Russian Roulette (Alex Rider)

НЬЮ-ЙОРК

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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

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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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