Russian Roulette- the Story of an Assassin pdfdrive com



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Russian Roulette- The Story of an Assassin ( PDFDrive )

Mona Lisa
he told me how it had once been stolen – that was back in
1911 – and explained how he would set about stealing it now. He
described how Notre-Dame had been constructed, an incredible feat of
engineering, more than eight hundred years before. And he took me to
many unexpected places: the sewers, the flea markets, Père-Lachaise
Cemetery with its bizarre mausoleums and famous residents, the
sculpture garden where Rodin had once lived.
But what I enjoyed most was just walking the streets – along the Seine,
through the Latin quarter, around the Marais. It was quite cold – spring
had still not quite arrived – but the sun was out and there was a sparkle
in the air. We drifted in and out of coffee houses. We browsed in antique
shops and bought clothes on the Avenue Montaigne. We ate fantastic ice
cream at Maison Berthillon on the Île-St-Louis. Curiously, this was where
the founder members of Scorpia had first come together – but perhaps


wisely there was no blue plaque to commemorate the event.
We ate extremely well in restaurants that were empty of tourists.
Hunter didn’t like to spend a fortune on food and never ordered alcohol.
He preferred grenadine, the red syrup he had introduced me to in
Venice. I drink it to this day.
We never once discussed the business that had brought us here but we
were quietly preparing for it. At six o’clock every morning we went on a
two-hour run together… It was a spectacular circuit down the Champs-
Elysées, through the Jardins des Tuileries and across the Seine. There
was a pool and a gym at the hotel and we swam and worked out for two
hours or more. I sometimes wondered what people made of us. We could
have been friends on holiday or perhaps, given our age difference, an
older and a younger brother. That was how it felt sometimes. Hunter
never refered back to our conversation in the jungle, although some of
the things he had said remained in my mind.
We had arrived on a Monday. On the Thursday, Hunter received a note
from the concierge as we were leaving the hotel and read it quickly
without showing it to me. After that, I sensed that something had
changed. We took the Metro to Montmartre that day and walked around
the narrow streets with all the artists’ studios and drank coffee in one of
the squares. It was just warm enough to sit outside. By now we were
relaxed in each other’s company but I could tell that Hunter was still
agitated. It was only when we reached the great white church of Sacré-
Cœur, with its astonishing views of Paris, that he turned to me.
“I need to have some time on my own,” he said. “Do you mind?”
“Of course not.” I was surprised that he even needed to ask.
“There’s someone I have to meet,” he went on. He was more uneasy
than I had ever seen him. “But I’m breaking the rules. We’re both under
cover. We’re working. Do you understand what I’m saying? If Julia
Rothman found out about this, she wouldn’t be pleased.”
“I won’t tell her anything,” I said. And I meant it. I would never have
betrayed Hunter.
“Thank you,” he said. “We can meet back at the hotel.”
I walked away but I was still curious. The more I knew about Hunter
the more I got the feeling that there were so many things he wasn’t
telling me. So when I reached the street corner, I turned back. I wanted
to know what he was going to do.


And that was when I saw her.
She was standing on the terrace in front of the main entrance of the
church. There were quite a few tourists around but she stood out
because she was alone and pregnant. She was quite small – the French
would say petite – with long fair hair and pale skin, wearing a loose,
baggy jacket with her hands tucked into her pockets. She was pretty.
Hunter was walking towards her. She saw him and I saw her face light
up with joy. She hurried over to him. And then the two of them were in
each other’s arms. Her head was pressed against his chest. He was
stroking her hair. Two lovers on the steps of Sacré-Cœur … what could
be more Parisian? I turned the corner and walked away.
The next day, Vosque returned.
He lived in the fifth 

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