Russian Roulette- the Story of an Assassin pdfdrive com

THE KILL
King’s Cross, London. Three o’clock in the morning.
The station was closed and silent. The streets were almost empty. A
few shops were still open – a kebab restaurant and a minicab office,
their plastic signs garishly bright. But there were no customers.
Inside his hotel room, Yassen Gregorovich took out the memory stick
and turned off the computer. He had read enough. He was still sitting at
the desk. The tray with the dirty dishes from his supper was on the
carpet beside him. He looked at the blank screen, then yawned. He
needed to sleep. He stripped off his clothes and left them, folded, on a
chair. Then he showered, dried himself and went to bed. He was asleep
almost immediately. He did not dream. Since that final night in the
Silver Forest, he never dreamed.
He woke again at exactly seven o’clock. It was a Saturday and the
street was quieter than it had been the day before. The sun was shining
but he could see from the flag on the building opposite that there was a
certain amount of wind. He quickly scanned the pavements looking for
anything out of place, anyone who shouldn’t be there. Everything
seemed normal. He showered again, then shaved and got dressed. The
computer was where he had left it on the table and he powered it up so
that he could check for any new messages. He knew that the order he
had received the day before would still be active. Scorpia were not in the
habit of changing their minds. The screen told him that he had received
a single email and he opened it. As usual, it had been encrypted and sent
to an account that could not be traced to him. He read it, considering its
contents. He planned the day ahead.
He went downstairs and had breakfast – tea, yoghurt, fresh fruit. There
was a gym at the hotel but it was too small and ill-equipped to be worth
using, and anyway, he wouldn’t have felt safe in the confined space,
down in the basement. It was almost as bad as the lift. After breakfast,
he returned to his room, checking the door handle one last time, packed
the few items he had brought with him and left.
“Goodbye, Mr Reddy. I hope you enjoyed your stay.”
“Thank you.”

---

The girl at the checkout desk was Romanian, quite attractive. Yassen
had no girlfriend, of course. Any such relationship was out of the
question but for a brief moment he felt a twinge of regret. He thought of
Colette, the girl who had died in Argentina. At once, he was annoyed
with himself. He shouldn’t have spent so much time reading the diary.
He paid the bill using a credit card connected to the same gymnasium
where he supposedly worked. He took the receipt but later on he would
burn it. A receipt was the beginning of a paper trail. It was the last thing
he needed.
As he left the hotel, he noticed a man reading a newspaper. The
headlines screamed out at him:

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