Requiem for Immortals Read online

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  Table of Contents

  Other Books from Lee Winter

  Acknowledgement

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Requiem for Immortals soundtrack

  About Lee Winter

  Other Books from Ylva Publishing

  The Red Files

  Collide-O-Scope

  Driving Me Mad

  Blurred Lines

  Coming from Ylva Publishing

  Four Steps

  The Lavender List

  Other Books from Lee Winter

  The Red Files

  Books in the Series The Law Game

  Requiem for Immortals by Lee Winter

  Archer Securities by Jove Belle

  Daughter of Baal by Gill McKnight

  Evolution of an Art Thief by Jessie Chandler

  If Looks Could Kill by Andi Marquette

  Acknowledgement

  It takes a huge leap of faith to green-light a novel about a lesbian assassin cellist. Astrid at Ylva Publishing miraculously said yes, and allowed me to breathe life into Requiem. Thanks from the bottom of my heart for that decision, which changed so much for me.

  My novel would not exist without my South African violinist mate, Milena, whose tales from the dark side of orchestras greatly enriched this book. She also helped find the key compositions that defined my cellist’s musical soul perfectly.

  I would not have stayed sane without my beta reader Charlotte filling me with encouragement at every turn.

  Thanks, finally, to the wordsmiths Sheri and Blythe, who poked at and massaged my words until even the perfectionist Requiem would be impressed. And that’s saying something.

  Dedication

  To Milena, a music immortal whose dark genius inspired every word.

  Prologue

  To say Requiem felt nothing was incorrect. A common misconception about those in her line of work.

  Disdain was not nothing.

  She adjusted her black leather gloves, ensuring they sat snugly in each indent between her fingers.

  Requiem circled the barren room. The concrete floor was lit by a dust-filtered arc of moonlight streaming through the cracked window. With a measured step, she moved to the centre and studied the timber walls, which were as wet as the floor. She crouched and placed a large box on the ground. From it, she removed a Chinese paper lantern. Some people called them wish lanterns. Her father had bought one for Requiem when she was a little girl. Together they had made a wish and watched it sail into the night sky, propelled by its naked flame until it disintegrated and fell back to earth in pieces.

  This lantern was made of light white paper that encased a bamboo ring with a tiny fuel cell in the centre. A teepee of six long-burning incense sticks had been stuck to the bamboo frame, pointing toward the fuel cell.

  Requiem lit the flame and checked that each incense stick was also ablaze. They contained a resin that gave off a unique aroma. As the lantern rose, she stepped back. It was beautiful. Like the perfect stillness of a lake at dawn or the soft curve of a woman’s bare breast.

  It bobbed against the dusty ceiling, casting an ominous glow over the room. After watching it for a moment, she turned and left, closing the door firmly behind her.

  Requiem slid onto her motorcycle, a Kawasaki Ninja H2, and pulled her small, silver MP3 player from her vest pocket. She pressed play, verified on the screen that the volume was at exactly the level she desired, and then put the earbuds in. After she zipped up her leather jacket and slid on her helmet, she revved the engine and roared away.

  The soul-cleansing strains of Arvo Pärt’s Fratres (String and Percussion) played on.

  * * *

  Three days later, Melbourne’s Herald Sun reported that a man, found in the hogtied position, had been burnt to death in a small room in an abandoned building. Squatters had stumbled upon his remains and alerted police.

  The newspaper noted that, over the past seven weeks, the derelict industrial estate had been targeted by an arsonist who had set small, contained fires. So, on the night of the blaze, fire units had not responded to reports of another incident. They were unusually busy, and it was deemed a waste of resources.

  Dental records determined that the deceased was a career criminal wanted for the torture and assault of the daughter of a Melbourne crime family boss, Carlo Trioli.

  The Victorian Arson and Explosives Squad told the media they were initially baffled after discovering a small, melted, plastic substance in a room that had been doused in petrol. In addition to the petrol fumes, there was also a distinct smell they couldn’t place.

  Herald Sun police sources later identified the plastic as being from a fuel cell commonly used in wish lanterns.

  “Someone clearly got their wish for this individual,” a source said. “Investigations are continuing.”

  Chapter 1

  Natalya Tsvetnenko glanced around the packed concert hall, seeking one face among many. The July mid-year launch of the Victorian Philharmonic Orchestra’s program was taking place on an unseasonably warm night and had attracted the who’s who of Melbourne’s cultural elite. And, much to her satisfaction, it had lured in a particular reclusive chemical entrepreneur.

  Uli Busch was an enormous man. The CEO of a German corporation, BioChem Farming Solutions, used a polished silver cane to walk and wheezed with every step. His sway was exaggerated owing to two knee replacements and, so rumour had it, a once badly broken back.

  Natalya drew her gaze back to her sheet music, listening intently for the end of the movement. She lifted her bow, placing it precisely, and drew a deep, guttural growl from her cello.

  Four minutes, twelve seconds later, she paused as the lead violinist began her solo.

  Her gaze drifted back to Busch’s ruddy face.

  One might think he would be an exceptionally easy target to erase from the mortal coil. Natalya knew better.

  It wasn’t that he rarely left his luxury yacht, which was moored in a different location each day. Natalya had a well-placed insider within Victoria’s close-knit yachting fraternity. She already knew what he had for breakfast (nine sausages, four buttered Brötchen, and a black coffee), how often he washed his 4XL Y-fronts (not often enough), and which high-class escorts he preferred (Sasha on Fridays, random redheads on weekends).

  No, it was his bodyguards—a quartet of mean-eyed ex-Mossad agents who had been so ruthlessly trained that everyone in her business gave them a wide berth. Facing just one of these vicious rottweilers would be testing. But four?

  Well. She did enjoy a challenge. At least, her lethal alter ego certainly did.

  Natalya had seen a lot of Busch over the years. The billionaire happened to be a devoted classical music fan. His collection of official live recordings was reputed to be the finest anywhere. Every major orchestra in th
e world had been graced with his imposing presence at least once every season.

  His need for bodyguards had a lot to do with how Busch made his money. He liked to bulk-buy any pesticide outlawed by a country for next to nothing. Sometimes, instead of purchasing it, they would pay him to destroy it. Instead, he would on-sell it to Western countries which hadn’t yet implemented the bans Europe had, or poorer nations susceptible to bribery.

  When things got too hot, such as BioChem being linked to too many birth defects or farm worker deaths, he’d move on to the next unwitting nation, rinse, and repeat.

  At the moment, Busch’s obnoxiously named yacht, Breakin’ Wind, was moored off Victoria, which meant he was busy selling his toxic wares to Australians. And that, in turn, explained why Requiem now had a wealthy Australian client with a farmer brother who was on life support after he’d tested BioChem’s newest pesticide.

  The client needed Busch to know exactly what his brother had endured. He had sought out Requiem because two previous assassins had met ends too grisly to be explained to their loved ones. The client had learned a valuable lesson about settling for less than the best.

  She had already anticipated this and prepared accordingly.

  Busch, Natalya knew, had a special fondness for Tchaikovsky, which was the Victorian Philharmonic’s theme for its new season. A theme Natalya had casually suggested four months ago when she’d heard of the second assassin’s failure.

  If she’d been wrong about the client likely approaching her, it hardly mattered. She liked Tchaikovsky well enough to play him all season.

  Natalya snatched glimpses of Busch in the VIP box throughout the rest of the concert, his beefy hand mopping his brow with a white handkerchief.

  She rose with the rest of the orchestra as they duly marked their respect for the composer, taking in the ecstatic applause. Normally, Natalya would be on a high from performing. Tonight, though, she was in a rare and uncomfortable position: she was mixing business with pleasure for the first time.

  The question remained, which was the business, and which the pleasure?

  In her twenty-four years of dual careers, she had never found an answer for that. Each had highs that were unmatched.

  She packed up her cello, nodded to her colleagues who were buzzing about the after-party, and then asked the VPO’s security guard to lock her instrument away for a few hours. She reached for a glossy, black handbag she’d prepared for the occasion. Natalya removed from it her MP3 player, pressed play, inserted the earpieces, and slowly walked the two blocks to the VIP after-party.

  With each step, as Arvo Pärt emptied her mind, she shed Natalya Tsvetnenko and became Requiem. Her eyes focused. Her expression flattened out to neutral. Her mind replayed over and over what she had to do, sharpening, homing in on the most dangerous aspect—the last thirty seconds before Uli Busch would take his final breath.

  She would kill one of the most protected men on earth in front of his vicious lapdogs, and no one would say a word. Busch would probably smile at her, never knowing he’d heard his last Tchaikovsky.

  Pedestrians stepped away from Requiem as they neared her. She was peripherally aware of them but did not make eye contact. No better than cattle. Slow. Blinkered. Weak. Telegraphing their every move.

  She did not even consider herself to be a member of the same species.

  Calmness settled over her, and her movements became liquid as she smoothed out any errant thoughts.

  A block from the venue, she stopped at a bench, removed her earphones, and sifted through her bag. She pulled out a small pearl ring from a protective box, and positioned it on her left, middle finger. Sliding the bag back over her shoulder, she resumed walking.

  The after-party was taking place at Nova, a spacious, modern, inner-city nightclub, supposedly the hottest “it” spot in town this month. It was the closest place to the VPO that could easily handle the swell of 400 dignitaries expected tonight.

  Nova was wedged between a kebab shop and an Italian restaurant and had a rabbit’s warren of rarely used back alleys behind it. Only the street cleaners knew where this tight tangle of back streets went, and few people ever had a need to use them.

  At night, the darkened area was silent, save only for the faint rumble of traffic from the main road. Not so at Nova.

  The theme inside the club was Phantom of the Opera, and Requiem had to admire the work that had gone into the decorations, even though it seemed a baffling choice for a Tchaikovsky season. She supposed the party planner’s limited imagination on musical themes could only extend to the populist. Either that or a long-dead Russian composer was considered too uncool.

  Ghostly white masks hung from fishing wire at different heights from the ceiling. Waitresses swished by with smoking cocktails as the music thumped around them. The venue’s corners were as dark as tar, giving ready hiding places to those who might need them. She would have to be exceptionally careful.

  Busch stuck to drinks supplied by his bodyguards. Wise. Especially given several assassins over the years had attempted to get to him through his food or drink. She sneered. How unoriginal. Far too easy to anticipate.

  The German usually stayed at these things for four or five drinks, no more. Requiem picked her position and never took her gaze off his face. Waiting.

  “Why, Natalya!” a perky voice said beside her. “What a lovely ring. I’ve never seen it before. Wherever did you get it?”

  Requiem snapped her head around, schooling her features into a pleasant mask. Amanda Marks. First Violinist. High priestess of the social media crowd and adoring arts luvvies.

  She glanced at her ring and back at Marks. “An associate,” Requiem answered honestly. “Who wished me well.” She shot her a thin smile.

  “Oh.” Amanda pouted. She probably hoped the story came with a salacious romance. The irritant opened her mouth to ask more, but Requiem had at last spotted her cue.

  Busch grunted, muttered something to his closest bodyguard, and eased his thick jacket off his shoulders. Behind him stood a man with sharp eyes who took it.

  Show time.

  “Do you…” Amanda began.

  Requiem waved towards her ear, feigning being unable to hear over the music, which had turned into some not-even-slightly-music techno mess.

  She stalked away, letting the violinist get back to her adoring groupies who were far too old and immaculately dressed to be asking for selfies. Not that it stopped them. As she left them, her gaze fell on one woman in her early to mid-thirties with brown hair and fine features.

  This one was watching everything with an awed expression, as though she didn’t get out much. Since she was within the periphery of Marks’s posse, the woman’s judgment was clearly flawed. Suddenly, the mousy creature turned, and their eyes met. Then, equally suddenly, she smiled at Requiem. For no reason whatsoever.

  Requiem paused in surprise. What had possessed the woman? Did she just randomly smile at strangers? Was this another of those maddening, socially expected female things?

  Requiem dismissed her and strode onwards to her goal. She forced herself not to quicken her pace. She headed into a darkened area, lit only by a green fire escape “exit” sign.

  Requiem looked around again. Nothing but a deserted, dead-end corridor vibrating faintly with the background bass thump of the (non) music from three rooms over.

  Still in the filmy, long, black evening dress she had performed in, she dropped easily to a crouch. She turned her hand face up, rotated her “pearl” ring, and gently unscrewed the hollow bauble, leaving only a flat, round base with a tiny, threaded ridge.

  In the centre, jutting up from this base, was the thinnest needle that money could buy—almost invisible to the human eye and no longer than two grains of rice. Such needle nibs were remarkably easy to acquire—one only needed to find a pharmacy selling diabetic supplies.

  Taking a deep breath, she reached into her bag, opened a small vacuum-sealed container, and gently rolled a gel capsule onto
the floor. It was the size of a pill, but its contents—a small amount of liquid—were anything but medicinal.

  Requiem flipped her hand and lowered the tiny spike until it pierced the capsule’s thin skin. She wiggled her hand slightly, ensuring the tip was liberally coated by the liquid within. She reached for the tweezers in her bag and with painful slowness pulled the gel pill from the wet needle tip. She dropped the tweezers and pearl bauble back into her bag.

  Requiem rose, cautiously keeping her hand face down as though she were about to pat a dog. She kicked the gel pill into a gap in the old timber floorboards.

  As she walked back to the party and made her way to her conductor, Anthony Lyman, she was careful to avoid any jostles. At least it looked like she was headed towards Lyman. As it happened, he was talking to Busch.

  The sharp scent of the German’s perspiration filled her senses. Four suspicious ex-Mossad agents snapped their gazes toward her to assess the possibility of threat. They relaxed when the conductor waved her over and introduced her as his “prodigiously talented cellist.” He did this condescending routine over the VPO’s women every time he had a VIP to impress.

  For once, she didn’t mind. It suited her purposes.

  “Now, Natalya,” Lyman continued, “have you met Mr Busch yet? Mr Busch, Natalya Tsvetnenko.” The hopeful look in his eye told her he was desperate to bail on the man. Her nostrils twitched at his steep body odour, and she understood only too well Lyman’s eagerness.

  “No, we haven’t met.” She smiled and held out her hand to shake Busch’s. “It’s an honour.”

  “Well, I must mingle,” Lyman said hastily and scuttled away. Requiem ignored him, focusing her entire being on this moment. Blood rushed in her ears, her heart thumped faster. She controlled her breathing, and a soothing coolness settled over her.

  Busch shook her hand firmly, his sweating, meaty grip engulfing her fingers.

  She smiled again, hiding her revulsion, and casually brought her left hand up under the fleshy forearm of the hand shaking hers, presidential style, and then pressed firmly.