The Honourable Assassin

by Roland Perry

  ‘Be extra careful on the border,’ he continued. ‘Burmese guards are apt to shoot first and ask questions later. That’s why the Thai border guard posts are quite a distance short of the Burma border posts.’ He pulled out three more photographs. ‘These are of the compound we believe Mendez has either bought or is creating in Chiang Mai.’

  Cavalier examined the photos. Most of a compound’s four walls had been constructed. Piles of stones indicated that one wall was still being built.

  ‘When were these taken?’

  ‘About a month ago.’

  Cavalier put on magnifying glasses to look more closely at the Chiang Mai building’s structure. It was two levels. Armed guards could be seen lounging around the steps of the front and entrance. Two tank-like Mercedes and another two big four-wheel drives were in the open, near a garage under construction.

  ‘Can I . . .?’ Cavalier asked, pulling out his phone to take shots of the photographs.

  ‘Better not,’ Gregory said, ‘but there’s an app that may be useful.’ He scribbled a number on a piece of paper and handed it to Cavalier. ‘Ring and ask for Barry. He’s one of our tech guys and he’ll download it for you. It’s an upgraded version of Snapchat and Wickr—you can send text that’ll disappear after a few seconds or however quickly you need it to.’

  After the meeting, Cavalier rang Driscoll and told her that, in addition to his colour piece on Jacinta, he would write an article on the seventieth anniversary of Australian POWs’ release from Changi prison after their incarceration by the Japanese in World War Two. He would follow the remnants of the railway into Burma, which would be his cover for some snooping on the Thai–Burma border.

  *

  Later that night, Cavalier rang Jacinta and asked her to a dinner to celebrate the fortieth anniversary of his school cricket team having won a premiership.

  ‘Each decade, the team comes together to celebrate and the team’s coach gives the speech,’ he said, forging on through Jacinta’s silence. ‘It’s a pretty boring speech. He rambles on for hours.’

  ‘You want me to go with you to a cricket dinner,’ she intervened incredulously, ‘where the coach will make a boring speech?’

  ‘Yes, but you see, he died a year ago,’ Cavalier said.

  ‘No thanks.’ She hung up without saying goodbye.

  The next morning, Cavalier was in Leroy Espresso when he received a call from Jacinta.

  ‘I leave for Bangkok next Monday,’ she said. ‘When was that dinner again?’

  THE IMPERSONATOR

  Jacinta had made a special effort for the semi-formal affair held at the Kooyong Lawn Tennis Club. She looked spectacular in a long black evening dress, which was split to the hip and showed off an ample bosom, not entirely tucked into a sequin-laced bodice. Nearly thirty people attended the function and the former schoolboy cricketers had all gone on to do something with their lives. Only one, an actor of stage and screen, had had a less than stellar career, which had faded to TV advertisements and voice-overs in radio commercials. There was a judge, a former senior diplomat, a former top federal politician, three school teachers, two doctors, a private school bursar, an antique dealer and two businessmen. Jacinta was the youngest person there by about fifteen years. Soon she was the centre of attention for the men, one or two unashamedly attempting to flirt with her in front of their embarrassed partners. She was reserved but polite, and when she was given a compliment, ignored it as if she had either not heard or understood it.

  She and Cavalier were seated together, and the judge engaged Jacinta, while Cavalier spoke with the diplomat’s attractive French wife. The judge asked Jacinta how long she had known Cavalier.

  ‘Not long,’ she said.

  ‘How did you meet?’ he said, with a schoolboyish grin of admiration.

  ‘Through work.’

  ‘Oh, you’re a journalist too?’

  ‘No. An investigator . . . with the Thai police.’ Changing the subject, she asked, ‘You are a close friend of Victor?’

  ‘Well, no. I only see him every ten years, at this function.’

  ‘He has always been a journalist?’

  ‘As far as I know, yes.’

  ‘I am worried about his drinking,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘I am trying to understand him. Did he become a big drinker after his daughter . . .?’

  ‘Ah, yes, his daughter—lost in the Amazon or something,’ the judge said.

  ‘Mexico. Did that trigger his alcohol . . . addiction?’

  ‘I don’t believe it was the tragedy over his daughter,’ he said with a frown. Then he brightened and added: ‘I remember him after the first reunion, thirty years ago. He drank a helluva lot that night! I think we had to drive him home!’

  He laughed at the memory and Jacinta joined in, belatedly.

  After the entree, Cavalier left the dinner table, put on a wig in the bathroom and returned, as the coach, to laughter and applause. He stood behind a lectern and mimicked the coach’s voice, expressions and hand movements, while gently roasting all the players, including himself. He handed out copies of the books he had written on cricket.

  When they were driving away from the club after the function, Jacinta remarked, ‘You did not have any alcohol.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I wanted to perform well.’

  ‘Are you off it altogether?’

  ‘I’m trying. Can’t go cold turkey.’

  ‘Have you kept in contact with any of them since school days?’

  ‘Not really.’ He was reflective before he added, ‘Unless you’re really close at school, who does keep their mates after such a long time?’

  ‘I did with two friends.’

  ‘Did?’

  ‘They are both dead.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. How did they die?’

  ‘Murdered.’

  He glanced across. Her expression was closed off. He wanted to probe further but checked himself. They did not speak until twenty minutes later, when they reached his home and Jacinta’s hire car.

  ‘Did you have fun?’ he asked as she climbed into her car.

  ‘It was more interesting than I anticipated. And I liked the French woman and the doctor’s Indian wife.’ She started her car. ‘None of your friends seemed to know what you did when you left school.’

  ‘Why should they?’ Cavalier asked. ‘I don’t know what most of them did.’

  ‘They thought you might have gone straight into journalism.’

  ‘No,’ he said casually. ‘I bummed around for a while before joining a paper.’

  ‘Bummed around?’

  ‘Um . . . I travelled in Europe and Asia, had part-time jobs. Tried for an army job after two years in the air force. Didn’t get in.’

  Jacinta glanced at him.

  ‘I’ve signed on for that cricket tournament in Thailand I told you about,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not a good time,’ she answered.

  ‘I’ll phone you if I come.’

  Jacinta drove away without even a wave.

  ‘Welcome to Bangkok, Mr Bond,’ Cavalier mumbled to himself.

  The next morning, Cavalier returned the rented wig to a party-wear shop. He spent an hour there, trying on a score of wigs, and in the end bought three, including the dark-brown one he had hired for the school reunion.

  ‘You’ll have to have your hair a bit shorter to make that one look good,’ the young saleswoman said, patting down one that was flecked with grey. Cavalier nodded and took out a credit card.

  ‘May I ask why you want three?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, just a bit of fun,’ Cavalier said with a grin. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know a stylist who could make them appear, you know, real?’

  The saleswoman smiled. ‘That’s what I do,’ she said, ‘the items in the shop are for fun. But if you want them to look natural, that’s my other job.’

  Two days after having the wigs fitted and styled, along with additional pieces of ha
ir for sideburns and goatee beards, Cavalier had three sets of passport photos taken while wearing the wigs and other pieces. He then drove to the Melbourne suburb of Murrumbeena for an appointment with a passport forger, Tony Jones, whom he had dealt with on several earlier occasions before assignments abroad. But when he arrived, he was surprised to meet Anthony Jones, Tony’s grandson, who, although in his twenties, looked like a teenager.

  ‘My granddad’s semi-retired,’ he told Cavalier. ‘I handle all his clients now. But he sends his best regards. He always enjoyed working with you.’

  Jones ushered Cavalier into his office at the rear of a car mechanic’s workshop and locked the door. ‘What’s the assignment?’ he asked.

  ‘Something challenging in Asia,’ Cavalier replied with a non-committal grin as he handed him the three sets of photos.

  ‘Crossing several borders?’

  Cavalier nodded.

  ‘Try not to use more than one passport per country. Avoid main entry points if you can. Can you tell me which countries you’ll enter?’

  ‘Thailand for certain, and then Burma, and maybe another emergency exit route via Cambodia, Malaysia, Laos, Vietnam, or even China.’

  ‘I can only do visas for Thailand and Cambodia these days. It’s all done by passing the ‘visa’ to the passport chip. No paperwork.’

  ‘I’m aware. But that’s okay. I’ll take my chances without for other countries, if necessary.’

  ‘This is “journalism”, as always, I take it?’

  ‘Yes, but I’ll be travelling as a tourist.’

  Jones examined the photos. ‘They’re very well done. You do look different, especially with that facial hair.’

  ‘Coming from you, that’s a compliment.’ Cavalier pointed to the first set of photos. ‘I want a Frenchman. The name is on the back . . .’

  ‘You’re fluent in French, my granddad told me.’

  ‘Sa memoire est très bonne, Monsieur!’ He indicated a second set. ‘This one is as a Thai.’

  ‘You don’t look anything like a Thai,’ Jones said, shaking his head.

  ‘I speak Thai . . .’

  ‘Irrelevant. Your nose is flat but Caucasian.’

  ‘Flat?! What about the indentation?’

  ‘That’s an injury. Boxing?’

  ‘A cricket ball.’

  ‘The basic structure is nothing like an Asian nose.’

  ‘Couldn’t I have a Caucasian grandfather?’

  ‘No,’ Jones said, peering at him, ‘your eyes are nothing like an Asian’s. And your lips, not thick enough. Your chin . . .’

  ‘Okay . . . okay.’

  ‘May I give you some advice?’

  Cavalier nodded.

  ‘Do everything not to draw attention to yourself. Having a Thai name, unless you did some significant make-up work or surgery, would cause people to remember you.’

  Cavalier thought for a moment. He scribbled a name on the second set of photos. ‘Okay, make him an Englishman. Make the third a European from a nation where people are proficient in English: Germany, Holland, Sweden. I don’t care which; surprise me.’

  ‘I’ll give you different heights and weights for each document, so dress accordingly. Make sure you wear a hat and glasses each time you use one. Passport control will make you remove them but it all helps when they examine you. Be ready too for controls with fingerprint recognition.’

  ‘Cambodia has them, I believe.’

  ‘The Americans’ve bribed them into using this equipment, but not at all border control points yet. They want to catch terrorists. The Cambodians take all five fingers. So, if you front with a . . . er . . . one of my bits of artwork, they may have your prints and it’ll alert the controller, if you’ve passed through another country they’re linked to.’

  ‘Like Thailand?’

  ‘They’re implementing fingerprint technology but it’s not everywhere yet. Be careful of Burma too.’

  ‘You can’t forge fingerprints.’

  ‘Granddad may have told you that,’ Jones grinned slyly, ‘but I have a forensic-specialist mate working on it.’

  The request for three passports delayed Cavalier’s departure by a week but he was pleased to have the extra days. In that time, he managed to book a seat on a Boeing 787-8, and also learned from Gregory the dates that Mendez was expected to travel from Chiang Mai to Bangkok. This allowed him to adjust his plans. He spent some time preparing his luggage, particularly his metre and a half green ‘coffin.’ It was lined with a special new alloy material that would allow its contents to pass through any detector without metal being discovered.

  Cavalier packed in it his two bats, including ‘Big Betty’, an outsized blade he carried on all cricket trips. On it were the signatures of the world’s top cricketers and he claimed it was his good luck charm. There was also a streamlined helmet, steel-lined protector, chest and thigh pads, and two sets of gloves and inners. In went a professional camera with three lenses, all covered in bubble wrap. The bag would be marked ‘fragile’, as insurance against any rough baggage handling. Cavalier then filled a large backpack with clothing, toiletries, and books, including one about the Iraq War, a second about drug smuggling and an unauthorised biography of Mendez’s father: War of the Drug Lord. He was as ready as he could be.

  INTO THE CAULDRON

  Cavalier ignored all the warnings, including the Australian government’s official communique not to travel to Thailand, and boarded the 787-8 for Bangkok in the early afternoon the Thursday before Easter. It was a few days before Songkran, the Thai New Year Water Festival. He dozed through turbulence cushioned by the six-metre wing flexibility, so that most of the movement was confined to the wings. He read a book he had brought containing fold-out Thai maps, taking notes and scribbling down the route he planned to take, following the movement of Australian POWs building the Thai–Burma railway for their Japanese masters from 1942 to 1944. He also listened to music on his iPad, playing Dean Martin’s ‘Sway’ over and over, a song he swore he could never be bored with. He spoke briefly to the Thai woman sitting next to him. She complained about an Australian boyfriend who had invited her to Melbourne for a two-week ‘trial run’ before a possible marriage.

  ‘I am so happy to return to Thailand,’ she said. ‘I don’t like Australian men.’

  Cavalier began to think about what he would encounter there, at the hottest time of the year, at the end of the dry season. Two hours from landing, the captain warned that the riots had escalated throughout Bangkok. ‘It may be difficult to leave the airport,’ he told them, as the plane touched down on time, at 8.40 p.m.

  There was a nervous moment when Cavalier was held up at passport control. He did his best to sound relaxed when he asked the official at the counter, ‘Anything the matter?’

  The official held up his hand and made a phone call. Cavalier was asked to stand aside. He began to feel concerned. Was this call to Jacinta’s SIU? Would they not allow him in? He knew of cases where drugs had been planted in luggage to ‘facilitate’ false charges. He felt certain he would be tracked, but would he be stopped even before he got in the country? Cavalier had once had to bribe a passport control officer in Vietnam to gain entry there, but this had never happened in Thailand. After a few minutes, his Thai passport, which he had obtained when he married Pin, was stamped ‘allowed to stay for an unlimited period’.

  Cavalier collected his coffin from the carousel, checked its contents and moved towards the exit. He could hear the muffled sound of bombs going off in the distance and the indistinct static of automatic weapons fire. It caused more than a little consternation among travellers. They crowded at information desks asking questions. Where were the police to protect them? What about the military? Was Bangkok safe to enter, even if they were allowed to go in?

  Cavalier wheeled his baggage through the green ‘Nothing to Declare’ barrier and was in Thai territory. It was his wife’s home and it brought back a flood of memories, but he didn’t have time to reflect as
he merged into a throng of hundreds of people milling around. No one could leave. Buses and taxis were not willing to depart with the rioting so close and, in any case, police were ordering them not to. As if to make the point that leaving was too dangerous, a rocket soared over the airport and exploded into a building a few kilometres away. People screamed and pushed back into the airport forecourt. Cavalier moved in the opposite direction, to a deserted escalator going down to the ground, and made his way outside to the taxi rank. Despite the wet weather, the oven-like heat of Bangkok enveloped him.

  Drivers and taxi officials waved their hands, telling him no one was taking fares. But he had a driver—Ladang—who always picked him up. Cavalier pushed his trolley away from the scores of drivers to a car parked a couple of hundred metres further on. A grisly-looking individual, with a face that had seen too many brawls in Thailand’s many illegal back-alley fight rings, was leaning against his vehicle, a late-model Mazda, smoking.

  ‘You’re not frightened to drive, are you, Ladang?’ Cavalier said to him in Thai.

  ‘Nice to see you, Victor,’ he said with a smile and a most respectful wai, ‘Get in quickly!’

  Cavalier put his bags in the boot. Ladang stubbed out his cigarette and jumped in the driver’s seat. Other drivers, police and officials gesticulated as he sped off. The cops jumped on their bikes and gave chase. Ladang skidded past two barriers, the police in pursuit some eighty metres behind. Lightning flashed and it began to rain, soon becoming a deluge. Cavalier directed Ladang down back alleys north of the airport. They sped through the rain, twice skidding badly enough for Ladang to have to fight the steering wheel. The motorcycle cops soon gave up chasing the taxi, which was now just part of a mirage of dancing lights. Once out of the backstreets, Cavalier instructed Ladang to take a slow ride on main roads to the Sukhumvit Road area in the city’s east, close to the rioting.

  By just after 11.30 p.m., they were not far from Soi 21 off Sukhumvit Road. Traffic was at a standstill and the rain was still torrential. Bombs could still be heard, along with the odd static from automatic weapons, more starkly and closer than at the airport.