Anthony Horowitz - Russian Roulette

“And on the seventh day, he rested,” Hunter muttered and I recognized the quotation from the second chapter of Genesis.

The two of us moved into the office. Hunter had brought rope and tape with him. “Tie him up,” he said. “We’ll be gone long before he wakes up but it’s best not to take chances.”

I did as I was told, securely fastening his wrists and ankles, and using the tape and a balled-up handkerchief to gag his mouth. After everything Hunter had told me, I was a little surprised that he hadn’t simply shot the policeman. Wouldn’t that have been easier? But perhaps, at the end of the day and despite everything he had said, he preferred not to take a life unless it was really necessary.

With the gendarme hidden away, we walked across the courtyard, our bibles in our hands. I thought we would go straight to Vosque’s door but instead Hunter steered us over to the artist’s flat and rang the bell there. It was a nice touch. She wasn’t in, of course, but if Vosque happened to be watching out of his window, the fact that we were patiently waiting there would make us look completely innocent. We stood outside for a minute or two, ignoring the thin drizzle that was slanting down onto the cobblestones. Hunter pretended to slip a note through the letterbox. Then we went over to Vosque’s place and rang the bell.

He must have seen us coming and he didn’t suspect a thing. He was already in a bad mood as he opened the door, wearing a vest and pants with a striped dressing gown falling off his shoulders. He hadn’t shaved yet.

“Get the hell out of here,” he snarled. “I haven’t-”

That was as far as he got. Hunter didn’t use another anaesthetic dart. He hit him, very hard, under the chin. It wasn’t a killer blow, although it could have been. He caught the Cop as he fell and dragged him into the apartment. I closed the door behind us. We were in.

The flat was almost bare. The floor was uncarpeted, the furniture minimal. There were no pictures on the walls. It was private. Net curtains hung over the windows and although there was a glass door leading into a tiny back garden – unusual for a Paris property – nobody could see in. A bedroom led off to one side. There was an open-plan kitchen, where, from the looks of it, Vosque hardly ever cooked anything much more than a boiled egg.

Hunter had manhandled the Cop across the floor and onto a wooden chair. “Find something to tie him up with,” he said. “He should have some ties in the bedroom. If you can’t find any, use a sheet off the bed. Tear it into strips.”

I was mystified. What were we doing? Our orders were to kill the man, not threaten or interrogate him. Why wasn’t he already dead? But once again I didn’t argue. Vosque had quite a collection of ties. I took five of them from his wardrobe and used them to bind his arms and legs, keeping the last one to gag his mouth. Hunter said nothing while I worked. I had already seen that intense concentration of his when we were in the jungle but this time there was something else. I was aware that he had something in his mind and for some reason it made me afraid.

He checked that the Cop was secure, then went over to the sink, filled a glass of water and threw it in his face. The cop’s eyes flickered open. I saw the jolt as he returned to consciousness and the fear as he took in his predicament. He began to struggle violently, rocking back and forth, as if there was any chance of him breaking free. Hunter signalled at him to stop. The Cop swore and shouted at him but the words were muffled, incomprehensible beneath the gag. Eventually, he stopped fighting. He could see it would do no good.

I didn’t dare speak. I wasn’t even sure what language I would be expected to use.

Hunter turned to me.

“You want to be an assassin,” he said, speaking in Russian now. “When you were in the jungle, you told me you killed some of the men who came after us. I’m not so sure about that. It was dark and I have a feeling I was the one who knocked all of them off. But that doesn’t matter. You said you were ready to kill. I didn’t believe you. Well, now’s your chance to prove it. I want you to kill Vosque.”

I looked at him. Then I turned to the Cop. I’m not sure that the Frenchman had understood what we were saying. He was silent, gazing straight ahead as if he was outraged, as if we had no right to be here.

“You want me to kill him,” I said in Russian.

“Yes. With this.”

He held out a knife. He had brought it with him and I stared at it with complete horror. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The knife was razor-sharp. There could be no doubt of that. I had never seen anything quite so evil. But it was tiny. The blade was more like an old-fashioned safety razor. It couldn’t have been more than four or five centimetres long.

“That’s crazy,” I said. I was clinging to the thought that perhaps this was some sort of joke, although there was no chance of that. Hunter was deadly serious. “Give me a gun. I’ll shoot him.”

“That’s not what I’m asking, Yassen. This is meant to be a punishment killing. I want you to use the knife.”

He had named me in front of the victim. Even though he was speaking in Russian, there was no going back.

“Why?”

“Why are you arguing? You know how we work. Do as you’re told.”

He pressed the knife into my hand. It was terribly light, barely more than a sliver of sharpened metal in a plastic handle. And at that moment I understood the point of all this. If I killed Vosque with this weapon, it would be slow and it would be painful. I would feel every cut that I made. And it might take several cuts. This wasn’t going to be just a quick stab to the heart. However I did it, I would end up drenched in the man’s blood.

A punishment killing. For both of us.

Something deep inside me rose to the surface. I was shocked, disgusted that he could behave this way. We’d just had five amazing days in Paris. In a way, they’d wiped out everything bad that had happened to me before. He’d been almost like a brother to me. Certainly, he had been my friend. And now, suddenly, he was utterly cold. From the way he was standing there, I could see that I meant nothing to him. And he was asking me to do something unspeakable.

Butchery.

And yet he was right. At the end of the day, it was a lesson I had to learn… if I was going to do this work. Not every assassination would take place from the top of a building or the other side of a perimeter fence. I had to get my hands dirty.

I examined the Cop. He was struggling again, his stomach heaving underneath his vest, jerking the chair from side to side, whimpering. His whole face had gone red. He had seen the knife. I balanced it in my hand, once again feeling the flimsy weight. Where was I to start? I supposed the only answer was to cut his throat. Gordon Ross had even given us a demonstration once, but he had used a plastic dummy.

“You need to get on with it, Yassen,” Hunter said. “We haven’t got all day.”

“I can’t.”

I had spoken the words without realizing it. They had simply slipped out of my mouth.

“Why can’t you?”

“Because…”

I didn’t want to answer. I couldn’t explain. Vosque might not be a good man. He was corrupt. He took bribes. But he was a man nonetheless. Not a paper target. He was right here, in front of me, terrified. I could see the sweat on his forehead and I could smell him. I just didn’t have it in me to take his life… and certainly not with this hideous, pathetic knife.

“Are you sure?”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

“All right. Go outside. Wait for me there.”

This time I did what I was told without questioning. If I had stayed there a minute longer, I’d have been sick. As I opened the front door I heard the soft thud of a bullet fired from a silenced pistol and knew that Hunter had taken care of matters himself. I was still holding the knife. I couldn’t leave it behind. It was covered in forensic evidence that might lead the police to me. I carefully slid it into the top pocket of my jacket where it nestled, the blade over my heart.