Cover design: Deborah Parry GraphicsCover photos: Arcangel and Getty

F I C T I O N

VIC CAVALIER HAS CERTAINLY HAD BETTER WEEKS.

His newspaper editor is hell-bent on showing him the door, his

footy team lost its last game, and his drinking habit is winning the

war with his better angels. And then there’s the man with the bullet

in his head and links to a Mexican drug cartel lying in a Carlton

laneway. When his editor wants the story, Cavalier finds himself in

Bangkok uncomfortably close to the action and under the watchful

eye of a local cop with an intriguing background herself.

In the steamy violent world of Thai elite power plays and the chaos

of a coup, Cavalier’s motivation becomes clear – this same cartel

is implicated in the disappearance and possible murder of his

daughter. He has no choice but to pursue them – whatever it takes.

Weaving together a fast–paced, all-too-real story The Honourable

Assassin is part psychological thriller and part today’s headlines

about massive illegal drug trafficking in Australia and corruption at

the highest levels in South East Asia. ROLAND PERRY

THE HONOURABLE

ASSASSIN

A body in a Melbourne lanewayA Mexican drug cartel in Thailand

A journalist uncomfortably close to the action

THE HONOURABLE

ASSASSINROLAN

D PERRY

ROLAND PERRY

THE HONOURABLE

ASSASSIN

3760 Assassin Title FINAL.indd 1 2/09/2015 2:18 pm

ROLAND PERRY

THE HONOURABLE

ASSASSIN

3760 Assassin Title FINAL.indd 1 2/09/2015 2:18 pm

First published in 2015

Copyright © Roland Perry 2015

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin 83 Alexander Street Crows Nest NSW 2065 Australia Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100 Email: info@allenandunwin.com Web: www.allenandunwin.com

Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the National Library of Australia www.trove.nla.gov.au

ISBN 978 1 76029 142 6

Set in 12.5/16.5 pt Adobe Caslon by Midland Typesetters, AustraliaPrinted and bound in Australia by Griffin Press

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

The paper in this book is FSC® certified.FSC® promotes environmentally responsible, socially beneficial and economically viable management of the world’s forests.C009448

Also by Roland Perry

FictionProgram for a Puppet

Blood is a StrangerFaces in the Rain

Non-FictionThe Queen, Her Lover and the Most Notorious

Spy in HistoryHorrie: the War Dog

Bill the BastardThe Fight for Australia [aka Pacific 360]

The Changi BrownlowThe Australian Light HorseLast of the Cold War Spies

The Fifth ManMonash: The Outsider Who Won a War

The Programming of the PresidentThe Exile: Wilfred Burchett, Reporter of Conflict

Mel Gibson, Actor, Director, ProducerLethal Hero

Sailing to the MoonElections Sur Ordinateur

Bradman’s InvinciblesThe Ashes

Miller’s Luck: The Life and Loves of Keith Miller, Australia’s Greatest All-Rounder

Bradman’s BestBradman’s Best Ashes Teams

The DonCaptain Australia: A History of the Celebrated Captains

of Australian Test CricketBold WarnieWaugh’s Way

Shane Warne, Master Spinner

Documentary FilmsThe Programming of the PresidentThe Raising of a Galleon’s Ghost

Strike SwiftlyTed Kennedy & the Pollsters

The Force

1

PROLOGUE

35 YEARS AGOTwo hours before dawn on a cool August morning, one hundred athletic men lined up at Dog Rock on the Middleton Beach Road, just outside Albany, Western Australia. Only thirty of this elite group would be selected for the next batch of recruits to join Australia’s Special Air Service Regiment commando force.

So far, these hardened specimens from all over the nation had been through an extraordinarily gruelling physical and mental examination. Over four weeks, they had been weeded out from the three hundred and eighty-three-strong starting squad, on the basis of their aptitudes for combat, swimming, running, shooting (rifle and small arms), and weaponry, which included machine guns, hand-held rocket launchers and detonation. They had all been grilled to assess their acuity in mathematics, English

2

expression, map reading, tactical skills, general discipline and team work.

Leaders had emerged in the first week, with, in the Australian tradition, the best taking command almost by osmosis, no matter their backgrounds. Nine of the hundred had tertiary qualifications. One was a doctor; another, a civil engineer. Nine were professional fighters of cage and ring, from boxing, wrestling, and martial arts, including Muay Thai. There were four circus perform-ers, and eight former professional footballers, most from Australian Rules, which, of all ball games, demands the greatest stamina. The remaining seventy had come from three hundred and nineteen members of the armed forces who had originally applied to join this most formidable of all combat forces.

The most outstanding individual, twenty-three year-old Victor Cavalier, had come from the air force, where he had trained as both a navigator and pilot. In this group of men, he was not exceptional in build, at one hundred and eighty-three centimetres and eighty kilograms. But he topped the squad in physical endurance, stamina, strength, IQ, and ‘personality and interpersonal skills’. According to Major Thomas Gregory, the designer of the overall test, Cavalier was measurably physically superior by ten percentage points above all others in every trial, and up to twenty per cent better in all intelligence measures. His IQ was one hundred and fifty-one, which put him in a class that could succeed at just about any profession or discipline. But it was his EQ, lateral-thinking capacity, lightning-quick decision-making and leadership skills

3

combined that marked him as something ultra-special. Then, after fifteen days, Gregory asked each man to write down secretly the four in the squad he liked most and who he thought was best equipped to command the entire group. Cavalier was in everyone’s top four and ninety-one named him their chosen commander. In a decade of such trials, no one else had ever come close to being the most popular and also the almost universal choice to command.

The last, most important, challenge was along the remote, sometimes rugged and always picturesque Great Southern coastline, and would whittle down the number of new recruits to thirty. Each man would have to race a hundred kilometres—equivalent to two and a half mara-thons—with a fifty-kilogram pack on his back and carry a rifle. That was tough enough, but every ten kilometres they would have to swim four hundred metres, still with the pack and in water over their heads. Marshals along the route would enforce these rules, and anyone caught cheating would be disqualified from the race and lose any chance of joining the SAS. Anyone breaking down would suffer the same fate.

Just as lightning split the cool night air, the hundred took off at a steady pace. Cavalier was running eightieth as the group reached the lookout at Apex Drive on Middle-ton Beach, then cut down to the sand and swivelled along the water’s edge. At ten kilometres, the puffing participants plunged into the near-freezing water, known to be inhab-ited by whales, porpoises and less inviting sea creatures, such as great white sharks. By the end of the first swim, many competitors were struggling as they lumbered back

4

to the sand, rifles strapped to their backpacks. Cavalier, a strong swimmer, had made up fifty places to be thirtieth and three hundred and fifty metres behind the lead pack. Above them, two helicopters and one noisy gunship swept the water, their light beams picking up the long spread of contestants in case anyone got into difficulties, especially in the sea.

After thirty kilometres of the run and three swims, dawn was breaking over the horizon. Very few of the men appreciated the spectacular start to the day, as lightning continued to sprinkle the view over King George Sound. Some were pacing themselves at the front, while others were now stumbling at the rear. Cavalier was pounding along in tenth place as they approached the end of the fourth ten-kilometre stretch, which meant they were nearing the end of the first marathon. He was fifty metres behind the lead pack when he entered the water and level with them when they emerged onto the sand. A marshal pointed the way and now encouraged each participant, like a football coach urging his players to lift their efforts. But they were not even halfway. It would take more than exhortation from army officials in tracksuits to keep them going. Eighteen men had dropped out, most of them lying slumped on the track. Several were in tears, their dreams of adventure in far-off lands shattered. Visions of return-ing to mundane jobs haunted them and the humiliation of failing even to reach fifty kilometres was overwhelming. All but two of the dropouts had to be treated by paramed-ics trundling in vehicles along the beach road, like jackals waiting for victims to fall.

5

In the fifth swim after fifty kilometres, Cavalier was a hundred metres ahead of the next man when he left the water, which had become choppy and even harder to negotiate. He looked back and saw the gunship hovering high above focusing a light beam on a struggling competi-tor. He tore off his pack and swam to the drowning man. Having managed to haul him to the shallows, he removed his pack, dragged him onto the sand and began to resusci-tate him. The man had taken in a lot of water but within two minutes Cavalier had him breathing and conscious. Moments later, paramedics arrived and stretchered the man up a slope to an ambulance. To applause from some of the others, who had witnessed the rescue, Cavalier trotted back to his pack and then to a halfway station.

The group had the option to break for twenty minutes after four hours of non-stop endeavour, before turning around and repeating the runs and swims until they were back at the finish line at Dog Rock. Cavalier took a drink of water from his pack and stretched out his lower legs, then applied balm to his Achilles tendons and bandaged them before starting out again. Stopping to help a competitor had put him behind four others, who had taken only a few minutes at the halfway pit stop. But Cavalier had them covered before he entered the water for the sixth swim. He emerged ninety seconds ahead, and by the end of the seventh swim was a few kilometres clear of the next batch.

After the swim at eighty kilometres, Cavalier had a slight limp. His left Achilles tendon was hurting. He knew the stabbing pain well and how to stretch the tendon out. But the only real treatment was to stop running. He

6

was five kilometres ahead of the second man, who was now down to a fast stride. Fifty-two of the hundred had dropped out, destroying their chances of being selected for the SAS. After the swim at the ninety-kilometre point, forty-four were still in the race, now only battling their own minds.

Bodies might keep moving, but delirium set in as dehydration took hold. Others might have clear minds but bodies that now would not respond to the everyday instruction of putting one foot after the other. Some just lay on the track, their lungs heaving, hoping to be able to lift themselves to their feet. Officials and paramedics were now closer, ready to stretcher the increasing number of fallen to waiting ambulances.

In the final ten-kilometre stanza, Cavalier, sweat pouring from him, swallowed a painkiller as he ran, now distinctly favouring his left leg. Normally he would have stopped, knowing he could rupture the Achilles tendon, but instead he used the searing pain to focus—each stab meant he was another metre closer to Dog Rock. He began to count in rhythm with his now ungainly jog. At ninety-nine kilo metres, an open-topped army vehicle pulled up next to him. He gave the rugged driver, thirty-year-old Major Gregory, a sideways glance.

‘You’re eight ks ahead of the next bloke!’ Gregory called. ‘If your leg’s buggered, you could walk it in from here and you’d still win easily.’

‘If I . . . stop . . . it might not let me . . . finish . . .’ Cavalier replied with a grimace, squeezing out the words.

‘What’s the problem?’

7

‘Achilles.’‘I told your mum not to dip you in the River Styx!’‘Never listens!’Gregory grinned and said, ‘You’re giving new meaning

to our motto . . .’‘Who Dares Wins?’‘Yeah. With you, it’s “Who Drags Back-leg Wins”.’Gregory waved and drove off. Cavalier limped on until

he reached the big rock shaped like a dog’s head. He had won.

Three days later, Cavalier, on crutches, met Gregory in an office in the greystone Town Hall in Albany’s York Street. The major scrutinised a report and squinted as he looked up at Cavalier.

‘You lost four kilos?’ Gregory asked.Cavalier nodded.‘Hope I don’t find them again.’‘How’s your Achilles?’‘Near enough to ruptured,’ Cavalier said without

emotion. ‘I’ll be on crutches for two or three weeks.’‘Thank you for saving that guy at the halfway point.’‘He’s okay?’‘Yeah, he only had a night in hospital. More than anything

else, he’s depressed about what happened, because he didn’t make the cut. Wants to thank you for saving his life.’

Cavalier nodded.‘You know you won every single test . . .’ Gregory began.‘I’m aware,’ Cavalier said, with a wave of his hand.

8

‘But we can’t take you in,’ the major said, his voice heavy with regret. ‘The rules are clear. If anyone breaks down during or after a trial, they might do so in the field. That would make them a liability in any SAS operation.’

Cavalier ran his hands through his long fair hair. Sadness swept his face for an instant.

‘I’ve been running this test for several years,’ Gregory said, ‘and never had a recruit in your class. But . . .’ He broke off, rubbed his forehead and asked, ‘What will you do career-wise now?’

‘I’ve applied for a job as a journalist in Melbourne. It was a fallback in case . . .’

‘Will you get it?’‘I think so. I’ve been contributing cricket reporting to

the paper for five years. It may help me get a full-time job. I’d like to be an investigative journalist.’

‘You could always try TV reporting.’Cavalier smiled and shook his head.‘My wife saw your picture in the line-up of recruits,’

Gregory said, ‘reckons you’d be a hit on 60 Minutes. Says your flat nose makes you look sexy: like a cross between a young Elvis and a young Brando.’

‘She needs to have her eyes tested,’ Cavalier said, ‘and, anyway, the nose structure has been helped along by a cricket ball. It’s called natural plastic surgery.’

Gregory laughed. ‘No TV then?’ he said.‘Too superficial; too lightweight. What you blokes do is

the real thing. That’s for me.’Gregory scratched his outsized chin and ruminated for

several seconds. ‘Would you be open to some “unofficial”

9

assignments?’ he said. ‘There would be overseas travel. Your exceptional skills would be put to good use.’

‘Such as?’‘Can’t tell you that. Look,’ Gregory continued, while

standing, ‘I’ve spoken to senior commanders about you. They agree that we should do more than keep in touch.’

‘Then do that, by all means,’ Cavalier said.

10

DEATH OF A DEPUTY

THE PRESENTIt was a professional hit. A man was felled by a single bullet to the head outside a brothel off Lygon Street in the Melbourne suburb of Carlton. The time was 10.25 p.m. on a Friday. The area was sealed off and police forensic experts were doing their thing, taking bullet fragments away and examining the area. No one had heard a sound, which indicated the killer had used a silencer. No one had seen anything either. Police searched the buildings and set up roadblocks.

Attention turned to identifying the murdered man. He had been protected by four armed bodyguards, who were unhappy about being taken into custody for questioning, along with six members of a Melbourne underworld gang. The gang members had hosted the victim and his guards at the Melbourne Cricket Ground, where they had watched

11

a football match between Carlton and Melbourne. The sex workers and male clients at the brothel were also interrogated.

At midnight, when the police were still gathering informa-tion, reporter Vic Cavalier was five kilo metres away at his home in the bayside suburb of St Kilda, watching a replay of the game. He could hear his girlfriend, Martha, stomping around in the bedroom upstairs, occasionally yelling some-thing to him. It had been going on ever since he’d flicked on the TV. She was upset that he’d been at the game and that now, instead of engaging with her, he was watching the game again. A half-bottle of Scotch was sitting on a coffee table, and he was well into his third double when he received a call from his newspaper’s editor, Shelley Driscoll.

‘Can you attend a crime scene?’‘Shelley, I’m having a drink . . .’‘I thought you’d cut back . . .?’‘I’ve been to the footy . . . Feeling a bit down.’ He

glanced at his watch. ‘It’s after midnight!’‘Are you watching the replay?!’‘I’m relaxing.’‘But Melbourne was thrashed, wasn’t it? I’ve never

heard of a fan wanting to replay such a bad loss straight after experiencing it live!’

‘I want to see where they went wrong,’ he said uncon-vincingly. ‘I’m . . . you know . . . more of a “forensic” fan.’

‘I want you at the scene. It’s a murder and maybe a gangland job.’

12

‘Why me? You’ve just cut my days to three a week.’‘This needs an experienced journo. There’s something

odd about it. I’m asking you to go, Vic.’Cavalier sipped his drink. ‘Can’t you send one of your

full-timers?’‘Okay, I’m ordering you to go! You know you’re treading

on thin ice as it is.’‘That’s blackmail!’‘No, it’s an employer asking an old-pro employee to get

his arse to Carlton.’He’d just put the phone down when Martha, who had

moved in only a fortnight ago, stormed into the living room, suitcase in hand.

‘I heard that call,’ she said. ‘You’re pissing off on a job after being at the bloody football all night. I’m not putting up with it anymore!’

Cavalier gestured helplessly.‘If you’re not on some fucking cricket tour, it’s golf

or god knows what!’ Martha brushed him away. ‘You’re drinking again, when you promised you’d stop!’ She sobbed. ‘I thought moving in with you might help. But it’s worse!’

She bustled out and slammed the front door. He heard her car start up and then career off.

‘Shit!’ Cavalier muttered as he slapped a black leather cap on his head, slipped into a warm jacket and hurried off, his bag holding an iPad and camera slung over his shoulder. He wove his car in and out of the very-early-morning traffic, being careful not to run red lights, a misdemeanour that had seen him accrue a lot of demerit points. One more and he’d lose his licence. He was also worried about the alcohol

13

he’d consumed. He’d had nothing at the football but the three stiff Scotches since would have put him over the limit. Still, he tended to be a brisk driver at the most relaxed times, and now he was in a hurry and put his foot down. He gunned the car along Kings Way, and then into Carlton, near Melbourne University. Just as he reached the roped-off crime scene area, he heard the siren of the police car hot on his tail.

Cavalier walked briskly to the plainclothes and other police at the crime scene, flashing his press pass. He approached Bill Grant, a moustachioed man of about fifty, who was the state’s top homicide cop.

‘Vic,’ Grant said with a wry smile, extending a hand, ‘thought you’d retired!’

‘Not quite, mate.’They both looked around to see two cops closing in on

Cavalier on foot.‘Sir,’ one of them, a young female, said, ‘this man was

speeding along Grattan Street. We . . .’‘That’s okay, Constable,’ Grant said, taking her aside,

‘I asked him to come in quickly. He has some information vital to this investigation. But you’ve done the right thing.’

The young cops retreated. Cavalier looked inquiringly at Grant.

‘I rang your editor,’ Grant said, a serious expression replac-ing his languid world-weariness. ‘I wanted you here.’ They walked back towards an alley. ‘Want a look at the body?’

‘Not really.’‘C’mon. Helps focus the mind.’Light rain began to fall as they wandered over to the

body lying under a sheet on the alley’s cobblestones. A cop

14

pulled back the sheet and Cavalier braced himself. There was a huge hole in the front of the victim’s head. The bullet had struck nearly dead centre of the forehead, about four centimetres above the eyes. The brain was exposed, with parts of it and blood dripping from the skull.

‘No smell yet,’ Grant proffered, ‘so we reckon the deed was done within the last two hours.’

Cavalier stared until the homicide cop covered the body. ‘Haven’t seen one like that for a while,’ he said. ‘Do we know who he is?’

‘Thought you’d be interested in that, given your exper-tise on the drug lords,’ Grant said, pulling two passports from his pockets. ‘A Mexican: Virgillo Labasta.’ He showed Cavalier one passport and then the other. ‘He entered the country on this one, which is false. Know him?’

‘I certainly do,’ Cavalier said with a frown, ‘he’s number two in the world’s biggest drug cartel.’ They locked eyes. ‘He’s the cousin of the big boss, Leonardo Mendez.’

‘Hmmm,’ Grant said, realising the size of the case, ‘I recall you said to me about five or six years ago that Mendez was top of your list of suspects of those behind your daughter’s disappearance . . .’

‘Yeah,’ Cavalier said. ‘Mendez was big then. He’s huge now.’

They both looked down at the body again, before Grant smiled briefly and said, ‘Someone may inadvertently have done you a big favour.’

Cavalier gave a non-committal nod and said: ‘I’d like to do more research on this bloke. My file on Mendez is big, but not my file on this one.’

15

‘If we learn anything, we’ll let you know.’Cavalier was distracted by the sight of a tall Asian

woman in a fashionable three-quarter coat and brown leather cap.

‘Do we have any idea why Labasta was here?’ he asked. ‘He was clearly doing business, but with whom?’

‘Educated guess,’ Grant said, waving a hand at the brothel. ‘This lovely place is owned by Kev “Caveman” Mollini.’

‘Okay. It has to be a drug deal of some sort.’‘It wouldn’t be electrical goods from Thailand and

Mexico, although his card claims this business.’‘Thailand?’‘Chiang Mai based.’Cavalier shrugged. ‘A Mexican drug cartel branching

out in South East Asia,’ he murmured as he took out a notepad and scribbled.

The tall Asian woman came close, bent down, removed the sheet and examined the body. Cavalier stared, noticing her large brown eyes and full lips. She glanced up, caught his gaze and looked away. The woman covered the body again, stood, flicked back her long black hair and began taking shots with a camera of surrounding buildings.

‘Nice hat,’ Cavalier said to her. She looked around, glanced at his hat, gave the barest hint of a smile and went on taking shots.

‘Who’s that?’ he whispered to Grant.‘Jacinta Cin Lai. She’s a “Thai special investigator”,

working with the feds,’ he replied, with more than a hint of disdain.

16

‘The feds? Are they onto this?’‘The Wombat was here sniffing around about half an

hour ago. You just missed him.’‘Do we know what she’s investigating, exactly?’‘I asked the Wombat. He wasn’t too forthcoming.’

Grant paused. ‘I hate the feds interfering.’‘What else?’The cop shrugged and gestured to the body. ‘All I know

is that a lot of shit is going to fly off the fan.’

First published in 2015

Copyright © Roland Perry 2015

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin 83 Alexander Street Crows Nest NSW 2065 Australia Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100 Email: info@allenandunwin.com Web: www.allenandunwin.com

Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the National Library of Australia www.trove.nla.gov.au

ISBN 978 1 76029 142 6

Set in 12.5/16.5 pt Adobe Caslon by Midland Typesetters, AustraliaPrinted and bound in Australia by Griffin Press

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

The paper in this book is FSC® certified.FSC® promotes environmentally responsible, socially beneficial and economically viable management of the world’s forests.C009448

Also by Roland Perry

FictionProgram for a Puppet

Blood is a StrangerFaces in the Rain

Non-FictionThe Queen, Her Lover and the Most Notorious

Spy in HistoryHorrie: the War Dog

Bill the BastardThe Fight for Australia [aka Pacific 360]

The Changi BrownlowThe Australian Light HorseLast of the Cold War Spies

The Fifth ManMonash: The Outsider Who Won a War

The Programming of the PresidentThe Exile: Wilfred Burchett, Reporter of Conflict

Mel Gibson, Actor, Director, ProducerLethal Hero

Sailing to the MoonElections Sur Ordinateur

Bradman’s InvinciblesThe Ashes

Miller’s Luck: The Life and Loves of Keith Miller, Australia’s Greatest All-Rounder

Bradman’s BestBradman’s Best Ashes Teams

The DonCaptain Australia: A History of the Celebrated Captains

of Australian Test CricketBold WarnieWaugh’s Way

Shane Warne, Master Spinner

Documentary FilmsThe Programming of the PresidentThe Raising of a Galleon’s Ghost

Strike SwiftlyTed Kennedy & the Pollsters

The Force

1

PROLOGUE

35 YEARS AGOTwo hours before dawn on a cool August morning, one hundred athletic men lined up at Dog Rock on the Middleton Beach Road, just outside Albany, Western Australia. Only thirty of this elite group would be selected for the next batch of recruits to join Australia’s Special Air Service Regiment commando force.

So far, these hardened specimens from all over the nation had been through an extraordinarily gruelling physical and mental examination. Over four weeks, they had been weeded out from the three hundred and eighty-three-strong starting squad, on the basis of their aptitudes for combat, swimming, running, shooting (rifle and small arms), and weaponry, which included machine guns, hand-held rocket launchers and detonation. They had all been grilled to assess their acuity in mathematics, English

2

expression, map reading, tactical skills, general discipline and team work.

Leaders had emerged in the first week, with, in the Australian tradition, the best taking command almost by osmosis, no matter their backgrounds. Nine of the hundred had tertiary qualifications. One was a doctor; another, a civil engineer. Nine were professional fighters of cage and ring, from boxing, wrestling, and martial arts, including Muay Thai. There were four circus perform-ers, and eight former professional footballers, most from Australian Rules, which, of all ball games, demands the greatest stamina. The remaining seventy had come from three hundred and nineteen members of the armed forces who had originally applied to join this most formidable of all combat forces.

The most outstanding individual, twenty-three year-old Victor Cavalier, had come from the air force, where he had trained as both a navigator and pilot. In this group of men, he was not exceptional in build, at one hundred and eighty-three centimetres and eighty kilograms. But he topped the squad in physical endurance, stamina, strength, IQ, and ‘personality and interpersonal skills’. According to Major Thomas Gregory, the designer of the overall test, Cavalier was measurably physically superior by ten percentage points above all others in every trial, and up to twenty per cent better in all intelligence measures. His IQ was one hundred and fifty-one, which put him in a class that could succeed at just about any profession or discipline. But it was his EQ, lateral-thinking capacity, lightning-quick decision-making and leadership skills

3

combined that marked him as something ultra-special. Then, after fifteen days, Gregory asked each man to write down secretly the four in the squad he liked most and who he thought was best equipped to command the entire group. Cavalier was in everyone’s top four and ninety-one named him their chosen commander. In a decade of such trials, no one else had ever come close to being the most popular and also the almost universal choice to command.

The last, most important, challenge was along the remote, sometimes rugged and always picturesque Great Southern coastline, and would whittle down the number of new recruits to thirty. Each man would have to race a hundred kilometres—equivalent to two and a half mara-thons—with a fifty-kilogram pack on his back and carry a rifle. That was tough enough, but every ten kilometres they would have to swim four hundred metres, still with the pack and in water over their heads. Marshals along the route would enforce these rules, and anyone caught cheating would be disqualified from the race and lose any chance of joining the SAS. Anyone breaking down would suffer the same fate.

Just as lightning split the cool night air, the hundred took off at a steady pace. Cavalier was running eightieth as the group reached the lookout at Apex Drive on Middle-ton Beach, then cut down to the sand and swivelled along the water’s edge. At ten kilometres, the puffing participants plunged into the near-freezing water, known to be inhab-ited by whales, porpoises and less inviting sea creatures, such as great white sharks. By the end of the first swim, many competitors were struggling as they lumbered back

4

to the sand, rifles strapped to their backpacks. Cavalier, a strong swimmer, had made up fifty places to be thirtieth and three hundred and fifty metres behind the lead pack. Above them, two helicopters and one noisy gunship swept the water, their light beams picking up the long spread of contestants in case anyone got into difficulties, especially in the sea.

After thirty kilometres of the run and three swims, dawn was breaking over the horizon. Very few of the men appreciated the spectacular start to the day, as lightning continued to sprinkle the view over King George Sound. Some were pacing themselves at the front, while others were now stumbling at the rear. Cavalier was pounding along in tenth place as they approached the end of the fourth ten-kilometre stretch, which meant they were nearing the end of the first marathon. He was fifty metres behind the lead pack when he entered the water and level with them when they emerged onto the sand. A marshal pointed the way and now encouraged each participant, like a football coach urging his players to lift their efforts. But they were not even halfway. It would take more than exhortation from army officials in tracksuits to keep them going. Eighteen men had dropped out, most of them lying slumped on the track. Several were in tears, their dreams of adventure in far-off lands shattered. Visions of return-ing to mundane jobs haunted them and the humiliation of failing even to reach fifty kilometres was overwhelming. All but two of the dropouts had to be treated by paramed-ics trundling in vehicles along the beach road, like jackals waiting for victims to fall.

5

In the fifth swim after fifty kilometres, Cavalier was a hundred metres ahead of the next man when he left the water, which had become choppy and even harder to negotiate. He looked back and saw the gunship hovering high above focusing a light beam on a struggling competi-tor. He tore off his pack and swam to the drowning man. Having managed to haul him to the shallows, he removed his pack, dragged him onto the sand and began to resusci-tate him. The man had taken in a lot of water but within two minutes Cavalier had him breathing and conscious. Moments later, paramedics arrived and stretchered the man up a slope to an ambulance. To applause from some of the others, who had witnessed the rescue, Cavalier trotted back to his pack and then to a halfway station.

The group had the option to break for twenty minutes after four hours of non-stop endeavour, before turning around and repeating the runs and swims until they were back at the finish line at Dog Rock. Cavalier took a drink of water from his pack and stretched out his lower legs, then applied balm to his Achilles tendons and bandaged them before starting out again. Stopping to help a competitor had put him behind four others, who had taken only a few minutes at the halfway pit stop. But Cavalier had them covered before he entered the water for the sixth swim. He emerged ninety seconds ahead, and by the end of the seventh swim was a few kilometres clear of the next batch.

After the swim at eighty kilometres, Cavalier had a slight limp. His left Achilles tendon was hurting. He knew the stabbing pain well and how to stretch the tendon out. But the only real treatment was to stop running. He

6

was five kilometres ahead of the second man, who was now down to a fast stride. Fifty-two of the hundred had dropped out, destroying their chances of being selected for the SAS. After the swim at the ninety-kilometre point, forty-four were still in the race, now only battling their own minds.

Bodies might keep moving, but delirium set in as dehydration took hold. Others might have clear minds but bodies that now would not respond to the everyday instruction of putting one foot after the other. Some just lay on the track, their lungs heaving, hoping to be able to lift themselves to their feet. Officials and paramedics were now closer, ready to stretcher the increasing number of fallen to waiting ambulances.

In the final ten-kilometre stanza, Cavalier, sweat pouring from him, swallowed a painkiller as he ran, now distinctly favouring his left leg. Normally he would have stopped, knowing he could rupture the Achilles tendon, but instead he used the searing pain to focus—each stab meant he was another metre closer to Dog Rock. He began to count in rhythm with his now ungainly jog. At ninety-nine kilo metres, an open-topped army vehicle pulled up next to him. He gave the rugged driver, thirty-year-old Major Gregory, a sideways glance.

‘You’re eight ks ahead of the next bloke!’ Gregory called. ‘If your leg’s buggered, you could walk it in from here and you’d still win easily.’

‘If I . . . stop . . . it might not let me . . . finish . . .’ Cavalier replied with a grimace, squeezing out the words.

‘What’s the problem?’

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‘Achilles.’‘I told your mum not to dip you in the River Styx!’‘Never listens!’Gregory grinned and said, ‘You’re giving new meaning

to our motto . . .’‘Who Dares Wins?’‘Yeah. With you, it’s “Who Drags Back-leg Wins”.’Gregory waved and drove off. Cavalier limped on until

he reached the big rock shaped like a dog’s head. He had won.

Three days later, Cavalier, on crutches, met Gregory in an office in the greystone Town Hall in Albany’s York Street. The major scrutinised a report and squinted as he looked up at Cavalier.

‘You lost four kilos?’ Gregory asked.Cavalier nodded.‘Hope I don’t find them again.’‘How’s your Achilles?’‘Near enough to ruptured,’ Cavalier said without

emotion. ‘I’ll be on crutches for two or three weeks.’‘Thank you for saving that guy at the halfway point.’‘He’s okay?’‘Yeah, he only had a night in hospital. More than anything

else, he’s depressed about what happened, because he didn’t make the cut. Wants to thank you for saving his life.’

Cavalier nodded.‘You know you won every single test . . .’ Gregory began.‘I’m aware,’ Cavalier said, with a wave of his hand.

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‘But we can’t take you in,’ the major said, his voice heavy with regret. ‘The rules are clear. If anyone breaks down during or after a trial, they might do so in the field. That would make them a liability in any SAS operation.’

Cavalier ran his hands through his long fair hair. Sadness swept his face for an instant.

‘I’ve been running this test for several years,’ Gregory said, ‘and never had a recruit in your class. But . . .’ He broke off, rubbed his forehead and asked, ‘What will you do career-wise now?’

‘I’ve applied for a job as a journalist in Melbourne. It was a fallback in case . . .’

‘Will you get it?’‘I think so. I’ve been contributing cricket reporting to

the paper for five years. It may help me get a full-time job. I’d like to be an investigative journalist.’

‘You could always try TV reporting.’Cavalier smiled and shook his head.‘My wife saw your picture in the line-up of recruits,’

Gregory said, ‘reckons you’d be a hit on 60 Minutes. Says your flat nose makes you look sexy: like a cross between a young Elvis and a young Brando.’

‘She needs to have her eyes tested,’ Cavalier said, ‘and, anyway, the nose structure has been helped along by a cricket ball. It’s called natural plastic surgery.’

Gregory laughed. ‘No TV then?’ he said.‘Too superficial; too lightweight. What you blokes do is

the real thing. That’s for me.’Gregory scratched his outsized chin and ruminated for

several seconds. ‘Would you be open to some “unofficial”

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assignments?’ he said. ‘There would be overseas travel. Your exceptional skills would be put to good use.’

‘Such as?’‘Can’t tell you that. Look,’ Gregory continued, while

standing, ‘I’ve spoken to senior commanders about you. They agree that we should do more than keep in touch.’

‘Then do that, by all means,’ Cavalier said.

10

DEATH OF A DEPUTY

THE PRESENTIt was a professional hit. A man was felled by a single bullet to the head outside a brothel off Lygon Street in the Melbourne suburb of Carlton. The time was 10.25 p.m. on a Friday. The area was sealed off and police forensic experts were doing their thing, taking bullet fragments away and examining the area. No one had heard a sound, which indicated the killer had used a silencer. No one had seen anything either. Police searched the buildings and set up roadblocks.

Attention turned to identifying the murdered man. He had been protected by four armed bodyguards, who were unhappy about being taken into custody for questioning, along with six members of a Melbourne underworld gang. The gang members had hosted the victim and his guards at the Melbourne Cricket Ground, where they had watched

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a football match between Carlton and Melbourne. The sex workers and male clients at the brothel were also interrogated.

At midnight, when the police were still gathering informa-tion, reporter Vic Cavalier was five kilo metres away at his home in the bayside suburb of St Kilda, watching a replay of the game. He could hear his girlfriend, Martha, stomping around in the bedroom upstairs, occasionally yelling some-thing to him. It had been going on ever since he’d flicked on the TV. She was upset that he’d been at the game and that now, instead of engaging with her, he was watching the game again. A half-bottle of Scotch was sitting on a coffee table, and he was well into his third double when he received a call from his newspaper’s editor, Shelley Driscoll.

‘Can you attend a crime scene?’‘Shelley, I’m having a drink . . .’‘I thought you’d cut back . . .?’‘I’ve been to the footy . . . Feeling a bit down.’ He

glanced at his watch. ‘It’s after midnight!’‘Are you watching the replay?!’‘I’m relaxing.’‘But Melbourne was thrashed, wasn’t it? I’ve never

heard of a fan wanting to replay such a bad loss straight after experiencing it live!’

‘I want to see where they went wrong,’ he said uncon-vincingly. ‘I’m . . . you know . . . more of a “forensic” fan.’

‘I want you at the scene. It’s a murder and maybe a gangland job.’

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‘Why me? You’ve just cut my days to three a week.’‘This needs an experienced journo. There’s something

odd about it. I’m asking you to go, Vic.’Cavalier sipped his drink. ‘Can’t you send one of your

full-timers?’‘Okay, I’m ordering you to go! You know you’re treading

on thin ice as it is.’‘That’s blackmail!’‘No, it’s an employer asking an old-pro employee to get

his arse to Carlton.’He’d just put the phone down when Martha, who had

moved in only a fortnight ago, stormed into the living room, suitcase in hand.

‘I heard that call,’ she said. ‘You’re pissing off on a job after being at the bloody football all night. I’m not putting up with it anymore!’

Cavalier gestured helplessly.‘If you’re not on some fucking cricket tour, it’s golf

or god knows what!’ Martha brushed him away. ‘You’re drinking again, when you promised you’d stop!’ She sobbed. ‘I thought moving in with you might help. But it’s worse!’

She bustled out and slammed the front door. He heard her car start up and then career off.

‘Shit!’ Cavalier muttered as he slapped a black leather cap on his head, slipped into a warm jacket and hurried off, his bag holding an iPad and camera slung over his shoulder. He wove his car in and out of the very-early-morning traffic, being careful not to run red lights, a misdemeanour that had seen him accrue a lot of demerit points. One more and he’d lose his licence. He was also worried about the alcohol

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he’d consumed. He’d had nothing at the football but the three stiff Scotches since would have put him over the limit. Still, he tended to be a brisk driver at the most relaxed times, and now he was in a hurry and put his foot down. He gunned the car along Kings Way, and then into Carlton, near Melbourne University. Just as he reached the roped-off crime scene area, he heard the siren of the police car hot on his tail.

Cavalier walked briskly to the plainclothes and other police at the crime scene, flashing his press pass. He approached Bill Grant, a moustachioed man of about fifty, who was the state’s top homicide cop.

‘Vic,’ Grant said with a wry smile, extending a hand, ‘thought you’d retired!’

‘Not quite, mate.’They both looked around to see two cops closing in on

Cavalier on foot.‘Sir,’ one of them, a young female, said, ‘this man was

speeding along Grattan Street. We . . .’‘That’s okay, Constable,’ Grant said, taking her aside,

‘I asked him to come in quickly. He has some information vital to this investigation. But you’ve done the right thing.’

The young cops retreated. Cavalier looked inquiringly at Grant.

‘I rang your editor,’ Grant said, a serious expression replac-ing his languid world-weariness. ‘I wanted you here.’ They walked back towards an alley. ‘Want a look at the body?’

‘Not really.’‘C’mon. Helps focus the mind.’Light rain began to fall as they wandered over to the

body lying under a sheet on the alley’s cobblestones. A cop

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pulled back the sheet and Cavalier braced himself. There was a huge hole in the front of the victim’s head. The bullet had struck nearly dead centre of the forehead, about four centimetres above the eyes. The brain was exposed, with parts of it and blood dripping from the skull.

‘No smell yet,’ Grant proffered, ‘so we reckon the deed was done within the last two hours.’

Cavalier stared until the homicide cop covered the body. ‘Haven’t seen one like that for a while,’ he said. ‘Do we know who he is?’

‘Thought you’d be interested in that, given your exper-tise on the drug lords,’ Grant said, pulling two passports from his pockets. ‘A Mexican: Virgillo Labasta.’ He showed Cavalier one passport and then the other. ‘He entered the country on this one, which is false. Know him?’

‘I certainly do,’ Cavalier said with a frown, ‘he’s number two in the world’s biggest drug cartel.’ They locked eyes. ‘He’s the cousin of the big boss, Leonardo Mendez.’

‘Hmmm,’ Grant said, realising the size of the case, ‘I recall you said to me about five or six years ago that Mendez was top of your list of suspects of those behind your daughter’s disappearance . . .’

‘Yeah,’ Cavalier said. ‘Mendez was big then. He’s huge now.’

They both looked down at the body again, before Grant smiled briefly and said, ‘Someone may inadvertently have done you a big favour.’

Cavalier gave a non-committal nod and said: ‘I’d like to do more research on this bloke. My file on Mendez is big, but not my file on this one.’

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‘If we learn anything, we’ll let you know.’Cavalier was distracted by the sight of a tall Asian

woman in a fashionable three-quarter coat and brown leather cap.

‘Do we have any idea why Labasta was here?’ he asked. ‘He was clearly doing business, but with whom?’

‘Educated guess,’ Grant said, waving a hand at the brothel. ‘This lovely place is owned by Kev “Caveman” Mollini.’

‘Okay. It has to be a drug deal of some sort.’‘It wouldn’t be electrical goods from Thailand and

Mexico, although his card claims this business.’‘Thailand?’‘Chiang Mai based.’Cavalier shrugged. ‘A Mexican drug cartel branching

out in South East Asia,’ he murmured as he took out a notepad and scribbled.

The tall Asian woman came close, bent down, removed the sheet and examined the body. Cavalier stared, noticing her large brown eyes and full lips. She glanced up, caught his gaze and looked away. The woman covered the body again, stood, flicked back her long black hair and began taking shots with a camera of surrounding buildings.

‘Nice hat,’ Cavalier said to her. She looked around, glanced at his hat, gave the barest hint of a smile and went on taking shots.

‘Who’s that?’ he whispered to Grant.‘Jacinta Cin Lai. She’s a “Thai special investigator”,

working with the feds,’ he replied, with more than a hint of disdain.

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‘The feds? Are they onto this?’‘The Wombat was here sniffing around about half an

hour ago. You just missed him.’‘Do we know what she’s investigating, exactly?’‘I asked the Wombat. He wasn’t too forthcoming.’

Grant paused. ‘I hate the feds interfering.’‘What else?’The cop shrugged and gestured to the body. ‘All I know

is that a lot of shit is going to fly off the fan.’