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НЬЮ-ЙОРК
NEW YORK
I had never spent so long in an aeroplane.
Nine hours in the air! I found the entire experience fascinating; the size
of the plane, the number of people crammed together, the unpleasant
food served in plastic trays, night and day refusing to behave as they
should outside the small, round windows. I also experienced jet lag for
the first time. It was a strange sensation, like being dragged backwards
down a hill. But I was in excellent shape. I was full of excitement about
my mission. I was able to fight it off.
I was entering the United States under my own name and with a cover
story that Scorpia had supplied. I was a student on a scholarship from
Moscow State University, studying American literature. I was here to
attend a series of lectures on famous American writers being given at the
New York Public Library. The lectures really were taking place. I carried
with me a letter of introduction from my professor, a copy of my thesis
and an NYPL programme. I would be staying with my uncle and aunt, a
Mr and Mrs Kirov, who had an apartment in Brooklyn. I also had a letter
from them.
I joined the long queue in the immigration hall and watched the
uniformed men and women in their booths stamping the passports of the
people in front of me. At last it was my turn. I was annoyed to feel my
heart was thumping as I found myself facing a scowling black officer
who seemed suspicious of me before I had even opened my mouth.
“What’s your business in the United States?” he asked.
“I’m studying American literature. I’m here to attend some lectures.”
“How long are you staying…?” He squinted at my name in the
passport. “…Yassen?”
“One week.”
I thought that would be it. I was waiting for him to pick up the stamp
and allow me in. Instead, he suddenly asked, “So how do you like Scott
Fitzgerald?”
I knew the name. F. Scott Fitzgerald had been one of the greatest
American writers of the twentieth century. “I really enjoyed
The Great
Gatsby
,” I said. “I think it’s his best book. Although his next one,
Tender
is the Night
, was fantastic too.”
He nodded. “Enjoy your stay.”
The stamp came down. I was in.
I had one suitcase with me. Both the suitcase and all the clothes inside
it had been purchased in Moscow. Of course I carried no weapon. It
might have been possible to conceal a pistol somewhere in my luggage
but it wasn’t a risk worth taking. Thanks to America’s absurd gun laws,
it would be much easier to arm myself once I arrived. I waited by the
luggage carousel until my case arrived. I knew at once that nobody had
looked inside the case either at Rome Airport or here. If the police or
airport authorities had opened one of the catches, they would have
broken an electrical circuit which ran through the handle. There was a
blue luggage tag attached and it would change colour, giving me
advance warning of what had happened. The tag was still blue. I
grabbed the case and went out.
My contact was waiting for me in the arrivals hall, holding up my
name on a piece of white card. He looked like all the other limo drivers:
tired and uninterested, dressed in a suit with a white shirt and
sunglasses, even though it was early evening and there was little sign of
the sun. He had misspelt my name. The card read: YASSEN
GREGORIVICH. This was not a mistake. It was an agreed signal between
the two of us. It told me that he was who he said he was and that it was
safe for us to meet.
He did not tell me his name. Nor did I ask. I doubted that the two of us
would meet again. We walked to the car park – or the parking garage as
the Americans called it – without speaking. He had parked his car, a
black Daimler, close to the exit and held the door open for me as I slid
into the back seat. He climbed into the front, then handed me another
envelope. This one was also marked with a scorpion.
“You’ll find your instructions inside,” he said. “You can read them in
the car. The drive is about forty minutes. I’m taking you to the SoHo
Plaza Hotel, where a room has been reserved in your name. You are to
stay there this evening. There’ll be a delivery at exactly ten o’clock. The
man will knock three times and will introduce himself as Marcus. Do you
understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. There’s a bottle of water in the side pocket if you need it…”
He started the engine and a moment later, we set off.
Nothing quite prepares you for the view of New York as you come over
the Brooklyn Bridge; the twinkling lights behind thousands and
thousands of windows, the skyscrapers presenting themselves to you like
toys in a shop window, so much life crammed into so little space. The
Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, the Rockefeller Centre, the
Beekman, the Waldorf-Astoria … your eye travels from one to the other
but all too soon you’re overwhelmed. You cannot separate them. They
merge together to become one island, one city. Every time you return
you will be amazed. But the first time you will never forget.
I saw none of it. Of course I looked out as I was carried over the East
River but I couldn’t believe I was really there. It was as if I was sitting in
some sort of prison and the tinted glass of the car window was a silent
television screen that I was glimpsing out of the corner of my eye. If you
had told me, a year ago, that I would one day arrive here in a chauffeur-
driven car, I would have laughed in your face. But the view meant
nothing. I had torn open the envelope. I had taken out a few sheets of
paper and two photographs. I was looking at the face of the person I had
come to kill. My first thoughts had been wrong. My target was not a
man.
Her name was Kathryn Davis and she was a lawyer, a senior partner in
a firm called Clarke Davenport based on Fifth Avenue. I suspected that
the address was an expensive one. The first photograph was in black and
white and had been taken as she stood beside a traffic light. She was a
serious-looking woman with a square face and light brown hair cut in a
fringe. I would have guessed she was in her mid-thirties. She was
wearing glasses that only made her look more severe. There was
something quite bullish about her. I could easily imagine her tearing
someone apart in court. In the second photograph she was smiling. This
one was in colour and generally she was more relaxed, waving at
someone who was not in the shot. I wondered which Kathryn Davis I
would meet. Which one would be easier to kill?
There was a newspaper article attached:
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