Russian Roulette by Anthony Horowitz Page B

for me. I wasn’t sure how that made me feel. Was I to blame for everything that had happened? Was I the one who had destroyed their lives?
    “Yasha . . .” Dementyev stood up and came over to me. He was much taller than I had expected now that he was on his feet. He loomed over me. “Were you inoculated?” he asked.
    I nodded. “My parents were killed when they escaped. But they stole a syringe. They injected me.”
    “I knew your father had been working on an antidote. Thank God! But I guessed it the moment I saw you. Otherwise you would have been dead a long time ago.”
    “My best friend died,” I said.
    “I’m so sorry. Anton and Eva—your parents—were my friends too.”
    We fell silent. He was still standing there, one hand on the back of my chair.
    “What will happen to me?” I asked.
    “You don’t need to worry anymore, Yasha. You’ll be well looked after.”
    “Who was that you called?”
    “It was a friend. Someone we can trust. He’ll be here very soon.”
    There was something wrong. Things that he’d told me just didn’t add up. I was about to speak when I heard the sound of sirens, police cars approaching, still far away but drawing nearer. And I knew instantly that there was no friend, that Dementyev had called them. It wasn’t detective work. I could have asked him why my parents had been sent to live in Estrov while he had been allowed to stay here. I could have played back the conversation he’d had on the telephone, how he had referred to me simply as “the boy.” Not “Yasha.” Not “Anton’s son.” The people at the other end knew who I was because they’d been expecting me to show up, waiting for me. I could have worked it out, but I didn’t need to. I saw it all in his eyes.
    “Why?” I asked.
    He didn’t even try to deny it. “I’m sorry, Yasha,” he said. “But nobody can know. We have to keep it secret.”
    We. The factory managers. The helicopter pilots. The militia. The government. And Dementyev. They were all in it together.
    I scrabbled to my feet—or tried to. But Dementyev was ahead of me. He pounced down, his hands on my shoulders, using his weight to pin me to the seat. For a moment his face was close to mine, the eyes staring at me through the thick lenses.
    “There’s nowhere you can go!” he hissed. “I promise you . . . they won’t treat you badly.”
    “They’ll kill me!” I shouted back. “They killed everyone!”
    “I’ll talk to them. They’ll take you somewhere safe.”
    Yes. I saw it already. A prison or a mental asylum, somewhere I’d never be seen again.
    I couldn’t move. He was too strong for me. And the police cars were getting closer. We were twenty-four floors up, but I could hear the sirens cutting through the air. And then I had an idea. I forced myself to relax.
    “You can’t do this!” I exclaimed. “My father gave me something for you. He said it was very valuable. He said if I gave it to you, you’d have to help me.”
    “What is it?”
    “I don’t know. It’s in a bag. It’s in my pocket!”
    “Show me.”
    He let go of one of my shoulders . . . but only one of them. I still couldn’t wrench myself free. I was sitting down. He was standing over me and he was twice my size.
    “Take it out,” he said.
    The police had turned into the main university drive. If I had looked out the window, I would have been able to see them. I heard car doors slam shut.
    Using my one free arm, I drew out the black bag that my mother had given me. At least Dima and his friends hadn’t stolen it when they took my money. I placed it on the desk. And it worked just as I’d hoped. Dementyev still didn’t let go of me, but his grip loosened as he reached out and opened the bag. I saw his face change as he tipped out the contents.
    “What—” he began.
    I jerked myself free, throwing the chair backward. As it toppled over, I managed to get to my feet. Dementyev swung around but he was too late to stop me from