Assassin (3 page)

There were photographs of other people as well. Candid shots like hers, the subjects clearly unaware they were being photographed.

She’d checked their names online, to see what she could find:

Vladimir Gorkesky. Russian national. Missing, presumed dead.

Susan Falluma. Turkish national. Found shot in the head in her home.

Nicolas Santer. British national. Missing, presumed dead.

Nicolas Santer’s disappearance appeared to be the most recent, not counting Mak’s own. It was a big deal back in London, if the online news was anything to go by. Santer had pissed someone off and had fled with a lot of wealth that was not his own. Luther had got rid of him, just as he had got rid of the others.

They were all marks. They were all dead. Except Mak.

The assassin had kept notes on his grim work and those who hired him for it. She’d found communications with agents he referred to with single letters. Encrypted emails. Encrypted files. It wasn’t all spelled out, exactly, but it was there. The numbered sequences would be territory codes or bank accounts or phone sequences; the letters indicated names. She’d searched online for matches, but hadn’t found any yet. A professional could, though. A forensic technician could. This little laptop could, perhaps, seal the fate of the Cavanaghs. Here was an electronic trail that led back to them. A real forensic trail — she was sure of it. If she could find a way, she would get it to the police, or to the media. Someone she could entrust with taking the Cavanagh family down. Someone who wouldn’t give up. She had some ideas about who that would be.

Mak wanted justice for what the Cavanaghs had done. She wanted justice for their innocent victims — the unnamed Thai girl found in the dumpster, Megan Wallace who’d filmed Damien Cavanagh with the girl, and everyone else who had found themselves disposed of in the cover-up.

Especially Bogey.

She wanted justice for Bogey — her lover — the man she’d fallen in love with and who Luther had killed for no reason other than the fact he was looking for her in Paris when she was chained up in that cellar. He might have alerted police, so he was silenced.

Bogey had done nothing. He’d known nothing. He’d simply got in the way.

Makedde cast her gaze over the icons on the desktop of Luther Hand’s computer as her mind came into focus. She took a sip of water, the glass clinking for an instant against Luther’s loaded Glock on the bedside table. It was nearly five a.m., the computer told her. In Australia it would already be the next day. She wondered what her friends were doing, what her former lover Andy was doing. She thought of him often. Wondering. Would he, in time, forget her? Mak finished the glass and felt the cool water filter all the way down to her hollow, still upset belly. She should probably eat something.

Resigned to wakefulness, she reached for the remote and flicked on Luther’s flat-screen television to CNN’s news coverage, the volume low. An artificial glow filled the room, along with a reassuring murmur of her native English. She swung her long legs out of the bed again and padded to the kitchen to turn on the kettle and scoff two dry crackers in quick succession.

Andy.

She wondered what he thought had happened to her. She wondered what he would say if he knew.

Mak prepared a cup of tea, returned to the bathroom and rested it on the sink edge. The air still smelled of Chanel No. 5 and something less pleasant. She washed her hands thoroughly
and arranged her tools before her. Years of modelling had taught her about the power of makeup, but now she used it not to beautify but to disguise. Though it was early in the morning and she was unlikely to encounter anyone on the streets, she felt she could not risk leaving the apartment looking too much like her former self. She tied her hair into a tight ponytail at the nape of her neck and raised a makeup brush to her dyed and shaped eyebrows. With a deft hand she darkened them further, emphasising the arch, then applied a quick coat of black mascara over her naturally blonde eyelashes. She smoothed a light layer of 30+ SPF foundation over her skin from forehead to chest, a shade or two paler than her natural complexion. She took another brush and swept a smudge of darkness under her eyes — eyes that seemed a brighter shade of blue-green with her newly black hair. The darkness under her eyelids was not flattering, but it wasn’t meant to be. It gave the effect of shadow, and subtly deeper-set eyes. She painted her full lips with quick dabs of a matte, earthy lipstick. Immediately her sensual mouth appeared smaller. Finally, with a hand that shook slightly, she took her dead lover’s black-rimmed spectacles and slid them on. She’d replaced the original scratched lenses with non-prescription glass. She’d already considered this was, perhaps, an overly morbid ritual, but Bogey’s glasses served the dual purposes of changing her appearance in a simple but effective way, and acting as a kind of link to him. In any event, she couldn’t bring herself to toss them away. This was all she had left of him.

Bogey would understand
, she thought, and that’s what seemed to matter.

Mak stared into the mirror and wondered what her eyes still had left to see. Transformed, she walked back to the bedroom,
slipped on a sports bra and panties, track-pants and a warm, sleeveless hoodie, and tied her running shoes tight over low socks. Strapped against her ribs, where it chafed the least, was a nine-millimetre Glock. She would not leave the apartment without it.

At five-fifteen she switched off the perimeter alarm system, stepped into the narrow stairwell, turned both bolts until the apartment was secure and switched the alarm back on again. Across from her was the entrance to the only other apartment on her level. She’d watched the owner come and go a couple of times from the safety of the security peephole in Luther’s door. It was an old woman — no threat. And she was never up this early.

Mak did not bother with the elevator. It was barely large enough to turn around in, and after her experience in that farmhouse cellar she’d developed a strong aversion to small spaces. She preferred the stairs, and she took them now, bouncing a little on each tiled step, stopping to circle her ankles and stretch her legs at the bottom before walking out into the dark, narrow street, Carrer de Bertrellans. There was the typically European smell of urine in the streets, which always seemed to be there before the rains or street cleaners washed it away. Bags of garbage had been left out for collection overnight.

Mak strode to Santa Anna, warming up with a jog before breaking out in a solid sprint, her running shoes falling quickly and quietly on the old stone streets. The sun was not set to rise for over an hour, and the vast square in front of Barcelona’s dramatic gothic thirteenth-century cathedral, Catedral de la Santa Creu I Santa Eulàlia, was empty save for flocks of pigeons. The skies glowed a midnight blue above, the moon
invisible behind low cloud. As she ran briskly across the square, past the remains of first-century Roman aqueducts and city walls, and up the steps of the cathedral, she thought briefly of the tale of Saint Eulàlia, the co-patron of Barcelona to whom the cathedral was dedicated. As the story went, she was a virgin who was stripped naked in the square before a miraculous, sudden snowfall covered her to preserve her modesty. The enraged Romans then sealed her into a barrel and stuck it with sharp knives before rolling her through the streets. Her body lay entombed in the old crypt under the cathedral. Unlike modern Hollywood horror tales, chastity did not exempt young women from torture and death in Roman times, it seemed. But it did make religious martyrdom possible.

Mak pushed herself harder with every stride up the cathedral steps and along the winding streets around the impressive church, as gargoyles of horned bulls and snarling dogs and unicorns and other mythical creatures peered down at her just as they had watched other passersby for centuries.

She ran the streets, her mind puzzling over the choices before her and the tasks ahead. Mak was no martyr. She resolved to again stay in during the daylight hours, as was her custom, and spend the evening in her usual spot, practising for what inevitably was to come. But soon, she would need to break out of the security of those routines. She needed to abandon Luther’s apartment. She needed to leave Barcelona.

And to do that, she had to find a new identity.

There is no luck
, she told herself.
Only preparation.

Preparation is everything.

She was nearly ready.

Dark clouds moved over the shores of Sydney’s moneyed suburb of Rose Bay, the idyllic blue water turning black and choppy. A lone outrigger canoe made its way over increasing white caps, bobbing up and down in the surf next to moored boats. Along the quiet shoreline, joggers rugged up for a sprint back, pulling on hoodies. Mothers turned designer prams around as the first cool drops of rain began to fall.

Jack Cavanagh, patriarch of one of Australia’s richest and most influential families, observed the darkening autumn day from the railing of the
Rosebud
— a forty-plus-metre Oceanco Idefix yacht named in reference to Hearst, the American publishing tycoon. The light rain did not bother him, the trade-off being a moment of solitude. After a lunch of fresh seafood accompanied by a view of the Sydney Harbour Bridge designed to impress the visiting VIPs, the other men had moved inside with their host — a publishing magnate and former politician — and the striking boat had begun to make its way back towards Woollahra Sailing Club at a leisurely pace. On deck, the salty air stung Jack’s eyes. He was troubled
by what he perceived to be a subtle shift in the dynamic of this once welcoming guild of influential men. The host was hospitable, as always, but Cameron Goldsworthy, the British dotcom billionaire, had seemed to distance himself from Jack in front of the others. And there had been a certain amount of whispering, he’d thought. A kind of discomfort with his presence.

Jack brought the lip of a delicate flute of champagne to his mouth and sipped. It was losing its fizz.

He sensed movement on the deck, heard footsteps; Cameron Goldsworthy appeared at his side. ‘I thought we ought to chat,’ the man said.

‘Of course,’ Jack replied and gave a tight smile. He and Cameron had unfinished business. An unfinished business deal, to be exact. ‘How long are you in town?’ he asked casually.

‘Just a week before heading to Cannes. You?’

‘Not going anywhere at the moment,’ Jack replied, his tired eyes watching the horizon again. He balanced his warm flute of champagne on the edge of the rail, fist wrapped around the stem.

‘How’s your lovely wife? What is her name again?’ Cameron asked.

‘Beverley’s fine. And your new bride?’

‘Oh, fine.’

Cameron leaned against the rail and caught Jack’s eye, offering a disingenuous smile with a mouth full of perfectly white cosmetic dental work. Despite being close to Jack in age, he was a man with a vernal, youthful air about him, arguably thanks to the influence of his third, much younger wife, Catriona, a well-known South African fashion model. Their recent lavish wedding had been covered extensively in
the press. Jack and his wife, Beverley, had not been invited. It was the first clear signal that there was a problem between the two men, and that there was clearly some reason, beyond cold, hard business, for why the negotiations between them had stalled, though only six months earlier it had looked likely that one of Goldsworthy’s companies would make a significant investment in Cavanagh Incorporated’s transport arm. In certain ways, Cameron had the lifestyle and international reputation Jack coveted and the association would have been good not only for business reasons but for Jack’s international reputation. Goldsworthy had made a lot of money during the first dotcom boom, investing in all the right places and pulling out before the crash that bankrupted so many in the nineties. He counted several Hollywood celebrities and European royals as close friends. He had his own multimillion-dollar super-yacht, twice the size of the vessel they were on today, and it popped up in all the right places throughout the year: Cannes, Monaco and in Australia for the annual Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race and accompanying billionaire social season.

Jack watched his companion warily, silently, deciding not to broach the subject of their previous business negotiations. Cameron Goldsworthy, for his part, seemed in no rush to get to this ‘chat’ they needed to have. He put his hand out, detected the light rain and shrugged, and when he pulled a fresh cigar from a pocket in his pale blue Brioni sports jacket, a deck hand arrived out of nowhere to smile unobtrusively and to cut the cigar end for him. The deck hand offered the two men fresh champagne and caviar on blinis, both of which they refused, and then vanished as quickly as he had arrived.

Once they were alone again, Cameron leaned on the rail and casually offered his lit cigar to Jack, who shook his head.
Cameron took a leisurely puff and the aromatic smoke drifted past Jack’s nose.

‘I hear Beverley is in Europe,’ Cameron finally said. ‘Lovely woman, Beverley. She’s been very loyal, hasn’t she?’

Jack nodded, sensing something disagreeable in the tone of the haughty British accent. Beverley had decided to take a sudden holiday to Europe without him. They hadn’t spoken much in the previous three weeks. It was not a welcome subject.

Cameron paused and took another puff. ‘Weren’t you signing some big transport deal here? Some kind of a bullet train thing between … where was it now?’

‘Between Sydney and Melbourne.’

‘Yes. That’s it.’

‘It’s still happening,’ Jack said quietly, though there’d been complications.

‘I see.’ There was another long pause. Cameron took another drag of his cigar. ‘You know, I’ve heard some interesting things about you lately.’

Jack’s chest tightened. ‘You have, have you?’

‘I have,’ Cameron replied. He took another puff and let the smoke out slowly, drifting on the salty air. ‘Very disturbing rumours. I’m sure they’re not true, but if they were …’ He shook his head. ‘Well, I’d be very disappointed. Something about you bullying a young private investigator. A woman.’

‘You hear wrong,’ Jack snapped.

‘She was at that party you threw for Damien, wasn’t she?’

‘I certainly didn’t invite her.’

‘Ah, but she was there.’

The Vanderwall woman’s exit from the party had been caught on camera. It was undeniable.

‘In fact, I think I may have seen her,’ Cameron went on. ‘Blonde, yes? Attractive thing. An ex-model if I am right. About the same age as my Sarah.’ This eldest daughter from his first marriage was also the approximate age of his new wife. ‘Now she’s missing.’ Cameron nodded to himself. ‘Seems a shame, doesn’t it? She sounds like an interesting woman. I bet she’d have a lot to say.’

Jack turned suddenly, forgetting his flute. It snapped at the stem and he found himself holding the narrow bowl of the broken champagne glass for a moment before tossing it into the dark waves below.

‘Shame,’ Cameron repeated, noting the broken glass, or perhaps referring to something else entirely.

Jack faced his unwanted interrogator and crossed his arms. There were many things he wanted to say, but the fact was, Cameron was worth significantly more than Jack. He was rarely so overmatched, and the experience was deeply uncomfortable and unfamiliar. There were few people, perhaps no one in Australia, who would challenge Jack in this way, who would dare to taunt him as Cameron was. What was he getting at? Jack could feel his face becoming hot.

‘Yes. This PI woman,’ Cameron Goldsworthy continued between puffs. ‘I do hope she’s okay. I’m sure you’re terribly concerned about her wellbeing — helping the police with their enquiries.’

‘Are you threatening me?’ Jack blurted.

‘Why? Should I be?’

Jack Cavanagh resisted the urge to raise his voice, to defend his position, to explain that Makedde Vanderwall was a nuisance, a nobody, a pest threatening to ruin everything his father had built and Jack himself had worked so hard to
hold on to for his entire lifetime. He had not wanted to go after Mak or the others who had threatened him. He had been pushed into it. She wouldn’t leave him and his family alone. She’d threatened his reputation, his livelihood and his son’s promising future. Jack was protecting his family. Anyone would do that, wouldn’t they? Wouldn’t Cameron himself do what was necessary to defend himself and his loved ones? What if his precious Sarah found herself with the wrong crowd, got herself into a bit of trouble? What if some stranger, even a young woman, tried to bring his whole empire down? He’d had no choice, dammit. No choice.

It was clear that the rumours about Mak Vanderwall had been circulating amongst his peers. And how could he defend himself? He could not.

‘Excuse me. I have to go,’ Jack said and, with nothing further to say, he left Cameron Goldsworthy and the irritating, smug look on his face. He demanded the deck hand order a water taxi to take him to shore. He’d call the host later and explain that he wasn’t feeling well.

When Jack reached the fourteenth floor of his city office his secretary of many years, Joy Fregon, was absorbed in the work at her desk. She appeared surprised to see him back, but she said nothing about his abrupt departure from what should have been a relaxing afternoon on the water.

‘I want no calls, no disturbances at all until Mr White gets here,’ Jack insisted. He could barely contain his sense of panic.

At the mention of White’s name her eyes flickered with recognition. ‘Yes, Mr Cavanagh,’ she said.

He shut his door.

Sitting forwards tensely in his leather chair behind a massive mahogany desk hundreds of metres over the bustling Sydney business district, Jack Cavanagh fought an unsettling feeling of being trapped.

There had been times when this office was respite enough, when he’d toiled night and day here with the fever of ambition and been satisfied amongst the proud sporting memorabilia and the artworks he’d earned with hard work and business acumen — including a painting from Sidney Nolan’s famous Ned Kelly series that had set Jack back over five million dollars. Seeing it, owning it, knowing he’d captured it had made him proud. The more you have the more you stand to lose, perhaps. Perhaps that was why the sight of its bold colours and iconic imagery didn’t thrill him now, only made him feel worse. Or perhaps it was that another of his coveted art collection had played a role in identifying his Point Piper family home as the scene of a crime.

Yes. Jack’s art collection had cost him in more ways than he could have imagined.

It’s all closing in. Closing in …

The scandal that had started with his son Damien’s questionable friends and nocturnal activities, and had spun off into countless other problems, like falling dominoes, had already cost Jack one of the biggest deals in Australian history, it seemed. The historic high-speed train system between Sydney and Melbourne, the one that Cameron Goldsworthy had mentioned, had been in the making for some time. Cavanagh Incorporated had been close to winning the contract. It had been all but officially signed when talks were put on hold. Financial shake-ups in government infrastructure were cited as the reason. Austerity measures were in place around the
world, there was no doubt about that, but Australia had fared better than most countries, reliant as it was on commodity sales in the strong Asian financial markets rather than the troubled US and European markets. Financial concerns were not the real reason, he felt sure of it now. Recent speculation in the media had taken its toll on those negotiations, just as unfavourable gossip appeared to have made its way around the world, damaging Jack’s reputation in ways he could not repair.

The blackness. It’s closing in …

A feature piece one month earlier by respected investigative journalist for the
Tribune
, Richard Staples, had been the latest and most direct hit to Jack’s standing. Staples’s article had been the first to openly question Jack’s behaviour, and was the first to publicly mention him in relation to Vanderwall’s disappearance in Europe. He hadn’t blamed Jack for the disappearance — not directly — but he didn’t have to. The previous clashes between Vanderwall and the Cavanaghs were well known. Staples and the
Tribune
had been very careful with their implications. There was nothing Cavanagh could sue for. But it had looked bad. It had looked very bad indeed.

After Staples’s story was published Beverley had departed suddenly for a holiday. Even before she’d left, their home life had become tense with all the conversations they were not having. Their troubled son. The rumours. The business deals on hold. And though his son had, for now, successfully sidestepped any blame for the girl’s death, there was still speculation about an ongoing police investigation. And Cameron Goldsworthy’s jibe about his marital problems had smarted most because it hinted at an unspoken truth. The events of the previous year had begun to fester. It was a cancer eating away at every part of Jack’s life. His own wife had started to suspect him. He
felt it. Jack’s family was crumbling. Not that anyone but the likes of Cameron Goldsworthy would dare mention it. Not yet. Perhaps Jack should avoid social outings for a while. Avoid others who might be whispering about him, and privately gloating about his impending downfall …

There came a gentle knock on the closed door of his office, breaking Jack from his dark contemplations. Joy, his secretary, popped her head around the door.

‘Mr Cavanagh, Mr White is here,’ she told him.

Jack nodded. Joy’s brow was pinched. She looked concerned, but said nothing further. She’d looked concerned a lot lately — of course, Jack had been taking a lot of meetings with Mr White lately. One did not take meetings with Mr White unless things were serious.

After a moment Robert White, known by some as ‘The American’, walked into the room with his head tilted slightly down. He made some polite comment to Joy, closed the door behind him and moved towards the desk. White cut a fit but unassuming figure, wearing a sports jacket and pressed slacks. His grey hair was neatly combed and his shoes did not make a sound. He always moved in a very precise manner. He was economical in his movements, Jack had noticed. White was ex-FBI. He was a consultant of sorts. He dealt with security issues for Jack.

Jack stood to greet him and the two men shook hands and exchanged courtesies. ‘Bob, thanks for coming. We have an issue,’ Jack said and sat.

The American folded himself into the chair opposite Jack, leather creaking. He waited.