The Honourable Assassin

by Roland Perry

  ‘Sweden?’ a jut-jawed, barrel-chested sergeant grunted.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Cavalier said. He could feel his heart pumping.

  ‘Are you Sweden?’

  ‘Oh, are you asking me if I am Swedish?’

  ‘Passport,’ the sergeant snapped.

  ‘I am British!’ Cavalier said, with a slice of indignation.

  The sergeant examined the passport, nodded curtly and walked off to interrogate another middle-aged man. Cavalier exhaled from nervous exhaustion. One of the waiting women glanced at him and smiled.

  He had a two-hour wait to see if he would be on that solitary flight out of Thailand, which was due to leave at 10 a.m. From 8.05 a.m. to 9.05 a.m., the other five people were called to the counter and told they would make the flight. He waited as the time for checking in and clearing passport control slipped away. He was the next person on the waiting list. Then it was announced that the flight would be delayed an hour. No reason was given. Cavalier began to consider his options as it crossed his mind that the reason for the delay may have been so the police could come and grab him. But a moment’s reflection cooled the flickering embers of paranoia, which had never been his natural mental state. There were cops swarming all over the airport and he had been checked. He would have been nabbed by now. He filled in time by finding a hotel to stay at in Phnom Penh and booked it for two nights.

  At 10 a.m. he was called to the counter and told he was on his way to Phnom Penh after all. With an inward sigh, he walked to passport control. He looked at his document’s stamps. Sure enough, his forger, Anthony Jones, back in the dingy office in Melbourne, had not forgotten anything. The chip on his passport apparently had the right detail. Yet the controller took an inordinate amount of time checking the photo and him, but finally stamped the passport, allowing his exit.

  It crossed Cavalier’s mind that this could be the last time he was ever on Thai soil. It saddened him.

  A RUSSIAN WARNING

  A stiff and still sore Jacinta entered her office on the eighth floor of the SIU building, close to the junction of Asok and Sukhumvit, at 2 p.m. When Cavalier wasn’t there by 2.15 p.m., she called him and got a signal that indicated his phone was off. Just as she was wondering how she might explain his absence, the voice of Suzie, Azelaporn’s diminutive yet formidable Chinese personal secretary, came over her intercom, telling her curtly, ‘The chief wants to see you.’

  ‘I’ve just walked in.’

  ‘Now!’

  Jacinta entered the chief ’s office, which featured two Buddha statuettes (to show perpetual piety); two framed photos of the king (to demonstrate commendable loyalty to the monarch and all his values); other photographs of important Thai figures, including a leading monk; and one of the Flying Angel delivering a kick to an opponent from such a height that everyone who saw it regarded it as trick photography. There was a bottle of Mekong whisky on his desk, with a one-third-full glass. A large box of Swiss chocolates was open and he was munching on one. Jacinta knew this mood. She had seen it once, when one of his three ‘minor’ wives had left him. In it, Azelaporn tended to be reckless with everything, including his imbibing of strong drink that made him ferocious, and rich sweets that made him fatter.

  ‘You’re late!’

  ‘I didn’t get to bed until after 5 a.m.!’

  ‘No excuse! Last night was the worst I’ve ever had on the force!’

  ‘I haven’t been well since the fight . . .’ she began.

  Azelaporn waved his hand dismissively. He then held his head in his hands. After a few seconds, he looked up and had some whisky.

  Before he could speak, Jacinta said, ‘You haven’t paid me for the fight . . .’

  ‘You cheeky fucking . . .!’

  Jacinta jumped to her feet, as if to leave.

  ‘You stay where you are!’ he yelled.

  ‘Not if you are going to address me like that! You made a killing on me the other night. And what have you promised me?’

  ‘Three hundred thousand baht.’

  ‘You agreed to six hundred thousand! This is still chickenfeed compared with what the Russian was promised.’

  ‘He’s not on a police payroll, getting special time off to train for some bonus funds!’

  ‘I’m told that he is to receive two million dollars.’

  ‘Rubbish!’

  ‘I also heard a rumour that Mendez was offering big money for the Russian to kill me in the ring. I mean, kill me.’

  Azelaporn looked astonished.

  ‘Didn’t know that, did you?’ Jacinta asked.

  The chief took more whisky and grimaced. ‘Well, looks as if that Mendez saved himself a payment,’ he observed cynically. ‘You’re alive and he is dead.’

  ‘I’m crying crocodile tears.’

  Jacinta had never before been this defiant towards the chief. She knew he needed her now.

  ‘Sit down, sit down,’ Azelaporn said, waving his hand in a conciliatory manner. ‘I do understand your attitude, given the history—’

  ‘Of two close friends of mine, two beautiful human beings, slaughtered in Mexico!’

  He sighed, picked out a soft chocolate and took his time unwrapping it. ‘Can you put that aside, please, and do your job?’ he asked.

  ‘I have.’

  ‘We have this suspect. This Swede . . .’

  ‘Lars Nystrom. Probably not his real name. The passport he used is most likely false.’

  ‘Have we fingerprint reports?’

  ‘We’ll receive them by the end of the day.’

  ‘CCTV footage?’

  ‘It failed during the blackout. But footage shows Nystrom in the corridor.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The only thing is that he has a slight limp. I had to play the footage over and over to pick it up. It may be a foot or ankle injury. But it might just be the way he walks. I’ll receive a report by tomorrow.’

  Azelaporn munched on chocolate. ‘You realise the turmoil this has, and will, cause?’ he asked, a little too plaintively to be credible to Jacinta, who knew her boss to be a schemer and survivor.

  ‘The biggest drug boss on the planet has been liquidated,’ Jacinta remarked. ‘Does “the organisation” have a succession plan?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Has anyone in the Mexican “corporation” stepped forward to take control?’

  ‘I’m told his nephews have been notified in Mexico.’

  ‘Two little snots in their twenties, who could not run a junior football club raffle. They’ll have no say. One is at Harvard.’

  ‘Mendez’s deputy is having a meeting with me and the generals today.’

  ‘Emanuel Gravet.’

  ‘What’s your take on him?’

  ‘He’s not the killer his boss is . . . was. He is one of the younger brigade who wants more legitimate business growth. The hard men in the organisation will try to move in. El Chapo may try to take command again.’

  ‘We may need to protect Gravet even more.’

  ‘Gravet will be nervous. He’ll wonder how this could happen with all our protection and their own.’

  ‘It would help me greatly to be able to arrest a suspect; if not Mendez’s murderer himself.’

  ‘I would imagine a pro like this fellow posing as a Swede would have an exit plan.’

  ‘From Thailand?’

  ‘At least Bangkok.’

  ‘We’re closed Suvarnabhumi again. Every road out of the city has a major block.’

  ‘And Don Muang?’

  ‘We had to let some international travellers in and out. Our teams are checking every likely male passenger.’

  ‘This pro, I suspect, will be tough to track.’

  ‘Just give me a list of suspects, even if they are only vaguely so, by 6 p.m.’ Azelaporn was becoming emotional again. ‘What about that journalist?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘That Australian you know who was asking about the two murdered ladyboys in Chiang Mai.’


  ‘Cavalier?’

  ‘Pull him in for a going-over. I want four people’s names to give the generals and the Mexicans,’ he said, his mood swing having gone full circle. ‘We can always say we are investigating them further, which will delay things for a week, or maybe two.’

  ‘When will I receive payment for the fight?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s being looked after, Jacinta. Be patient!’

  ‘I suppose you’ve collected all your own winnings?’

  Azelaporn blinked at this impertinence and then looked fit to explode. But somehow, with another swig of the whisky and the fierce unwrapping of another chocolate, he managed to contain himself. Jacinta stood again and stared. It was the same look that had caused Ivan Goulov so much concern. Her laser-like eyes bored into Azelaporn. On the wall, as he gazed back at her, was the photograph of Jacinta’s knockout kick being delivered to a much bigger boxer.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, looking away. ‘I’ll speak to the bank this afternoon.’

  ‘Make sure you speak to my money as well,’ she snapped, ‘and make sure it’s six hundred thousand baht!’ She turned on her heel, and left Azelaporn to stew in his own fear and fury.

  Cavalier’s flight was uneventful. He slipped through Phnom Penh’s customs and passport control without a hitch, and decided to stick with his English identity. James Bolt was the name under which he had booked himself into a local hotel.

  At 2 p.m. he arrived at the Hotel Frangipani on Phnom Penh’s 178th Street, on which were the National Museum and Royal Palace. It was a stone’s throw from the Tonlé Sap River (which joined the Mekong) waterfront, where there were scores of French-style open cafes. Cavalier was tempted to have a look at a city that he had not visited for thirty years. He could see that it had thrived since the post-Pol Pot era three decades earlier, when the population had dropped to around ten thousand. Now there were about two million inhabitants. The children and grandchildren of those two and a half million (from a population of under five million nationwide in the mid nineteen seventies) lost in the Cambodian holocaust now ran Phnom Penh.

  Cavalier did not bother about food and, after showering, went to bed and slept for two hours, until 5.30 p.m. He dressed and wandered to the waterfront. Although the outside areas of the cafes and bars were enticing, the heat forced him inside. He sat in one of the bars, a few stools away from a solid-looking man in a short-sleeved top, short pants and brown leather sandals. The man stroked a neat black moustache and watched Cavalier order a coffee. Aware that he was being scrutinised, he returned the other patron’s gaze and nodded.

  ‘Where you from?’ the man asked in a deep voice.

  ‘England,’ Cavalier said. ‘And you? Russian? Polish?’

  The man stared back. ‘Very good,’ he commented.

  Cavalier extended a hand and introduced himself.

  ‘Sergei Karvosky,’ the man said.

  ‘S—k—y?’

  The man nodded.

  ‘Russian, then . . .’ Cavalier said.

  ‘Have you been to my country?’

  ‘A few times, yes.’

  Coffee was placed in front of Cavalier.

  ‘Are you on vacation?’ the Russian asked.

  ‘Not really. And you?’

  ‘I live in Cambodia . . . well, actually on the coast. I’m just visiting the city.’

  A distant rumble distracted them. Both men stopped talking to listen.

  ‘What’s that?’ the Russian asked the young American barman, who was wiping a glass. He shrugged.

  ‘So, you . . .’ the Russian began, turning his attention to Cavalier once more. Then he stopped again. The rumble became louder. There was the sound of sirens. Cavalier and the Russian wandered outside and looked up. Military choppers were flying overhead. They walked back inside.

  ‘The military often buzzes around,’ the barman said nonchalantly.

  Cavalier and the Russian resumed their seats. The noise grew. Cavalier was increasingly concerned. He noticed that the Russian was also worried. They said nothing and listened. Soon military choppers were climbing down to the waterfront road. Police cars were screaming closer. Cavalier was in two minds about running. They could be coming for me, he thought. He stood again. One of the choppers was landing.

  ‘Expecting friends?’ the Russian asked nervously.

  ‘No,’ Cavalier shouted, to be heard above the whirring of the chopper’s blades. He noticed that it had Russian markings. Two PP-Bison submachine guns were mounted at its front. The Russian leaned across the bar, motioned to the American and pointed to the rear of the cafe. ‘Where’s that lead?’ he yelled.

  But the American was preoccupied looking on in awe as several military vehicles and police cars arrived at the entrance. Cavalier stepped towards the rear. The Russian was now on his feet, uncertain whether or not to follow. Cavalier pushed his way through a swing door, only to be confronted by three helmeted, heavily padded men carrying AN-94 assault rifles. They yelled for him to return to the bar. He put up his hands and backed into the bar area, only to see another six, similarly clad soldiers coming in the front entrance. The soldiers began shouting orders. Cavalier was sure that they had come for him. The game’s up! he thought. But then the three from the rear brushed past him and, with those coming from the front, surrounded Karvosky. He was slammed forward on the bar and frisked.

  One of the armed intruders waved a rifle at Cavalier, asking for a passport. He showed his false document. He was ordered to leave the bar. Outside, he joined onlookers behind barriers, who were gawking at this show of force. The Russian, now cuffed, was shoved out of the cafe and into one of the choppers. It was airborne within a minute.

  Soon the assault team floated off as quickly as it had appeared. Not a shot had been fired. Cavalier stood watching for several minutes. Ten minutes after the drama, he walked back into the cafe. His coffee had been removed.

  ‘I’d like another three-quarter latte,’ he said to the barman.

  ‘Boy!’ the barman said, with a shake of his head as he worked the coffee machine. He put a fresh cup in front of Cavalier.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Cavalier asked.

  The American took a deep breath and seemed uncertain if he should reply.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ Cavalier said. ‘You deserve one.’

  ‘Why, thank you, sir,’ the American replied, and fixed himself a bourbon and coke. He leaned on the bar, raised his glass to Cavalier and spoke softly. ‘That guy is a Russian oligarch. He’s been on the run from Putin.’

  ‘He said he lived here . . .’

  ‘Yeah, well, he’s a billionaire.’ The barman looked around furtively, although there was only one young couple, in the corner. ‘He’d bought protection from the local police chief. But they had some kinda bust-up. The Russian refused to pay for any more protection. The chief had upped the price so high that he reckoned it was extortion.’ The barman sipped his drink.

  ‘Let me guess,’ Cavalier said, ‘the chief shopped him to the Russians?’

  ‘That would be my guess too,’ the barman replied with a shrug.

  Cavalier paid for the drinks and left. He sidled back to his hotel, more than a little concerned. If the local cops were open to easy bribes from Europeans, he thought, how easy would it be for the Thais to nab somebody of interest, such as himself? He decided he needed to make a quicker exit from Cambodia.

  At SIU headquarters, Waew Ing was nervous as two policewomen ushered her into a room with only a table and two chairs. They left her alone there and watched her through a two-way mirror. Jacinta bustled in, introduced herself and began questioning Waew about her night with Cavalier. She took notes and had a tape running.

  ‘So, you say you fell asleep,’ Jacinta said, ‘at about 11 p.m. or midnight. Did you know that General Gaez had been assassinated?’

  ‘I thought about that next day, when I read the papers,’ Waew mused. ‘And I remember Vic being shocked by seeing the assassination on TV.’


  ‘Did you realise he’d drugged you?’

  ‘What?!’

  ‘One of the glasses in his hotel room had traces of a strong sleeping sedative. Your prints were on the glass.’

  ‘No . . . well . . .’ Waew said, confused.

  ‘Can you remember him offering you a drink?’

  ‘No, I asked for one.’ She brightened. ‘I recall that when he was distracted by the TV, I reached for a glass—he’d filled two with water—and drank it.’

  ‘He offered you the glass?’

  ‘No. I took the glass. He did not offer it to me.’

  Jacinta paused, glanced at the tape and her notes, and then looked up. ‘Did he take advantage of you?’

  ‘No,’ Waew said with a giggle, ‘I took advantage of him.’ Jacinta blinked and scribbled a note. ‘Is it possible that he left you during the night?’

  Waew took a deep breath and ruminated hard. ‘The last sound I recall before falling asleep was him running the shower. My next conscious thought was the alarm going off and the phone ringing.’

  ‘At 5 a.m.’

  ‘Yes, at 5 a.m.’

  ‘A gap of five hours or so?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A deep sleep?’

  ‘I expect so. I am a sound sleeper.’

  ‘Did you wake up groggy?’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Waew considered. ‘Come to think of it, I was drowsy for longer than normal.’

  ‘In your statement to policewoman May Nhung, you said that Mr Cavalier took you out of the hotel via a back entrance. Did he give you any reason for that?’

  ‘I was at the hotel to do physio work on his injured Achilles. But, as I’d stayed the night, he thought it would save me embarrassment if we sneaked out a back way. He is a most honourable gentleman.’

  ‘Was the injury impeding him?’

  ‘He was limping a little. He expected to play cricket on Saturday and said my work had helped him.’

  Jacinta dismissed Waew and scribbled a note:

  ‘Nystrom equals VC?’