Scorpia

me.
    “Anyway, I’m afraid it was shortly after he got married that things started to go wrong … not, of course, that I’m blaming your mother. But just a few weeks after the wedding, your father was in a pub in London when he got involved in a fight. There were some people making remarks about the Falklands War. They were probably drunk. I don’t know. There was a skirmish and he struck a man and killed him. It was a single blow to the throat… just like he had been trained to inflict. And that, I’m afraid, was that.”
    Mrs Rothman took out a newspaper clipping from the file and handed it to Alex. It had to be at least fifteen years old. He could tell from the faded print and the way the paper had yellowed. He read the headline:

    There was another photo of John Rider but now he was in civilian dress, surrounded by photographers, getting out of a car. The picture was a little blurred and it had been taken long ago, but looking at it Alex could almost feel the pain of the man, the sense that the world had turned against him.
    He read the article.
    John Rider, described as a brilliant soldier by his commanding officer, was sentenced to four years for manslaughter following the death of Ed Savitt nine months ago in a Soho bar.
    The jury heard that Rider, twenty-seven, had been drinking heavily when he became involved in a fight with Savitt, a taxi driver. Rider, who was decorated for valour in the Falklands War,killed Savitt with a single blow to the head. The jury heard that Rider was a highly trained expert in several martial arts.
    Summing up, Judge Gillian Padgham said: “Captain Rider has thrown away a promising army career in a single moment of madness. I have taken his distinguished record into consideration. But he has taken a life and society demands that he pays the price…”
    “I’m sorry,” Mrs Rothman said softly. She had been watching Alex closely. “You didn’t know.”
    “My uncle showed me the medal once,” Alex said. He had to stop for a moment. His voice was hoarse. “But he never showed me this.”
    “It wasn’t your father’s fault. He was provoked.”
    “What happened next?”
    “He was sent to jail. There was quite an outcry about it. He had a lot of public sympathy. But the fact was, he had killed a man and he was found guilty of manslaughter. The judge had no choice.”
    “And then?”
    “They let him out after just a year. It was done very quietly. Your mother had stood by him; she never lost faith in him and he went back to live with her. Unfortunately his army career was over; he had received a dishonourable discharge. He was very much on his own.”
    “Go on.” Alex’s voice was cold.
    “He found it difficult to get a job. It wasn’t hisfault; that’s just the way it is. But by this time, he had come to the attention of our personnel department.” Mrs Rothman paused. “Scorpia are always on the lookout for fresh talent,” she explained. “It seemed quite obvious to us that your father had been unfairly treated. We thought he would be perfect for us.”
    “You approached him?”
    “Yes. Your parents had very little money by this time. They were desperate. One of our people met your father, and two weeks later he came to us for evaluation.” She smiled. “We test every new recruit, Alex. If you decide to join us, and I still hope you will, we’ll take you to the same place we took your father.”
    “Where is that?”
    “I mentioned the name to you. Malagosto. It’s near Venice.” Mrs Rothman wouldn’t be any more precise than that. “We could see at once that your father was extremely tough and exceptionally talented,” she went on. “He passed every test we threw at him with flying colours. We knew, by the way, that he had a brother – Ian Rider – working for MI6. I was always a little surprised that Ian didn’t try to help him when he got into trouble, but I suppose there was nothing he could do. Anyway, it made no difference, the two of them being brothers. Your father was indeed perfect for us. And after what had happened to him, I have to say that we were certainly perfect for him.”
    Alex was getting tired. It was almost eleven. But he knew there was no way he was leaving this room until the whole story had been told.
    “So he joined Scorpia,” he said.
    “Yes. Your father worked for us as an assassin. He spent four months in the field.”
    “How many men did he kill?”
    “Five or six. He was more interested in working as an