The Honourable Assassin

by Roland Perry

  Two black-hooded figures stood beside it. The jerking video moved in close on the blade that hovered two metres above the neck rest. The next sequence, in medium shot, showed Pon being dragged to the guillotine. The two figures pushed her into position and dragged down a locking device, which held her head in position. She struggled but could not free herself. Pon screamed and screamed.

  Cavalier was standing now, unable to think, as he watched, transfixed. The blade rushed down towards his daughter’s neck. Then the screen went blank. He fiddled with the remote. Nothing. He tried to fast-forward but seemed to be at the end. But he wasn’t.

  Both figures had removed their hoods and were facing away from the camera. Then one of the men turned around. His sharp nose, close-set eyes, weak jaw and permanent half-grin, half-leer were unmistakable.

  It was Leonardo Mendez.

  The other man turned around. It was Labasta.

  He bent over to pick something up. The camera came in close on his hand as he reached for what appeared to be a head. Then the screen went blank again.

  Cavalier sank onto the sofa, staring at the TV screen. He was breathing heavily. He had never felt so utterly alone and desperate. He reached for the Scotch bottle on the glass table in front of him. He poured the whisky into his glass, but could not hold it. He was trembling.

  Five days later, Cavalier’s elderly cleaners, a brother and sister called Fred and Agnes, waited at the front door to his house. After fifteen minutes of bell-pressing, they let themselves in, and found him lying on his back on the sofa, with his TV on but the screen blank. Cavalier was in a sea of empty Scotch bottles, glasses and half-full Thai food cartons. A stench of vomit pervaded the room.

  Fred, with Agnes’s help, dragged him to the bathroom, ran the bath and slapped him awake. With his vague acquiescence, they helped him remove his clothes. Cavalier climbed into the bath and the water seemed to revive him. After cleaning up, they left him to slump into bed, where he slept for fourteen hours straight.

  On waking up, the nightmare returned. His first thought was that he should let his ex-wife Pin know. But it was such terrible news, he wondered if he should leave it. Pin had always been convinced their daughter was dead, no matter what he hoped or said. His second thought was to wait to tell her when he had more information, some extra confirmation, such as the location of Pon’s remains . . . but these rational thoughts were soon overcome.

  He really had no one to turn to. The information was too delicate to discuss with anyone. He now wanted revenge, but he had no idea at that moment what this would be, or how it could be exacted. In a rage, he drove to his gym on the beach at St Kilda and took out his feelings on a punching bag, so hard that he split knuckles on both hands. An instructor friend came up and asked him if was okay.

  ‘No, but I will be soon,’ Cavalier responded.

  ‘You look terrible!’ Driscoll said as Cavalier walked into her office, two days after his cleaners had found him. She knew he had been on some sort of bender.

  ‘But you never look terrible,’ Cavalier said, attempting to smile.

  ‘Victor, you can’t continue like this. I—’

  ‘I’m going to Thailand,’ he said, interrupting her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m, uh, playing in that cricket tournament.’

  ‘What changed your mind?’

  ‘Is that offer for the Jacinta story still open?’ he said, ignoring her question.

  ‘Yes,’ she said hesitantly. ‘If you can trust yourself to stay sober.’

  POLLY AND THE WOMBAT

  The next day, Cavalier arranged a meeting with Tommy Gregory—or the Wombat, as he was nicknamed, because of his short, muscular build and terrible bifocals. Gregory, known in his illustrious SAS service as the ‘Combat Wombat,’ had first met Cavalier at Albany when he failed to qualify to join the select group of commandos. Gregory was now semi-retired. He worked on an assignment basis, and split his time between his home base, Mandurah, south of Perth, and Melbourne, where he stayed at a discreet, up-market boutique hotel—the Lindrum—on Flinders Street. He was the Federal Police’s best investigator and, in his own words, a ‘lateral-thinking pragmatist, with a suspicious mind’. Never taking anything at face value, he was a good listener, who made his own ‘call’ on everything and everyone. He had educated himself enough to keep up with the new breed of young feds, with what he thought of as their over-qualification in languages and technology.

  To make a point about investigators needing to be insightful about people, he had fought the bureaucracy and won an internal battle to hire a ninety-two-year-old former spy for ASIO and MI6. Her name was Pollyanna MacGregor—though everyone knew her as Polly—and she had spent half her life in England, and half in Australia, after having been recruited by ASIO chief Sir Charles Spry in 1968. Her hobby was cat breeding. She was a world expert and long-time breeder, who turned up at feline shows from Moscow to Melbourne, which afforded a wonderful cover. Despite her harmless, grandmotherly appearance, she was the most incisive, professional and thorough spy Gregory had ever met, and sharper than any thirty-year-old. While she was paranoia-free, she considered everyone a potential traitor or miscreant until proven otherwise.

  Polly had been appalled by the slack ASIO operations when she first arrived in Australia, and her sleuthing had seen too much of the easy Soviet espionage. Now, Russia’s president, Vladimir Putin, had stepped up his nation’s military activity in the Pacific, and also spying in Australia, in what was almost a return to the Cold War days. Staff at ASIO had multiplied to more than two thousand agents to combat Muslim extremism and terrorism over the last decade. The agency was forced again to hire Russian experts and linguists. The Federal Police had followed suit. Polly was one of four specialists hired to concentrate on Russia’s increased espionage activity in the region.

  Gregory had quickly come to rely on her for assessments outside her expertise in Russian spying, and invited her to his meeting with Cavalier. He wanted her up to speed on the Labasta killing and the growing drug problem.

  Before Cavalier arrived, Polly sat with Gregory in the so-called Moroccan lounge behind the reception area. She was curious to know about his association with Cavalier, whom she had not met, and he filled her in on Cavalier’s attempt to join the SAS. He continued: ‘He joined a newspaper, and his work as a journalist has given him excellent cover; even more flexible than yours. I’ve really envied his access to places like Moscow and Damascus, which I still wouldn’t be able to visit.’

  Polly said, nodding, ‘Cat shows are not in all enemy territories. Certainly not in the Middle East.’

  ‘Exactly. But Cavalier can reach just about anywhere officially as a journalist. And he’s very clever at moving across borders illegally.’

  ‘Have you used him on special assignments?’

  ‘ASIS and ASIO have more than we have. But “used” isn’t a term I’d apply to Vic Cavalier. He’s very independent. He goes on official writing assignments, we hear about it and sometimes offer him “missions”.’

  ‘Did he work with the CIA?’

  ‘You mean when our people acted as proxies, doing extra dirty work for them? Not as far as I know; I do know that he knocked back two rather tricky assignments. He has nothing against Americans. He admires the Seals and knows a couple of their commanders personally. But, you see, our boy has a real conscience. It doesn’t always fit with American, or even our own, national goals.’

  ‘Someone with a moral code,’ Polly said, with a trace of cynicism. ‘How quaint! Is he on our payroll?’

  ‘No. He’s been offered paid work by us, ASIO, ASIS, MI6, CIA, DGSE. The CIA offered him inducements that most would find impossible to refuse. But he says taking payment would compromise his journalism and anything else he was doing. So, he’s kept his “freedom” to write what he wants, which, of course, has its own limitations and risks.’

  ‘Is he open to debriefing?’

  ‘He needs us and the others for informati
on. In exchange, he’s open to being quizzed after an operation, but he’s not bound to tell us everything. In fact, I never know exactly what he’s up to or how he operates but it’s fine by me. His work’s very effective.’

  ‘Trivia question,’ Cavalier said to Gregory and Polly. ‘Who was the first player ever to beat Walter Lindrum—after whom this hotel is named—in a match after he became world billiards champion?’

  They looked blank as he sat down.

  ‘Donald George Bradman in 1935, in his Adelaide home. Lindrum beat him in 1934. According to Lady Bradman, The Don practised every day for a year and then challenged Lindrum, and won.’

  ‘You okay, Vic?’ Gregory asked, staring at him. ‘You been on the turps?’

  Cavalier ignored the remark. They began discussing Jacinta’s heroics.

  ‘Thai special police are all trained in Muay Thai, or a variety thereof,’ Polly remarked. ‘But, from your description, she must be brilliant.’

  ‘I was a mere spectator to her fighting ability,’ Cavalier said. He paused reflectively. ‘There was something pathological about her force.’

  ‘Meaning?’ Polly asked.

  ‘She could have killed all of them but restrained herself.’

  ‘That doesn’t make her “pathological”.’

  ‘Maybe not. I just had a feeling that she wanted to finish them off. And she could’ve, so easily.’

  ‘There must be something more in her background,’ Gregory said. ‘The Thais have an elite force like our SAS. I’d put money on her having been in it before she joined the police’s special investigation unit. She’s a bloody good hacker. Keeps to herself.’ He glanced at Polly, almost for approval, before he added, ‘What a stunner! Every bloke in the office has had a crack at chatting her up. Lovely Jacinta has dented a few egos, I can tell you. She just closes off.’

  ‘Almost like someone with Asperger’s,’ Polly remarked.

  ‘She sticks to what she’s here for,’ Gregory shrugged.

  ‘And that is?’ Cavalier asked.

  ‘She’s piecing together how drugs are moving from nation to nation in the region,’ Gregory said. ‘It’s been approved by our chiefs and hers. It has top intergovernmental sanction between us and the Thais. That’s why we’re cooperating with her, as much as she’ll let us.’

  ‘Don’t forget people trafficking—prostitution. The main crime bosses seem to be moving in to control that too,’ Polly reminded Gregory. ‘She’s looking into that also.’ She turned to Cavalier. ‘She’s asking a lot of questions about you. Of course, she’ll hack your computer.’

  ‘I don’t put anything incriminating on my phone or iPad,’ Cavalier said with a half-smile. Seeing their surprise, he added: ‘Not that there’s anything incriminating to put on them! I keep a handwritten diary. Always have. An aide-memoire.’

  ‘That’s old school,’ Polly said interestedly, ‘but useful and smart in this instance. Is it a complete diary? Can you afford to bare all?’

  ‘I always think of Tolstoy’s wife reading his diaries and how it caused blazing rows between them,’ he answered. ‘He accused her of betrayal for probing into his private writing; she accused him of betrayal in the things he wrote!’

  ‘Makes you cautious?’

  ‘I once had a partner who read my early diaries and acted like Mrs Tolstoy.’ Cavalier sipped his mineral water. ‘Why do you think Jacinta would bother investigating me, a common reporter?’

  ‘She’s looked at the file of your articles over the past thirty-five years,’ Polly replied. ‘It seemed to fascinate her.’

  Cavalier shrugged. ‘A lot of it’s routine crime reporting and earlier, on sport. Perhaps she’s a cricket fan.’

  ‘You have expertise on the cartels,’ Gregory commented. ‘She’s interested in that.’

  ‘She’ll be looking for patterns in your work,’ Polly said with a cunning grin. ‘I do it in all our investigations. See what the person in question puts on paper.’

  ‘Jacinta’s particularly fascinated by that series of articles you wrote when you were on assignment in Mexico; what, six years ago?’ Gregory said. ‘When your daughter disappeared.’

  Cavalier nodded. A blink betrayed a hint of emotion.

  ‘You should keep in contact with her, if you can,’ Polly said. ‘You’ll learn much, I’m sure. She knows a lot more than she’s letting us know.’

  ‘Keep your enemies close,’ Gregory said, ‘and please let us know what you glean from her.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask her out?’ Polly said with a smile. ‘I bet she accepts any reasonable offer from you, Vic. As we said, she’s stand-offish, but you’re someone she’s focusing on. At least let her know what motivated you to write those pieces,’ she suggested. ‘That may put her on side. Then you’ll learn more. You must live up to your name, Monsieur Cavalier!’

  ‘Never have,’ he replied.

  THE GOOD SHOOTER’S PRACTICE

  Two days later, Gregory responded to a request from Jacinta for weapons-firing practice by phoning Cavalier.

  ‘You playing golf at Mornington this weekend?’ he asked.

  ‘I was planning to, yes.’

  ‘Could you give Jacinta a lift to the range? Polly and I think it’s a chance for you to bond.’

  Early on Saturday morning, Cavalier ushered Jacinta, casually dressed in a tracksuit and carrying a long bag, into his car for the trip. He drove to the Mornington range, taking the scenic beach road overlooking Port Phillip Bay. It was a clear, sunny midwinter’s day. Yachts and a few fishing boats were out.

  ‘You’ve had no more trouble from the Brunswick Gang?’ she asked.

  ‘No. I had one threatening phone call, but it may not have even been from them.’

  ‘Have you been sleeping well?’

  Cavalier cleared his throat. ‘No,’ he said. ‘There was something else on my mind.’ He glanced at her. ‘But, I admit, I was worried they’d come back. I had a cricket bat by the bed, and a small mallet.’

  ‘They won’t come back.’

  ‘No, no not those four,’ he said with a quick grin, ‘but the gang could send another four.’

  ‘That gang will not return. They are marked now as your attackers. If you were attacked again, they’d be under suspicion.’

  Cavalier wasn’t convinced.

  ‘Don’t you have a gun?’ she asked.

  ‘No, don’t use them,’ he said, as if he were talking about cigarettes.

  ‘You know that the gang lawyers want to have me charged with assault with a deadly weapon?’

  ‘But you weren’t carrying a weapon,’ Cavalier said, glancing at her as they reached the beach road. ‘Were you?’

  ‘They will try to make a case for my body being a deadly weapon.’

  ‘What?!’

  ‘Because of my Muay Thai expertise.’

  ‘They have a bloody cheek!’

  ‘Mr Gregory and Federal Police bosses don’t want the incident to go public. They won’t let me be charged.’

  ‘So, what will happen?’

  ‘I think the state police will probably drop all assault charges against the four thugs,’ Jacinta paused, ‘in exchange for me not being charged. What do you think about that?’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Cavalier drove on in silence for a minute before he said, ‘Given that they were well and truly beaten up, and I got a bruise on the back and nothing else, their lawyers could make a case that we assaulted them.’

  ‘They are claiming that they just went around to your house to put the record straight about a few matters relating to the murder of Labasta. They would claim that there is no proof that they were involved in it.’

  ‘And that you and I attacked them in front of my house?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Bloody cheek!’ Cavalier repeated, shaking his head.

  When they stopped for drinks and snacks, Jacinta noticed a leather band on his right wrist.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s
Thai. My daughter gave it to me. She bought me one for each day of the week.’

  ‘You wear a different one every day?’

  ‘They remind me of her . . .’ he said and tailed off.

  Back on the road, Jacinta asked, ‘Why did you begin writing about drug crime?’

  He glanced at her, a momentary slash of defensiveness on his face. ‘Did Gregory tell you to ask me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve read back copies of your articles. You had quite a bit to say about the Mexican drug lords.’

  ‘That was six years ago!’ Cavalier said. ‘He didn’t mention why I began reporting on drug crime?’

  ‘No. Why did you?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘But you did visit Mexico . . .’

  Cavalier kept his eyes on the road. He pressed buttons on the car stereo. ‘You like jazz?’ he asked.

  ‘Some.’

  ‘Nina Simone?’

  ‘Oh, yes! I love her!’

  The song ‘Strange Fruit’ began playing. Cavalier turned it off.

  ‘I love that song,’ Jacinta said, ‘let it play on, please.’

  He pressed play again.

  ‘You okay?’ she asked.

  He swallowed and nodded.

  When the song had finished, he sipped from a can of V, cleared his throat and said: ‘Six years ago, my daughter went missing on a holiday in Mexico. She was twenty. She and a girlfriend were backpacking in the States and ended up in Texas. They . . . they . . .’ he cleared his throat again, ‘they decided to cross the border.’ He paused, in an effort to control himself.

  ‘Into Mexico?’

  He nodded and added quietly, ‘She and her friend never came back.’

  He swerved to avoid a vehicle that had veered too far into his path in the oncoming traffic and cursed.