The Assassin's Gift

by C. P. IRVINE, IAN

  Alessandra had tracked down those responsible and killed them all.

  The pupil had grown up, and the apprenticeship was over.

  --------------------

  When she was twenty-five, Alessandra had finally succumbed to the wishes of her mother, and gone to study languages at the Sapienza – the University in Rome. She missed her beloved Sicily, but also loved the world she found beyond the shores of her island home.

  Her world suddenly exploded with possibilities, and she fell in love, frequently but always only for a short time. She fell out of love almost as quickly as she fell in to it, but from each person she spent time with, she grew.

  Although she loved Rome, she returned home as often as she could. Each time she visited, another name was scored off her list, until by the time she was just about to graduate, the vow she had made to avenge her father's murder had been fulfilled.

  Thanks to her training with Vincenzo, her victims died in many different ways, thereby not establishing an obvious trend that could appear suspicious to the Carabinieri. Two of the names on the list were killed by the gun she had found at her third victim's house, all those years before, and which she kept buried in a field near her house.

  Thanks to Vincenzo, Alessandra was never once suspected of any of her crimes. On the one occasion where a victim was still alive when he had been reached by the Carabinieri, before he finally died the man had volunteered the name 'Salvador' for his assailant. Thus the future legend of Salvador had been born.

  After graduating, Alessandra had struggled to get work. There was a recession on, and many of the companies that may have employed her were biased to younger graduates and male employees. There were opportunities, but she would have had to move to London, or New York to take them, and at that time, she was needed by her mother who was now ill and needing frequent medical care.

  There was a problem however.

  Her mother was almost bankrupt.

  After her father's murder, many of his business interests had been acquired or stolen by those responsible for his death. For a time the Family had sponsored and supported her mother and Alessandra's upbringing, but as soon as she finally flew the nest, the remaining support was cut.

  Her mother lived in a lovely, large house. She had expensive tastes. Alessandra found herself the sole provider, but with no income. Something needed to be done, and soon.

  It was the height of summer, almost a year after she had graduated, when Alessandra had requested a meeting with the Capo, the local member of the Family who ran that part of the island.

  Wearing a dress and the make-up which she knew helped her to appear at her most beautiful and attractive, Alessandra had sat in the garden with the seventy-year-old Capo and asked for a job.

  "You may not know, but I spent a lot of time with Vincenzo Balistreri. He taught me much of what he knew. I even helped him complete several of the missions you sent him on."

  The Capo had smiled.

  "I know. Vincenzo spoke of you often. He was proud of you."

  "Then since you know what I'm capable of, will you give me a job?"

  "As an assassin? Surely you know that as a woman, I cannot offer you Vincenzo's job."

  "I do not seek to join the Family. I seek only to be recognised as an Associate, and to be contracted, when needed, to help the Family with its personnel problems."

  "A hired killer?"

  "If you will, Signore."

  "And you expect to be paid for this?"

  "Absolutely. And well. If I cannot join the Family, I would be willing to serve it to the best of my ability in completion of tasks you may pass my way. But for a good and fair price. I shall take the risks, without the protection the Family could otherwise offer me if I was a man, but in return I shall need to be well paid. So that I can look after my mother, the wife of a Family member."

  Her reference to her mother had been deliberate. Not only was it true, but it appealed directly to the strong family values of all Italians, including the Mafia.

  The Capo had nodded and announced that he would consider it.

  The meeting was brought to a close and Alessandra had left.

  Two weeks later she was passed details of an assignment.

  A banker. In London. Several weeks later he was found dead, floating in the river Thames.

  It had been Alessandra's first international assignment, and from the money she had earned from it she was able to look after her mother for a whole year.

  The Capo was pleased. Alessandra was much richer. Her chosen career had been launched.

  In the years that followed, Alessandra earned the respect of the Capo, fulfilling all the assignments that were offered to her. During that time Salvador’s reputation had grown, and thanks to the Capo who had recommended Salvador’s skills to others, she had made contact - always indirect, but trusted - with others who were in need of Salvador’s skills.

  One contact would lead to another, and then that contact to another, and so on.

  Over time her reliance on the Capo for work decreased, and Alessandra was already at the point where demand for Salvador’s skills was higher than her ability to deliver, when one day the Capo was himself assassinated by a car bomb.

  With his death, the only man remaining alive who knew the true identity of Salvador was gone.

  During the seven years that Alessandra had worked for the Capo, her mother had grown increasingly fragile, and her memory had slowly ebbed away.

  Thanks to the money Alessandra was earning, she had been able to pay for nurses and medical care which enabled her mother to remain in her home in Sicily.

  Alessandra was now travelling frequently, eliminating targets across the globe, but she always tried to return home every few months.

  It was after one such trip to Mexico that Alessandra had returned to visit her mother, only to discover that her mother no longer recognised who she was.

  She had stayed for several weeks, coming to terms with the reality of Alzheimer’s and with the realisation that although her mother was not dead, Alessandra had now lost both her parents.

  However, her continued presence in their house seemed to distress her mother more than comfort her, so Alessandra had finally left her home for the last time.

  Wherever she was in the world she would keep in contact with those who cared for her mother, and she would pay all the bills that came her way, but she never returned to Sicily.

  At times, Alessandra felt like a lost soul, an orphan cast adrift upon the world, with nowhere really to call home.

  She immersed herself in her new career, learning and perfecting skills that enabled her to take on the most challenging of assignments, and to succeed in every one.

  She attended military training camps in Libya, Russia and America, where for a price, others well-versed in the art of killing were willing to share their experiences and teach a new generation of assassins their skills.

  Alessandra became proficient with a multitude of weapons; she learned how to make bombs, to use chemicals, and how to kill with her bare hands, with the minimum of effort.

  After each camp she attended she practised what she had learned, turning killing into an art form that furthered her reputation and enhanced the respect afforded to her by her customers.

  The price she could command went up. And up.

  Which allowed her to be more selective about the assignments she would choose.

  There was never ever any shortage of work.

  Salvador was in demand.

  The world had become his oyster.

  Chapter 6

  Present Day

  Scotland

  DCI Campbell McKenzie’s Office

  St Leonards Police Station

  Thursday

  10.30 a.m.

  The phone rang on Campbell’s desk and he picked it up automatically, without diverting his attention from the report in front of him, which he continued to read as he said hello and waited for the caller to announce themselves
and their need.

  “Campbell? It’s Peter here. Can you talk, or do you have others in the office just now?”

  Campbell lowered the report to his desk and blinked a few times. Peter Nicolson was an investigative journalist at the Scotsman, and over the years they had built up a solid rapport with one another. Campbell knew the importance of having the press on his side, so over the years he had made it a policy to nurture several symbiotic relationships with journalists in all the major Scottish broadsheets. Whenever he could, he helped them out with useful news, and likewise, they returned the favour whenever possible.

  “Peter. How are you? By the way, that was a good piece of yours on the election expenses scandal. Good job.”

  “Thanks. I’m good, but I can’t guarantee you will be in a minute. I’ve just seen the copy of an article the paper’s running tomorrow on the murder of DI Wessex. It’s pretty explicit. I don’t know how they got it, but somehow they know it was your sperm that was found inside her body and that Tommy McNunn’s defence is that he had nothing to do with it, and that he didn’t put it there. Have you told your wife all the details yet, because if you haven’t, she’s going to read about it all soon. Very soon.”

  Campbell’s head spun.

  “Who wrote it and when’s it being printed?”

  “Can’t tell you that. Probably tomorrow.”

  “Shit… the trial starts in two weeks’ time. Is there any way you can get Brown to hold fire on this just a little longer?” McKenzie asked, referring to the editor of the Scotsman.

  “Which means you still haven’t told your wife? And the answer’s no. Well, maybe, possibly until Saturday, at best Monday, if I really push it. But no longer. Brown’s keen on this one. But that would give you the weekend?”

  “I’ll take it. Let me know if he doesn’t agree, otherwise I’ll assume you’ve got me a breather. Thanks Peter.”

  “Tell her Campbell.”

  “I will, I just don’t know how to.”

  “Believe me, this is none of my business but with something like this, there isn’t any particularly good way to break that kind of news.”

  Subdued, Campbell nodded, then hung up.

  He didn’t need a journalist to tell him that.

  --------------------

  Fiona McKenzie stepped out of the shower and started to towel herself down. Her usual five kilometre run around the Queen’s Park had taken three minutes longer than normal, but that was probably down to the wine she had drunk last night.

  Campbell had come home, offered to cook dinner, and then produced two bottles of her favourite white.

  She was already slightly tipsy by the time he served the fish, Dover Sole, her favourite.

  “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this sudden attention?” she had asked, after dinner, the ‘s’ in pleasure being drawn out slightly too long.

  “You read me like a book, Fiona. Always have, and always will.” Campbell had replied. “I’d wanted to talk to you about something, but it can wait till tomorrow now. I’ve spent too much time in the kitchen, and you’ve spent too much time with your wine.”

  “Are you trying to say I’m drunk?”

  “And why would I want to say that?”

  “Because the bottle’s empty?”

  “Which is why I bought two…” he replied, lifting the new bottle and pouring her some more, then reaching across and kissing her softly on the lips.

  “Hmmm… delicious.”

  “The wine?”

  “What do you think?”

  Not long afterwards they’d made love for the first time in months. Fiona had begun to wonder if there was something wrong; she’d missed him, but recently he’d had to work a lot longer hours than normal, and by the time he got home, she was either asleep, or Campbell just wanted to eat, shower, and bed.

  Wrapping the towel around her head, Fiona stood in front of the mirror and picked up the razor to shave her armpits.

  Lifting up her arm, she cupped her left breast to the side to look at her armpit, holding the razor in the same hand.

  It was then that she felt it.

  A small, hard lump, just under the tip of her right index finger.

  Putting the razor down, she gently stroked her breast, feeling carefully around where she had noticed the lump.

  An icy chill coursed down her spine, and her heart skipped a beat.

  She felt the area again, her fingers shaking.

  Lifting her head, she closed her eyes, and felt light-headed. Dizzy. Nauseous.

  Putting the lid down on the toilet and sitting down, she steadied herself, flexed her left arm several times in the air, hoping that it would make a difference, then examined her breast again.

  It was hard, just under the surface, and quite large.

  Taking several deep breaths, she walked slowly through to the bedroom on shaky legs, picked up the phone on the bedside table, and called the doctor’s surgery.

  The earliest appointment was in two hours’ time.

  --------------------

  Scotland

  Thursday

  Plockton

  Alessandra was a sensible woman. She knew it. Her friends, and more than a few of her many lovers had commented upon the fact.

  She didn’t believe in ghosts.

  She had never believed in the tooth fairy, although truth be told, she had always looked forwards to Christmas time and hoped that La Befana, the old Italian witch, would climb down their chimney on January 6th and leave her lots of presents. And when the old witch did come and left presents galore, Alessandra never complained or questioned where they came from.

  Aliens didn’t exist. And 9/11 was not a conspiracy led by the Americans.

  So what then, had she seen on the Loch?

  In spite of everything: the perfect wind, the beautiful scenery, and the solitude she found out at sea, yesterday afternoon whilst sailing, and for much of the evening, her thoughts had been dominated by questions about what it could have been.

  She was so sure that she had seen ‘something’, reluctantly she had begun to entertain the possibility that maybe, just maybe, she had in fact seen the Loch Ness Monster.

  As soon as she had returned from sailing, she'd pulled out her iPad and attempted to search the internet to learn more about ‘Nessie’, the nickname for the monster that was plastered over all the tourist paraphernalia that swamped Fort Augustus, every shop and tourist destination around Loch Ness.

  Frustratingly the internet connection in her cottage was slow and intermittent, and she was soon driven to the pub on the only main street of Plockton in search of Wi-Fi.

  In spite of the lack of make-up and the drab clothes she wore, no sooner had she sat down in the corner with a gin and tonic, than she started to attract attention from some locals, one of whom even attempted to come over and engage her in conversation.

  Returning short but simple answers to the few questions that were directed at her, accompanied by no emotion of any sort whatsoever, he soon got the message and lost interest, and Alessandra was left to herself.

  Equipped with the Wi-Fi password from the bar, she began to learn everything she could about Nessie from the web.

  She even downloaded a couple of books about the monster to read later.

  After a second ‘G and T’, as the Brits loved to call it, she decided that perhaps isolation was not the best policy and took up a seat on one of the bar stools, hoping to now catch some attention from the locals after all.

  Mrs Gilmarton, the pub landlady soon obliged. “Well then,” she started, her broad Scottish brogue pushing the limits of Alessandra’s English, “if it’s an opinion on wee Nessie that you’ll be wanting, then you’ll have to speak to Young Angus.”

  Alessandra glanced over in the direction that Mrs Gilmarton had indicated, peering through the darkness at the back of the pub, and finding an old man, probably in his seventies, sitting quietly in the corner with a newspaper and a glass.

  “What’s
he drinking?” Alessandra asked.

  “His daily tipple, Drum Dregg, the local whisky.”

  “Make it two. Doubles.”

  Carrying across the two glasses she wandered over to Young Angus and proffered the gift before being invited to sit opposite him in the corner away from the log fire.

  “Hello, I’m Alice Brandon. I was just talking with Mrs Gilmarton at the bar, and she directed me over here to you. Do you mind if I join you?”

  “Not at all, lassie. Sit yourself down. I’ll be guessing that it's stories of Nessie that you’re after?”

  “Not just stories. The Internet is full of them. I’m more interested in trying to find out the truth. Is she real or not?”

  Young Angus laughed, then coughed a few times, before reaching for the fresh glass of whisky and taking a sip.

  “Mmmm. Drum Dregg. The good stuff!” he smiled. “So you’re looking for truth then, along with everyone else? And what makes you think that I know it?”

  “Nothing. But you know something, otherwise I wouldn’t have been sent over to meet you.”

  Young Angus glanced over at the bar and nodded.

  “So, if you don’t mind me asking, what’s your interest in the old girl?”

  Alessandra hesitated and glanced over her shoulder back at the bar owner.

  Young Angus laughed again.

  “No, I didn’t mean Shona, - Mrs Gilmarton-, I meant the Beast herself, the Lady of the Loch.”

  It was Alice’s turn to laugh.

  Then she turned serious and for a few seconds found herself staring at the old man, appraising him. Wondering if she should tell him the truth, or spin him a yarn.

  “I saw something. Something strange.”

  “And you think you saw her?”

  “Her? Are you so sure she’s a she?”

  “Well, obviously, there has to be a male or two somewhere, but mostly people see the girls. The females.”

  Alessandra shook her head and edged her chair closer to Young Angus.