Russian Roulette- the Story of an Assassin pdfdrive com

MET 7.00 p.m.
D home
I quickly checked out the rest of the room. All the books were about
law except for two on the coffee table which contained reproductions of
famous paintings. She also had a catalogue from an auction house … a
sale of modern art. Briefly, I brushed my fingers over the sofa, trying to
get a sense of the woman who might have sat on it. But the truth was
that the office told me only so much about Kathryn Davis. It had been
designed that way, to present a serious, professional image to the clients
who came here but nothing more.
Even so, I had got what I had come for. I knew when and where the
killing would take place.
I was back in my hotel room and at exactly ten o’clock there was a
knock at the door. The man who called himself Marcus had returned.
This time he came in.
“Well?” He waited for me to speak.
“Friday night,” I said. “Central Park.”
It hadn’t taken me long to work out the diary entry, even without a
detailed knowledge of the city. The art books on the table had been the
clue. MET obviously meant the Metropolitan Museum of Art, a New York
landmark. I had already telephoned them and discovered that there was
indeed a private function at the museum that night for the American Bar
Association … Kathryn Davis would certainly be a member. The D in the
diary was her husband, David. He was going to be home, babysitting.
She would be there on her own.
I explained this to Marcus. His face gave nothing away but he seemed
to approve of the idea. “You’re going to shoot her in the park?” he
asked. “How do you know she won’t take a cab?”
“She likes walking,” I said. The hiking gear and the mountain
photographs had told me that. “And look at the map. She lives in West
85th Street. That’s just a ten-minute stroll across the park.”
“What if it’s raining?”
“Then I’ll have to do it when she comes out. But I’ve looked at the
forecast and it’s going to be unusually warm and dry.”
“You’re lucky. This time last year it was snowing.” Marcus nodded.
“All right. It sounds as if you’ve got it all worked out. If things go

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according to plan, you won’t see me again. Throw the gun into the
Hudson. Make sure you’re on that Saturday plane. Good luck.”
You should never rely on luck. Nine times out of ten it will be your
enemy and if you need it, it means you’ve been careless with your
planning.
I was back outside St Patrick’s Cathedral the next day and this time I
did glimpse Kathryn Davis as she got out of a taxi and went into the
building. She was shorter than I had guessed from her photographs. She
was wearing a smart, beige-coloured overcoat and carried a leather
briefcase so full of files that she wasn’t able to close it. Seeing her jolted
me in a strange way. I wasn’t afraid. It seemed to me that Scorpia had
deliberately chosen an easy target for my first assignment. But somehow
the stakes had been raised. I began to think about what I was going to
do, about taking the life of a person I had never met and who meant
nothing to me. Today was Thursday. By the end of the week, my life
would have changed and nothing would ever be the same again. I would
be a killer. After that, there could be no going back.
The days passed in a blur. New York was such an amazing city with its
soaring architecture, the noise and the traffic, the shop windows filled
with treasures, the steam rising out of the streets … I wish I could say I
enjoyed my time there. But all I could think about was the job, the
moment of truth that was getting closer and closer. I continued to make
preparations. I examined the house in West 85th Street. I saw where the
children went to school. I went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and
found the room where the private function would take place, checking
out all the entrances and exits. I bought a silicone cloth and some
degreaser, stripped the gun down and made sure it was in perfect
working order. I meditated, using methods I had learned on Malagosto,
keeping my stress levels down.
Friday evening was warm and dry, just as the weather office had
predicted. I was standing outside the office on Fifth Avenue when
Kathryn Davis left and I saw her hail a cab. That didn’t surprise me. It
was six forty-five and her destination was thirty blocks away. I hailed a
second cab and followed. It took us twenty minutes to weave our way
through the traffic, and when we arrived there were crowds of smartly
dressed people making their way in through the front entrance of the
museum. Somehow we had managed to overtake the taxi carrying

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Kathryn Davis and it took me a few anxious moments to find her again.
She had just met a woman she knew and the two of them were kissing in
the manner of two professionals rather than close friends, not actually
touching each other.
As I stood watching, the two of them went in together. I very much
hoped that the women would not leave together too. It had always been
my assumption that Kathryn Davis would walk home alone. What if her
friend offered to accompany her? What if there was a whole group of
them? I could see now that I had made a mistake leaving the killing until
my last evening in New York. I had to be on a plane at eleven o’clock the
following morning. If anything went wrong tonight, there could be no
backup. I wouldn’t get a second chance.
It was too late to worry about that now. There was a long plaza in
front of the museum with an ornamental pool and three sets of steps
running up to the main door. I found a place in the shadows and waited
there while more taxis and limousines arrived and the guests went in. I
could hear piano music playing inside.
Nobody saw me. I was wearing a dark coat, which I had bought in a
thrift shop and which was one size too large for me. I had chosen it for
the pockets, which were big enough to conceal both the gun and my
hand which was curved around it. It was an easy draw – I had already
checked. I would get rid of the coat at the same time as the gun. I was
very calm. I knew exactly what I was going to do. I had played out the
scene in my mind. I didn’t let it trouble me.
At nine-thirty, the guests began to leave. She was one of the first of
them, talking to the same woman she had met when she had arrived. It
seemed that they were going to set off together. Did it really matter, the
death of two women instead of one? I was about to embark on a life
where dozens, maybe hundreds of men and women would die because of
me. There would always be innocent bystanders. There would be
policemen – and policewomen – who might try to stop me. I could
almost hear Oliver d’Arc talking to me.