Russian Roulette (Alex Rider)

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 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 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.