Russian Roulette- the Story of an Assassin pdfdrive com

SHOOTING AT SCIENCE MUSEUM
PRIME MINISTER INVOLVED
“NO ONE HURT,” SAYS MI6
It was interesting that there was no mention of either Herod Sayle or
Alex Rider. Nobody would want to suggest that a billionaire and major
benefactor in the UK had been involved in an assassination attempt. As
for Alex Rider, the secret service would have kept him well away from
the press. They had recruited a fourteen-year-old schoolboy. That was
one story that would never see the light of day.
Yassen passed through the revolving doors and walked round to the
car park. He had hired a car, a Renault Clio, charging it to the same
company as the hotel room. He put his things in the boot, then drove
west, all the way across London and over to a street in Chelsea, not far
from the river. He parked close to a handsome terraced house with ivy
growing up the wall, a small, square garden at the front and a wrought-
iron gate.
So this was where Alex Rider lived. Yassen assumed he would be
somewhere inside, perhaps still asleep. There would be no school today,
of course, but even if there had been it was unlikely that Alex would
have attended. Only the day before, he had hijacked a cargo plane in
Cornwall and forced the pilot to fly him to London. He had parachuted
into the Science Museum in South Kensington and shot Herod Sayle,
wounding him seconds before he could press the button that would
activate the Stormbreaker computers. There had been a furore. Just as
the newspapers had reported, the Prime Minister had been present. The
police, the SAS and MI6 had been involved. Yassen tried to imagine the
scene. It must have been chaos.
He sat behind the wheel, still watching the house.
Yes. Alex Rider most certainly deserved a few extra hours in bed.
About an hour later, the front door opened and a young woman came
out. She was wearing jeans and a loose-fitting jersey with red hair
tumbling down to her shoulders. Yassen had never met her but he knew
who she was: Jack Starbright, Alex’s housekeeper. It must have been

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rather odd the two of them living together but there was no one else.
John Rider had died a long time ago. There had been an uncle, Ian
Rider, who had become Alex’s guardian, but he was dead too. Yassen
knew because he had been personally responsible for that killing. How
had he become so tangled up with this family? Would they never leave
him alone?
Jack Starbright was carrying a straw bag. She was going shopping.
While she was away, Yassen could slip into the house and tiptoe
upstairs. If Alex Rider was in bed asleep, it would all be over very
quickly. It would be easier for him that way. He simply wouldn’t wake
up.
But Yassen had already decided against it. There were too many
uncertainties. He hadn’t yet checked out the layout of the house. He
didn’t know if there were alarms. The housekeeper could return at any
moment. At the same time, he thought about the email that he had
received. It presented him with a new priority. The Stormbreaker
business wasn’t quite over. Dealing with Alex Rider now might
compromise what lay ahead. He reached down and turned the engine
back on. It was useful to know where Alex lived, to acquaint himself
with the territory. He could return at another time.
He drove off.
Yassen spent the rest of the day doing very little. It was one of the
stranger aspects of his work. He’d had to learn how to fill long gaps of
inactivity, effectively how to kill time. He had often found himself
waiting in hotel rooms for days or even weeks. The secret was to put
yourself in neutral gear, to keep yourself alert but without wasting
physical or mental energy. There were meditation techniques that he
had been taught when he was on Malagosto. He used them now.
Later that afternoon, he drove into the Battersea Heliport, situated
between Battersea and Wandsworth bridges. It is the only place in
London where businessmen can arrive or leave by helicopter. The
machine that he had ordered was waiting for him – a red and yellow
Colibri EC-120B, which he liked because it was so remarkably silent. He
had received his helicopter pilot’s licence five years ago, finally realizing
a dream which he had had as a child, although he had never, after all,
worked in air-sea rescue. It was just another skill that was useful for his
line of work. He kept moving. He kept adapting. That was how he

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survived.
He had telephoned ahead. The helicopter was fuelled and ready. All
the necessary clearances had been arranged. Taking his case with him,
Yassen climbed into the cockpit and a few minutes later he was airborne,
following the River Thames east towards the City. The email that he had
received had specified a time and a place. He saw that place ahead of
him, an office building thirty storeys high with a flat roof and a radio
mast. There was a cross, painted bright red, signalling where he should
land.
Herod Sayle was there, waiting for him.
It was Sayle who had sent him the email that morning and who had
arranged all this, paying an extra one million euros into the special
account that Yassen had in Geneva. The police were looking for the
billionaire all over Britain. The airports and main railway stations were
being watched. There were extra policemen all around the coast. Sayle
had paid Yassen to fly him out of the country. They would land outside
Paris, where a private jet was waiting for him. From there he would be
flown to a hideout in South America.
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.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I had a great deal of help with the Russian sections of the book. Olga
Smirnova reluctantly took me through some of her childhood memories
and translated the chapter headings. Simon Johnson and Anne
Cleminson introduced me to their friends and family, including Olga
Cleminson, who cooked me a Russian lunch and helped create the
village of Estrov. In Moscow, Konstantin Chernozatonsky showed me the
buildings where Yassen might have lived and first drew my attention to
the