by Lee Winter
Three months back, she’d promised Sonja she’d take down her boss, Ken Lee. He was a hard man to gain access to, but nine days ago she’d finally made good on her vow and caught him with his pants down. Literally.
The demise of the man who ran the world’s largest prostitution ring and trafficked pre-teen girls from South-East Asia was about as fitting as it got. Natalya had quite enjoyed electrifying the small metal grid she’d connected to the base of Lee’s private urinal at his favourite gentleman’s club. The crack of lethal energy shot up the first natural conductor it found—which, in this case, was salt. From Lee’s urine.
Sonja had been less inclined to appreciate the artistic merit of her boss’s shocking exit. Everyone’s a critic.
It wasn’t like Natalya hadn’t expected some retaliation, so she hadn’t been too startled when Sonja had jumped her yesterday and left her mark.
Natalya’s hip twinged again as she rubbed her soapy hand across the bruise. Of course, Sonja had more reasons to be furious with her, thanks to their little tryst all those months ago, but that wasn’t what this was about. As a professional, Sonja had an obligation to extract payback on behalf of her crime family. She’d severely lost face over Lee’s humiliating assassination.
It was an occupational hazard, dodging her own kind. The professionals who came for her—usually hired by clients who might have lost a favoured associate in one of her hits—were especially dedicated to seeing that she was “punished.”
Good luck with that.
She had lived longer than most in her profession. She had done so by demanding perfection of herself. Taking pride in her work. Being disciplined. Faultless in her planning. Meticulous in her attention to detail. It served her in both her careers. And so, at age forty-one, the assassin known as Requiem continued to live, while others twitched and drooled on her manicured lawn, making her motion sensors light up like a Christmas tree.
Natalya drew herself out of her reverie and shampooed her hair. It was long and glossy, sitting well below her shoulder blades. It was her only indulgence, her sole vanity.
She slid on her silk robe and slippers and padded out into the lounge, still drying her hair with a fluffy white towel. She headed for her fish tanks. One held a dozen small goldfish. The second, a cone snail—a beautifully coloured orange and white-shelled Conus geographus. She had carefully harvested it specifically for its unique properties during a dive off Ningaloo Reef.
Beside the tank, perfectly aligned, lay a pair of forceps and a row of test tubes. She slung her towel over her shoulder and used a small fish net to scoop up a goldfish and plop it into the cone snail’s tank. With a detached fascination, she watched as the lethal marine creature’s sting shocked its prey into paralysis. Within seconds the goldfish was dead.
Satisfied, she headed over to her pride and joy.
In a small pot by the lounge window, sat a single, vivid purple flower—her favourite. An African violet, Saintapaulia ionantha. Preferring no moisture on the leaves, African violets had to be watered from the bottom. They did not enjoy anything on the surface at all, including dust, water, and grime. With such pristine requirements, it was little wonder Natalya’s African violet always thrived.
She gave it sixty millilitres of tepid, filtered water, dusted the leaves, and then moved over to her phone. She had a situation to remedy on her front lawn.
She pressed a speed-dial number, listened to an odd assortment of computerised clicks and beeps, and then heard a male voice say: “Yes?”
“I have a package that needs urgent collection.”
“Where?”
“Home.”
“Just the one?”
“Yes.”
“One hour.”
She hung up and then pressed play on her phone messages.
Voice message received, 11:38pm, Friday. Ms Tsvetnenko, it’s Mesut Schulz, from the Berliner Philharmoniker. Our cellist Milena Lomas is ill. We understand you are already going to be in Europe next month. So we wanted to know if you’re available for depping on the French leg of our world tour? Moscow Symphony Orchestra gives you an excellent reference from their 2013 tour. You’d be needed in Paris in a little over three weeks for rehearsals. My assistant will make all the visa arrangements and so forth. Please call her.
Voice message received, today, 9:03am. Hello, ah, Ms Tsveetnarcko, it’s Kylie Payne from Classical Notes. We have managed to source that rare sheet music for Carl Reinecke’s Cello Concerto in D minor, Opus Eighty-two. Took some doing, but it’s in. We’re open ’til five.
There was a clunk and a mechanical whirr that went along with accessing her second, encoded line. She’d hired a man who used to be employed by the KGB for hacking dissidents’ telecommunications. He had secured her phones from every conceivable law-enforcement agency surveillance tap. Even he couldn’t crack her devices now, he’d told her with enormous pride before dropping a bill the size of a third-world country’s debt in her lap.
Voice message received, today, 6:13am. Well, well, Req, you picked it. Mr S came crawling back and rolled over. He’s paying full tote. Check your secured email for the new packet for his job. Oh, and we’ve had a reply from that mystery client. I explained the protocol, that we need to know who we’re working for, but instead of answers they paid double on the condition we don’t ask questions and don’t dig into it. Still can’t trace their origins, but it came through the usual gang of four’s contacts, so I’ve approved it.
The gang of four were Requiem’s main source of business. This destructive quartet of Melbourne clans and their allies had divvied up most of Victoria’s criminal enterprises between them. The Trioli family, for instance, ran all the fixed racing games in town.
The late Ken Lee had run Moonlight Crew, which was formerly an armaments importation ring and now brought in underage girls from poor rural areas in South-East Asia and sold them to illegal brothels.
Fleet Crew was formed when weapons expert Dimitri Kozlovsky left Ken Lee to set up his own empire. No one outside of the gang knew who Fleet’s kingpin was since Kozlovsky’s death in 2002. The crew worked illegal guns and ammo, and ran professional armed robberies.
The High Street boys, headed by Mr S—aka Santos—specialised in the manufacture and Australian-wide distribution of ice, or crystal meth.
The various gangs did not play well together and, since 1998, had a nasty habit of killing key members of other families. These murders ran almost unchecked because the police were more interested in focusing on crimes the public cared about. Criminals eating their own was a low priority.
It was a mystery how the feud between the families had started, and each side blamed the other. No one knew what the trigger had been except Requiem. And one other.
Natalya folded her towel and tuned back into her associate’s conversation.
I’ve sent you that mystery client’s packet, too. The individual you’ll be visiting is…uh…unusual. You’ll see. I know that curious brain of yours will love profiling her.
Anyway, that job comes with a couple of stipulations. Make the visit up close and personal so they know what’s what. Don’t do the job at their home or that of their family. And you have to wait three weeks before you do the work and not a second sooner. Oh and—
The message ended abruptly as it ran out of allocated space. Her associate always did ramble on.
Three weeks? Natalya’s eyebrow lifted. Why the delay? Life insurance papers? Pushing for a new will?
Natalya reached for her mobile phone and flicked to her email. A decrypted document appeared, and she tapped in a 10-digit password as her landline kicked in again.
Voice message received, today, 6:16am. I just wanted to say good job on Ken Lee. That can’t have been easy, her associate continued as though there had been no interruption. Oh and I’ve finally seen the paper. You did take that earlier brief literally, didn’t you? That client is so happy with your particular brand of wish fulfilment for his little girl that he wants to name his
next kid after you. How does that grab you?
Natalya pressed her lips together in a disapproving line. Requiem Trioli?
No, it did not grab her in the slightest.
The phone message ended, and her gaze fell on the document she’d downloaded. Natalya studied the brief, then tapped the candid photo accompanying the packet to enlarge it.
Wide blue eyes stared back at her. Pale skin, brown, shoulder-length hair. Small, compact frame. Something about that face niggled at the back of her brain.
The photo had been taken as the woman walked in a city park, juggling a handbag, water bottle, and sandwich bag. She broadcasted helplessness.
This was the woman someone needed a professional to eradicate?
She frowned and scoured the rest of the document. No information on who ordered the hit. No clue as to what this tiny mouse of a creature had done to merit a hired killer.
Blackmailer, maybe? Informant?
She scrolled back to the photo. The woman’s body language set her teeth on edge. Why did women persist in trying to take up less space than they needed? She should take what was hers, not shrink from her own shadow.
Natalya’s father, a military man, had taught her to claim her space. He’d taught her how to stand tall, shake hands firmly, look people in the eye, and stake her place in the world, unflinching and unapologetic. Women, like men, had to demand to be counted.
This woman’s shoulders were hunched, arms pressed against her sides even as she tried to juggle her various possessions. She was far too fragile to be a target that required a professional hit. A stiff breeze would blow her over.
Something really didn’t smell right. The job was too easy. She didn’t like easy any more than she liked a mystery her clever mind could not solve.
She scanned the data once more.
Name: Alison Ryan
Age: 34
Employment: Government worker, Solomon Lewis Building. Consult Addendum A for map.
Hobbies: Classical music.
Spouse/Partner: None.
Pets: None.
Living arrangements: 9 Benong Court, Frankston. Cohabits with elderly mother who has health and mobility issues.
Natalya considered the address. Frankston was an outer Melbourne suburb with a working-class reputation. It was also a world beneath the wealth of her usual clientele.
She returned her attention to the photo and studied the woman’s face again.
What had she done? And who had she done it to?
The client who had paid double for the kill could be a jealous lover, she supposed, although Requiem’s specialty and six-figure fee should have automatically precluded such a low-brow client. Her expertise was in gangland killings, and anybody with the connections to hire her knew that.
As for a clause demanding no questions? Double payment or not, she didn’t operate that way. She tapped in a number she knew by heart and waited for it to ring twice. Then she hung up and repeated the process.
Her phone rang five seconds later, and tell-tale electronic pops and beeps sounded at the other end.
“Req?” The Hacker’s voice was more mechanical than human, thanks to all the filters and security he’d put in place.
“I need a new look-up,” she replied without preamble. “Name’s Alison Ryan. She works in the Solomon Lewis building in the CBD. I need to know exactly what she does for a living. Career highlights.”
“Solomon Lewis? Okay, could be anything—you know how many departments are wedged in there right now?”
“I know. Can you do it quickly?”
The Hacker’s tinny laughter was his only response.
“Okay,” Natalya said, pleased. “And be discreet. I don’t want her to know she has a shadow.”
“Always.” The phone went dead.
The Hacker was most famous for his industrial espionage, and there wasn’t a database he hadn’t been able to infiltrate. She pictured her associate’s furious glare given this was supposed to be a don’t-ask, don’t-tell job—but then again, her associate’s neck wasn’t the one on the damn line.
Natalya consulted her phone’s calendar. She could take care of this job and the Paris leg of the Berlin orchestra tour. And she could probably even throw in the Santos target before she left as well.
Viktor Raven. She sneered. Well that was the name he was going by these days. She’d known him when he was Joe Hastings from Dandenong. The cowardly slug of an informant had finally done something to upset Santos to the point of homicide, and he was well aware he had a mark on his head. Rumour had it, he’d hired a top-drawer private bodyguard, someone very hard to kill.
Well, that should make life interesting.
She tapped open her work calendar and entered a few coded notes: Watch the little mouse, find and eradicate the slug, roast said mouse, then head to Paris.
Sorted, she strode to her timber-floored rehearsal room and opened her cello case. She eased into the seat, rubbing the ridges on the thumb of her left hand. No matter how much she practised easing her grip, still they remained.
She closed her eyes, positioned the rare Charles Adolphe Maucotel instrument, and began to play. Music washed away everything. It was her greatest love. Her soul ripped itself apart and restitched itself anew. Becoming immortal, she called it. Her ability to die and be reborn every time she touched her cello.
Hunger drove her, four hours later, to lift her gaze from the possession she loved most. She eased her instrument regretfully away from her, wondering at the mere mortals who never felt what she did. Those who experienced music on the periphery, who heard it as pleasant sounds rather than felt it resonate with every fibre of their being.
She froze, the bow sagging in her hand. That’s where she knew her latest target from. She’d seen this woman at a Victorian Philharmonic Orchestra season launch party three months ago. The night of the Uli Busch hit, if she wasn’t mistaken.
Natalya never forgot a face. The little mouse had been among the fawning groupies for Amanda Marks. Marks, in her flowing white gown, with perky, elfin features, had an ego almost as sizeable as her adoring fan base.
Violinists, Natalya snorted. Always the rock stars.
Not that Natalya particularly cared. She was more interested in fading into the background and not being bothered by the unwashed masses with their cloying demands for autographs and photos.
She packed away her cello and began her mental list of how to proceed next. She had three weeks. Plenty of time to learn all she needed to about Alison Ryan and the most optimum method for doing what had to be done.
Even so, her mind kept darting back to the woman’s face. She realised, as she visualised it, that one word above all others kept rising to the fore—Innocent.
How unusual. She generally dealt with the guilty—and some were very guilty indeed. Her mind drifted to a certain despicable German chemicals entrepreneur who had become her favourite hit of all time—for reasons not entirely due to the manner of his untimely demise.
Chapter 3
Requiem tapped her thumb impatiently against her phone. Alison Ryan would be leaving work shortly. She studied the pugnacious, chunky lines of the Solomon Lewis building which rose nine floors. It was a typically grotesque monument to brutalist architecture. Odd that it never went to ten storeys. It was as though even the builders couldn’t contain their revulsion and walked away at number nine.
This concrete eyesore had been pressed into work when four of the city’s major buildings had been shut down for asbestos removal last year. So, crammed within its confines now were the Supreme Court of Victoria on Ground Level, Police Headquarters above that, the Australian Taxation Department, higher still, and assorted government offices on the top floors. It meant that literally anyone in Victoria having a bad day involving crime or punishment would wind up here.
She glanced at her watch. Ryan should exit her building at 5:03pm. Requiem admired her punctuality.
Her phone rang, and she answered, still keeping an eye
on the building.
“Req? I have answers,” a tinny voice said.
“I’m all ears.”
“That party works on the second floor of Solomon Lewis.”
Level two? “She’s a cop?” Requiem asked incredulously.
“Nah,” came an amused reply. “Administrative assistant. A lifer. Wanna hear her job descrip? ‘Develop and maintain computerised records and systems. Liaise with, and provide information to, members of the Department, Victoria Police, and external contacts on behalf of the office. Perform courier and coffee-making duties as required.’
“She makes a spit over forty-six gees per annum plus super. She’s been doing it for decades. I swear my blind, deaf Great Aunt Edith has more fun in a day. Your girl has no dirt of any kind on her personnel file. Okay, so that all?”
“Yes.”
The phone went dead.
She glanced back at the building. Still no sign of her quarry. Requiem was seated on a park bench facing a small public lawn across from the entrance. From her perch, where she feigned reading her phone, she had already recognised seven faces in ten minutes—two high-profile lawyers, an article clerk whose father was in one of Victoria’s most prominent underworld families, three career criminals, and one noxious detective. The latter was Detective Senior Sergeant Barry Moore, head of the Homicide Squad.
She lowered her phone slightly. The heavy man had a buzz-cut and was all swagger and rolling beer gut. He slapped on his mirrored sunglasses, loosened the cheap tie on his even cheaper charcoal suit, and headed towards the local pub. With this imbecile in charge, it was little wonder Victoria’s crime lords were, literally, getting away with murder.
Moore’s threat level was low to nil. If the intel from various sources was anything to go by, he was not immune to accepting bribes.
One of her best informants also swore Moore had stomped a pair of homeless men to death in a fit of rage and had covered it up. It had acquired the cop the nickname of Zebra: An ass with stripes. That was too kind for the festering boil. The underworld was far too unimaginative. No wonder Requiem was always in work.
