shoot-out that
had followed, our time in Iquitos, even the long flight back to Europe
had exhausted us, and we both had to be in first-rate condition when we
came up against Vosque. And if that meant eating the best food, and
waking up in five-star luxury, I wasn’t going to argue.
We had adjoining rooms on the third floor and both spent the first
twenty-four hours asleep. When I woke up, I ordered room service … the
biggest breakfast I have ever eaten, even though it was the middle of the
afternoon. I had a hot bath with the foam spilling over the edges. I
sprawled on the bed and watched TV. They had English and Russian
channels but I forced myself to listen in French, trying to attune myself
to the language.
The next day, Hunter showed me the city. I had done more travelling
in the past few weeks – Venice, New York, Peru – than I had in my
entire life, but I loved every minute of my time in Paris. A few of the
things we did were obvious. We went up the Eiffel Tower. We visited
Notre-Dame. We strolled around the Louvre and stood in front of its
most famous works of art. All this could have been boring. I have never
been very interested in tourism, staring at things and taking photographs
of them simply because they are there. But Hunter made it fun. He had
stories and insights that brought everything to life. Standing in front of
the