The Honourable Assassin

by Roland Perry

  ‘Cricket practice this afternoon and then I’ll meet the players for dinner tonight, protests notwithstanding.’ He paused. ‘But I’m sure you’ll get a report on me in the morning from the tail.’

  ‘I told you there will be no tail on you, and I meant it.’

  After the call, Cavalier thought he believed her. She had hinted before that he was not important enough to be tagged. Now, after her success in the fight, which she felt had a lot to do with his intelligence on the Russian, she was categorical: no one would be keeping tabs on him.

  He had no intention of going to cricket practice, but instead spent several hours on the internet, answering emails and updating his diary. At 5 p.m. he rang Waew.

  ‘Would you like to come to dinner tonight, before you do the massage?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t finish work until 9 p.m., and eating that late is not for me.’

  ‘Okay; why don’t you join me, have a drink and watch me eat?’

  NIGHT OF THE ASSASSINS

  At 9.30 p.m. Waew pushed her way through the front doors of the Majestic Suites, next to Nana Plaza. Cavalier was at a table in the ground-level restaurant. A bottle of Margaret River sauvignon blanc was sitting in an ice bucket. He had poured himself a glass.

  ‘I don’t like Nana,’ Waew said, as she settled on a brown couch next to him. ‘Why here?’

  ‘They have Australian wines and the food’s good,’ he said, handing her a menu.

  Waew pulled a face. ‘I hope you don’t go to the bars around the corner,’ she said.

  ‘Not my scene.’

  Cavalier was facing the door and could see the passing parade. He kept one eye on the cars and people while engaging her in conversation about her life story as they ate and drank.

  ‘I’m from Phichit province,’ she said, as she nodded for him to fill her glass a second time.

  ‘So was my ex-wife! Her family had a home on the Nan River. Phichit’s my favourite northern city. I like that it has a modest population,’ he told her, ‘and the people are beautiful and friendly. I love the temple Pho Prathap and the history . . .’ He paused as two stretch limousines, followed by four Humvees, crawled by. Cavalier stood up, excused himself and went to the front window. He watched until the convoy had turned left into Nana.

  ‘What was that about?’ she asked.

  ‘I have a passion for limos,’ he said, resuming his seat and glancing at his watch. ‘It’s 10 p.m. We’d better go to the hotel, so you can get me massaged before curfew.’

  As they were returning to the Galleria 10, a Skytrain whizzed by above them, carrying a thousand passengers returning home to beat the curfew. Cortez, wearing a plain beige overcoat and clutching his hefty violin case, was among them. The crowd didn’t buffet and brush aside the thin man listening to his iPod in the rush to change trains at Central Station—Siam. Some passengers may have felt sympathetic to Cortez, who dabbed his good eye with a handkerchief and intermittently touched the bandage on his split right cheekbone. His good eye seemed to be weeping continually.

  Those who walked very close to him could hear the music emitting from his earpiece. If they knew their classical music, they would have recognised Chopin’s Piano Sonata No. 3, the third movement. This esoteric work was for the musician’s aficionados. Cortez claimed the hauntingly beautiful piece kept him sane in the moments before, and particularly after, a mission. It was slow and serene, and the hit man would tell anyone who would listen that it helped him control time. He likened listening to it to meditation. What he didn’t say was that was the state he preferred to be in while preparing for a kill.

  Once he was on the Skytrain heading south of the city, people showed respect for the one-eyed musician by stepping aside to let him through with the case that looked too heavy for him. He watched for the names of stops, and could see steady streams of people in the street below that led to where he was going. An aspect of the vast Lumphini Park, with its playgrounds and paths, was visible through the train window. The train stopped at the stations of Ratchadamri and Sala Daeng, and then at Chong Nonsi, where Cortez alighted. He liked the Bangkok trains—those that sailed over the city, at least. He felt that, in many ways, they were like him: neat, organised and efficient.

  He joined a throng of General Gaez’s supporters, who had been tipped off on the internet and by text message that he would be addressing a rally in front of the King Rama IV statue. Cortez broke from the rivulets of people coming from every direction, and headed for a building under construction, about sixty degrees to the park. A young Thai man in dark glasses met him at a gate. The man threw away his cigarette, nodded and led Cortez to a workers’ lift. He left him to make the ride to the fourteenth floor, which was almost complete, except for the addition of windows and some finishing touches. It was deserted, as was the entire site. Normally, workers would have been swarming all over it, but the place was closed for the night on police orders. On the fourteenth floor, the wind, mild at ground level, was stronger.

  Cortez took out a long telescopic lens and let his good eye roam over the scene in front of the park, where a crowd of more than ten thousand was assembling. He picked out a small stand, which was less than two hundred metres away. Scores of people and guards were fussing about, in preparation for the speech by General Gaez, who was yet to make an appearance. Cortez dropped to one knee and emptied his pockets of packages, including bullets. He removed his overcoat and folded it. With loving care, he unlocked the stylish wooden case and removed the violin made of polished wood. Then he removed a panel to reveal another instrument, towards which he showed as much, if not more, passion.

  Cavalier was lying face down on his bed, watching TV, as Waew worked on his Achilles again. It was sore, he told her, and he was favouring it when he walked.

  ‘Can you play sport with it hurting?’ she asked.

  ‘I won’t be able to bowl, but I can bat. We’ll see on Saturday.’

  She paused to reach for her glass of wine. She was on her fourth drink for the evening, which had made her tipsy. Cavalier flicked to the Asian channel. A news item announced that major Thai airports would be operating again in the morning. According to one reporter, ‘Pressure on the generals from more than thirty nations, whose citizens felt “trapped” in Thailand, has caused them to allow airlines to fly again.’

  ‘That’s a good thing!’ he said, turning to Waew.

  ‘I’ve finished,’ she said, sipping her wine. She kissed Cavalier on the forehead, surprising him. He had not thought of attempting anything with Waew, wanting only to get his Achilles functioning well. And she had not given even the merest hint that there would be any extras aside from her hard work.

  She kissed him again, this time on the mouth. He responded tentatively at first. She caressed him gently, seductively, and this eased him into a more receptive mood. Waew then removed her top.

  ‘Are you sure . . .?’ he asked. ‘You’ve had a few drinks . . .’

  ‘I know,’ she said with a smile as she removed her shorts and socks. ‘It always makes me horny.’

  They embraced and kissed again. Cavalier reached for his wallet on a bedside table and fumbled out a condom, sending money and credit cards to the floor. They coupled as if on fast-forward; first him on top, then her, and finally side by side. They climaxed within seconds of each other. The spontaneous lovemaking took less than five minutes and then they lay in each other’s arms, recovering. Waew started giggling.

  ‘What?’ Cavalier said, smiling.

  ‘I have no shame!’ she said.

  ‘Rubbish!’ he replied, putting his arm around her shoulder.

  ‘I should not drink so much . . .’

  ‘I think you should.’

  Waew giggled again and nestled close, wanting to sleep. Cavalier went to the bathroom. Seeing the packet of tablets he had bought at the pharmacy, he put two into a tumbler. Hearing him use the taps, Waew called out that she wanted water. Back in the bedroom, he was about to drink from his glass when he notic
ed what was on the TV. Twenty people were surrounding General Gaez on the podium at the rally. He was on his back and motionless.

  ‘Jesus!’ Cavalier mouthed. ‘He’s been shot!’

  He put the glasses of water on the bedside table and reached for the remote to turn up the sound. Waew rolled across the bed, took one of the glasses and drank its contents.

  The TV cameras were homing in on the general and his blood-splattered head. His jungle-camouflage hat had been blown off to reveal a gaping wound. Then the TV screen went blank. A test pattern came up. Cavalier flicked around the channels, trying to pick up more information. He switched on his iPad and checked his phone. There were skimpy reports, mainly on Twitter, of the general’s shooting. Cavalier looked over to see Waew lying on her back, resting. He noticed the empty glass.

  ‘Hey!’ he said, ‘you’ve taken the wrong glass!’ Waew smiled drowsily. He lifted her up, placed her under the sheet, and pulled up a thin bedspread. She kissed him and slipped back on the pillows. Cavalier adjusted the air conditioning to night mode and stepped into the shower, trying to work out what this killing, if it were a killing, would mean for Bangkok and the country.

  ‘Chaos,’ he mumbled to himself as the water ran over him. ‘Utter bloody chaos!’

  General Gaez had been rushed to nearby Bumrungrad Hospital and placed in an induced coma after a bullet had sliced off part of the top of his cranium. The first reports said that he had lost much blood and the doctors did not hold out much hope for his survival.

  Jacinta had been home in bed resting and watching it all on TV. All through the hour after the hit on General Gaez, there was no word from Azelaporn. She made a few calls to the police who were supposed to have been protecting the general, but their phones were engaged. Jacinta learned that the building site from where the assassin allegedly made his hit had been cleared of workers, cops and soldiers in the hour before General Gaez was to address the rally. When she asked another senior cop who had given the order not to man the site, he told her, ‘You’ll have to ask Chief Azelaporn.’

  Just before midnight, a bespectacled, blond-haired man of medium height and carrying a grey backpack walked into the Majestic Suites.

  ‘Name?’ the receptionist asked, distracted by the noise outside as police cars, sirens blaring, pushed their way through the heavy traffic en route to Lumphini Park.

  ‘Nystrom,’ he said, touching his goatee beard. ‘Lars Nystrom.’

  The receptionist fumbled around on the computer for his booking. ‘Ah, yes, you booked a week ago. You are with the eight other gentlemen from Sweden—er . . . the Stockholm Gun Club?’

  ‘I wanted to surprise them.’

  ‘They are probably in Nana Plaza.’

  ‘Hunting other things tonight,’ he said under his breath as he signed a registration card, wrote his home address and filled in his age—fifty-one—and birth date. ‘I’d rather they didn’t see me until tomorrow. I’ve only just arrived . . .’

  ‘Yes, the airport is open again.’

  ‘There were lots of delays. I’m very tired. I don’t want any calls until noon.’

  ‘I understand, sir. Will you want breakfast in the room?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Could I have your passport?’ The receptionist, still worrying about the noise outside, photocopied it without so much as a glance and handed the document back to him.

  ‘Credit card?’

  ‘I’ll pay cash in advance.’

  ‘We must have a card, sir.’

  ‘I can pay in advance,’ he said, slowly opening his wallet, ‘and tip you in advance too.’

  ‘We need a card in case . . .’

  ‘I use the minibar?’

  ‘That and . . .’

  ‘If I stole a table . . .?’ The woman blushed. ‘No, sir,’ she said. She glanced at his wallet, which bulged with notes, blinked and looked down at some paperwork on the desk.‘You’re staying two nights,’ she said.

  He nodded.

  ‘That will be six thousand baht, please,’ she said, not making eye contact.

  He handed her seven thousand baht and winked at her. The receptionist handed him a key to a room on the third floor. ‘No,’ he said, his manner cool. ‘I particularly asked for a room on the fifth floor, at the far end of the corridor.’

  The receptionist checked the computer. ‘Sorry, sir. I assumed you wished to be with your Swedish companions.’

  ‘As far away as possible,’ he said, with a roll of his eyes.

  ‘We are sorry for the situation outside,’ she said, her eye fluttering nervously as she handed him a key to a room on the fifth floor, ‘but a terrible incident has happened with General Gaez. We hear he has just died in hospital.’

  He nodded as if he had been given tomorrow’s weather report and walked to the lift. It took its time arriving. A drunken man staggered next to him, with a tiny Thai girl on heels that were more like stilts. The three of them stepped into the lift. The man, a New Zealander, tried to make conversation about Gaez’s assassination.

  ‘Sorry, my English not good,’ the man calling himself Nystrom said.

  ‘You a German?’

  The blond man smiled and looked to the back of the lift.

  ‘I’m Bob McKenzie,’ the New Zealander said, thrusting a hand at him.

  ‘I’m sure you are,’ the blond man said in a lilting voice, trying to avoid eye contact.

  The lift stopped at the fourth floor and the New Zealander, muttering something about ‘bloody huns’, left with the girl. The blond man alighted at the fifth floor, just as the lights went out. He kept walking down the corridor, and by the time he had reached his room, number fifty-eight, the lights were on again.

  The blond man took off the pack and placed it on the bed. He took out transparent rubber gloves and binoculars from a side pocket in the pack, and went to the window. He slipped on the gloves and looked down into Nana Plaza. He adjusted the binoculars, and examined bars on the second and ground floors. He could see into the courtyard of bars on the ground floor of the Plaza Beer Garden and was about sixty metres away on a forty-five degree angle. He took out notes from a pants pocket and studied them. The bar in the courtyard called Play School was in plain view, as was the one next to it, Rainbow. He then compared the bars he could see on the second level with his notes. The corner bar, Candy Landy, was obscured. He could see the bigger Rainbow 4, which was teeming with women, who outnumbered customers three to one. Next to that was Temptations, which, judging from the height of the performers, was a ladyboy bar. Above that, on the third level, he could make out Cascade. Next to that was a ‘short-time’ hotel, which was doing a thriving business, with customers from many of the bars taking selected partners there for an hour’s cavorting. The blond man strained to see some of the customers inside the hotel’s foyer. He could just discern a couple of Mexicans wearing their telltale headgear. His eyes drifted down to the second level. Then he froze.

  He could see several Mexicans at the entrance to Rainbow 4. They were chatting to four girls. He swung his binoculars right, to where more Mexicans were standing, some smoking, outside Temptations. He focused in as closely as possible on those two bars.

  He saw the laughing face of Mendez.

  The Mexican was chatting with a large, unattractive ladyboy, who seemed to be attempting to entice him inside to watch the dancers. Mendez had a cigar lit for him. Several tall ladyboys then surrounded him. He moved to the low wall in the second-level corridor and rested his elbows on it. Mendez smoked as he looked down into the beer garden, more intent on the cigar and the view than the company.

  The blond man moved more hastily, opening the latch to the top window and pushing it out. The tuneless mix of music from several bars drifted up to him. He stood on a chair and was able to rest his arms on a window ledge. He alighted from the chair, pulled the curtain across and unzipped the backpack. He removed five cylinders, which, at first glance, looked to be copper because of their golden-brown colour. But the
way he handled them indicated that they were too light to be made of that metal. He removed the cylinder caps and slipped out a gun barrel in two pieces, sliding them into a locked position.

  The assassin removed the rifle’s frame from two further cylinders. It was also in two pieces, which he locked together. He took three screws of different sizes from a cellophane packet. Using an Allen screwdriver, the assassin wound them in place and tightened them. He then manoeuvred the rifle this way and that, making sure that nothing was loose, or too tight. Unsatisfied, he took out the large screw closest to the rifle butt and repositioned it, before playing with the weapon again. There was no urgency in his activity, just precision. Eight minutes later, his sniper’s rifle was calibrated to his liking. He pushed three gold-coloured bullets into a magazine, which he pressed into position on the rifle.

  The assassin examined a tripod. He turned to squint at the window ledge, and then discarded the tripod, judging it would be too awkward to put in place. Finally, he took out a navy blue foot-long silencer and slipped its wider end onto the barrel. It protruded over the end of the barrel like a small drainpipe.

  The assassin was ready. He switched off the light, moved to the window and eased the curtains across. He climbed onto the chair, checking that it was balanced and would not tip over. He peered down at Temptations. Only a couple of ladyboys were in view, both smoking. Everyone else was inside, watching the show. The assassin returned to the bed and took a packet of Swedish cigarettes from a side pocket on his pack. He lit one and waved it outside the window without smoking it. Once it was about half its original size, he stubbed it, put it back in the packet, and left it on top of the small fridge. The assassin took a bottle of Carlsberg beer from his pack. He used an opener on the fridge to flip off the top, and guzzled some of the contents before putting the bottle on a small table. He belched and glanced out of the window again. Even the two smoking ladyboys had moved inside.