The Honourable Assassin

by Roland Perry

  ‘Had any anaesthetic in the past decade?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any allergies?’

  ‘Only to antihistamines.’

  ‘What reaction did you have?’

  ‘Hallucinations.’

  ‘Could you describe them?’

  ‘Like taking LSD.’

  ‘You’ve had LSD?’

  ‘Yes, once; as a student.’

  ‘Hmmm. What was your last anaesthetic for?’

  ‘Had a bullet removed, about ten years ago.’

  ‘From where?’

  Cavalier opened his gown to show a scar about three centimetres in diameter, just below heart level on his left side. There were three other scars of a similar size lower on his abdomen.

  ‘How’d you get those?’

  ‘Can’t say.’

  ‘Any lingering reaction?’

  ‘Distinct fear of guns and bullets.’

  The anaesthetist looked over his glasses, seemingly unable to tell if Cavalier were joking. He injected him.

  ‘Just make sure I pull through without too much brain damage,’ Cavalier said as the anaesthetic took hold. He awoke an hour later, feeling as if he’d been unconscious for only a few seconds.

  ‘Always amazes me,’ he said to the bubbly nurse who bustled about monitoring several patients at once. ‘Is it over?’

  ‘At least you didn’t ask me if you were in heaven!’ she said, smiling.

  ‘You get that a lot when patients wake up?’

  ‘About half the males say it.’ She handed him a kidney dish. ‘You’ll be passing a lot of blood.’

  Cavalier dressed and went to the bathroom. As promised, he passed a torrent of blood. The pain was excruciating. He felt faint. He sat on the toilet and blacked out, only coming to when a nurse hammered on the door. He opened it.

  ‘I nearly had someone break in,’ she said. ‘You were in there twenty minutes! What happened?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You have someone picking you up?’

  ‘A taxi.’

  ‘Will Martha Hodges be in it?’

  ‘What?’

  The nurse pointed to a form. ‘She’s down as the person picking you up. You must be accompanied home by an adult.’

  ‘We split last week. Can you take me home?’

  The nurse smiled fleetingly. ‘We can’t let you leave the hospital unaccompanied.’

  Cavalier looked blank.

  ‘And you must have an adult stay with you overnight.’

  ‘In case I bleed to death?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  His phone rang.

  ‘Jacinta, darling,’ he said, ‘could you pick me up and take me home? Just had a little operation and the hospital will imprison me if I don’t have anyone with me. Thanks so much,’ he went on, looking at his watch, ‘say, 11 a.m.?’ He rattled off the address, ended the call and smiled at the nurse. ‘Done!’

  ‘You have a lot of girlfriends?’

  ‘That was a . . . business acquaintance.’

  Jacinta, wearing dark sunglasses and a navy-blue baseball cap, was waiting for him in a hire car when he walked out of the hospital.

  ‘Sorry about this,’ he said, embarrassed, ‘but you rang when I . . .’

  She gestured for him to get in.

  ‘Why did you call me?’ he asked.

  ‘Mr Gregory suggested that I work with you.’

  ‘You don’t seem too pleased.’

  ‘I can see some advantage, if you publish what we want.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘It would be more than useful to me if you were to help discover Labasta’s killer.’

  ‘Let me guess. You’re in trouble with the Thai police chief?’

  Jacinta’s face clouded. ‘I get on very well with my chief,’ she said defensively.

  They drove on in silence. Cavalier winced in pain. He fumbled in his satchel for a tablet, then swallowed it.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked, seeing the small package marked ‘Endone’.

  ‘Painkiller.’

  Cavalier downed another pill.

  ‘And that?’

  ‘Viagra.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Stiff neck.’

  Jacinta looked confused.

  ‘No, not Viagra,’ he laughed ruefully, ‘Norfloxacin. An antibiotic. Standard now if you enter a hospital. Golden staph. So—what sort of things would you want me to write to flush out the killer?’

  ‘Flush . . .?’

  ‘You know, what would help expose her?’

  ‘Her?!’

  ‘I am for equal rights,’ he said deadpan. Jacinta didn’t react.

  ‘You told me you have contacts in the criminal world here,’ she said. ‘If you were to write an article with some facts we plant, we might receive more leads.’

  ‘I can’t do that. It would compromise my job . . .’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘The media here is independent of the police. If I do what you ask, I’ll be stepping over a line.’

  No further words were exchanged until they were outside his terrace house. He thanked her for the ride.

  ‘Think about my offer, please,’ Jacinta said as he alighted gingerly from the car.

  ‘I already have,’ he said.

  *

  Cavalier never had any trouble with the lock on his front gate, which was in a high wooden fence, but it seemed to have been jemmied. He finally pushed it open and stepped into his front yard. He was hit with a glancing blow from behind and went down. He scrambled to his feet as four men wearing stocking masks came at him, brandishing weapons.

  ‘Writin’ crap about gang wars, are we?!’ one snarled as he swung a baseball bat, which caught Cavalier on the shoulder. The gate swung open. It was Jacinta, with his forgotten satchel.

  She leapt in and punched one attacker hard in the face, stunning him. She then swivelled on one foot and kicked the man with the bat hard on the neck. He dropped the weapon, reached for his throat and gurgled in agony. Jacinta’s movements were so swift and agile, they could have been called balletic if not for the brutality she was inflicting. A third attacker pulled out a knife. He moved to stab Jacinta but she was too quick, chopping down hard on his forearm. The knife fell to the grass as she swung an elbow into his face.

  The fourth man tried to escape. Cavalier blocked his path and grappled with him, allowing Jacinta to move close and use her elbow to strike the man in the face, putting a dent in his cheekbone. She slammed the damaged gate and rammed home the bolt, trapping the four assailants in the front garden. Only the first attacker, his face bloodied, seemed able to move freely. He reached for the knife on the ground, but Jacinta intercepted him, crushing her foot down on his left hand and causing him to cry out in pain. While he was distracted, Jacinta slipped the man’s right arm under her knee and rammed down hard enough to snap his forearm with a sickening crack!

  The four injured assailants, now the assailed, lay crumpled. Having phoned Gregory, Jacinta took the baseball bat from Cavalier, picked up the knife and herded the injured men into a corner, ripping off their stocking masks. One of them stumbled for the gate, only to receive a one-two punch to the face and then a kick to the groin from Jacinta. He sank to his knees, a rush of air, rather than sound, coming from him. Without saying a word, she opened the gate and beckoned him to make another run for it, but he stayed in surrender on his knees. Minutes later, four police cars screamed around the corner and stopped outside. Eight cops piled out, weapons drawn.

  Bob Grant, Gregory having alerted him, was leading the police response to the incident. Jacinta made a statement to the police and then took him aside. He approached Cavalier and inquired about his health.

  ‘I’m okay,’ he said, ‘one whack on the back, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m told you’ve just had surgery.’

  ‘Minor.’

  ‘Better get you to hospital,’ Grant said, signalling to an ambulance woman.
r />   That afternoon, the four men were charged with assault with intent to cause grievous bodily harm. Lawyers for the Brunswick Gang swooped in to defend the thugs, arriving at Melbourne’s remand centre to find they’d been taken to hospital. One had a broken nose and eye socket; another, a broken nose; the third, a depressed fracture of the cheekbone; and the fourth, a broken forearm and three damaged fingers. All also had various bruises to other parts of their bodies.

  One of the lawyers quipped, after examining the damage to his clients, ‘If you lot are on charges, it must be a case of “You oughta see the other guy.”’

  None of the bandaged thugs responded.

  A cop said quietly to the lawyer: ‘It was one Asian woman. And she hasn’t got a mark on her.’

  THE INDUCEMENT

  Cavalier was kept in hospital overnight for observation and allowed to go home the following afternoon. The hits he had taken, and subsequent fight and struggle, had shaken him up but, two days later, he surprised Driscoll by insisting on writing a follow-up story on the gang war.

  ‘I want you to do the story of the assault,’ she said over the phone. ‘You’ve become the centre of it.’

  ‘No. The Thai cop is against it and so am I. Grant and the feds are too. A reporter should never make himself the centre of the story. We need to focus on the bigger picture.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I’m working on it. But I can tell you it’s not a parochial little story about a reporter and four “heavies” being beaten up.’

  ‘But there’ll be a court case . . .’

  ‘We’ll worry about that when it happens.’

  ‘I really would like a story on this Thai cop. She sounds amazing!’

  ‘That won’t happen.’

  ‘C’mon, Vic. Aren’t you due to go to that silly cricket tournament in Thailand in April?’

  ‘I’m not going.’

  Driscoll paused, awaiting further explanation. After several seconds, she asked, ‘Anything to do with the Labasta killing?’

  Cavalier didn’t respond.

  ‘Look, I’ll pay for your airfare to Bangkok if you dig something up on her background. I want that story: “Poor Thai girl becomes super cop”.’

  ‘Forget it.’

  Four days later, Cavalier received the results of his biopsy.

  ‘You have low-level cancer,’ the lanky, bespectacled young urologist told him. ‘The majority of males—admittedly, ten to twenty years older than you—have it. So, there’s no need to be concerned. But we have to monitor you. If your PSA remains steady, it’s okay. If it increases, we may have to do another biopsy, or perhaps . . .’

  ‘Remove the prostate?’

  ‘We’d have to think about further surgery.’

  ‘You might, but I won’t.’

  ‘There are options,’ the urologist said, ignoring his defiance. ‘Come and see me in six months.’

  Despite this shadow, Cavalier wanted to see this result as one little win in a series of recent losses in his life.

  *

  His follow-up article centred on a ‘change of the fulcrum of world drug control and production (worth $1 trillion)’ from Mexico to South East Asia. ‘Drug lords are shifting headquarters because of the pressure on them on their home turf over the past five years.’

  When Cavalier came into the paper, Driscoll invited him into her office, which was festooned with photos of her with famous people from Australia and elsewhere. Hugh Jackman was kissing her; Ron Barassi was handing her a football; Hilary Clinton was shaking hands. Great sportspeople and politicians, film stars and writers predominated.

  She praised Cavalier for his global focus but added: ‘I still want the “Female Thai special investigator beats up four thugs” story. It would be terrific to finish your career here with that.’

  ‘As I told you,’ Cavalier said, ‘it’s not going to happen.’

  ‘So, my offer to pay for your airfare to Bangkok . . .’

  ‘I do need a break,’ he said, interrupting her, ‘but not there.’

  ‘Look, I’ll pay you extra for the article.’

  Cavalier remained silent.

  ‘This is one freelance piece I’ll take from you.’

  ‘From the scrap heap?’

  ‘C’mon, Vic! I’ll run it in the weekend magazine, and plug it on the front page. But we have to have pictures. You said she was very attractive.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘What would a Thai trip cost? Five thousand dollars? I’ll pay all your airfares and expenses.’

  ‘That’s generous,’ he replied, his eyebrows raised, ‘but no. Funny how now that I’m almost out of here, you want me more than ever!’

  ‘I promise that after you do this one, I’ll personally give any story you present as a freelance serious consideration.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ten thousand dollars!’ she said. ‘Five thousand words all up. Two thousand five hundred words for the paper and a further two and a half thousand for a spill onto the paper’s blog.’

  After a few moments, in which he appeared to be considering the offer, he replied, ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t understand you, Vic. This is a chance to do a big story. I thought you’d jump at it. Have you lost your bottle or something?’

  ‘Maybe I have,’ he said, standing, ‘now I’m losing my job! Or maybe I’m just a washed-up hack, happy to sit back and count my payout.’

  ‘Have you had counselling about the attack?’ Driscoll inquired, sounding solicitous.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You should, after such a traumatic experience.’

  ‘I’ll deal with it,’ he said, opening the door, ‘my way.’

  A CHANGE OF HEART

  Cavalier could hear the landline ringing as he stepped from his car. He reached the phone just as it stopped. Seconds later, it was ringing again.

  ‘Victor Cavalier?’ a deep voice asked.

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘Fuck you! You fucking bastard! You’re gonna die!’

  Cavalier gripped the phone. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘You won’t know how it comes! A bomb under your car; a bullet from fuckin’ nowhere!’

  For a few seconds, he was shaken. But he’d had death threats before. It’s not the way it happens, he reminded himself. A real killer would never forewarn his victim. But it was still unsettling.

  ‘C’mon, hero,’ Cavalier said, ‘tell me who you are.’

  More abuse poured down the line.

  ‘This is being taped,’ Cavalier continued, looking at the tiny recorder attached to the phone base. ‘I’ll trace . . .’

  The caller rang off.

  As always, Cavalier ran through the possibilities. A gang member? A disgruntled criminal from another investigation? He walked outside and took his mail from the post-box, looking across the road and down the street. There was a card telling him he had a parcel to collect.

  Half an hour later, he drove to the local post office. Back home, he examined the small brown parcel. His name—spelled Victar Cavalear—and address were handwritten. There was no sender’s address, and only Australian postal markings. Cavalier opened the parcel. It contained an unmarked DVD. He poured himself a double Scotch with ice and sat back to watch it on his large TV.

  Judging from the jumpiness, an amateur had been behind the camera. At first, Cavalier was not sure where the panoramic shots of undulating country had been taken. Then a chill touched his spine. It was the border town of Matamoros in north-eastern Mexico. He had visited it six years ago, when trying to find his lost daughter, Pon. He had just put his glass down when he heard her mellifluous voice. It was an out-of body experience to hear her talk in her gentle singsong voice: ‘It’s hot as hell here, Dad. A furnace. The town has about half a million people. It’s the kind of place where you get killed and no one notices . . .’

  Cavalier sat in shock.

  ‘You get dumped in a mass grave in the back garden of a house or a football f
ield, with maybe scores of other unidentified corpses.’

  The screen went blank. Then the stunningly beautiful Pon, in a light blue denim suit, was in front of the camera.

  ‘How do you like my first venture into being a video journalist, huh?’ she asked. ‘You always warned me off it when I was a kid. But I’m afraid that, after this travel, I want to do it. I’ll use travel writing as a front, and pick up stories like this . . . about the disappeared ones in Mexico.’ She paused and her expression turned grim. ‘What the next sequence will show is an unused canal. Instead of water, it has hundreds of, maybe a thousand, rotting bodies in it.’

  There were long-shot, medium-shot and, finally, nauseating close-ups of decapitated bodies.

  Pon’s voice was now nervous and disjointed: ‘These are low-level drug dealers, migrants on the way to the States that never got there, corrupt cops, women, lots of women . . . raped . . . I am told . . .’ There was a close-up of half-naked female bodies, looking like headless tailor’s dummies. ‘I’ve learned that these women were used for pleasure, or even payback, or intimidation of family members opposed to the drug bosses.’ She was speaking through tears as she added: ‘This kind of slaughter knows no criteria for brutality. Anything goes. Maybe eighty thousand were butchered this way. This is modern Mexico. Hell on earth.’

  The video stopped. Cavalier sat back, sipped his Scotch and attempted to assemble his thoughts. Was the threatening call connected with this revelation? There didn’t seem to be any link. Who had sent the video? He pulled out the packet from the kitchen bin, examined it, then wrapped it up in foil. Could there be fingerprint clues? Then he thought of the number of times the package would have been handled.

  For a moment, he dared to think that his daughter could still be alive. Then the tape started again. A party was in full swing. Pon and her best friend were in medium shot dancing to a hip-hop beat. In the foreground, Cavalier could make out Mendez and Labasta talking to several young women. The tape stopped again. He stood unsteadily and walked around the living room, holding his head. He wandered into a bathroom and leaned over the basin, ready to throw up. He dry-retched, and returned to the sofa.

  If he’d been shocked before, he was shaking now, as he watched his distressed and bedraggled daughter being pushed down a staircase to a basement. Unseen hands dragged her aside. Then the camera focused on a strange metal contraption. ‘My god, no!’ Cavalier heard himself whisper in horror as he recognised it as a guillotine.