Assassin (17 page)

She walked out of the cubicle carrying the shirt.

‘Aww, we didn’t get to see how you looked in that. How did you go?’ the sales assistant asked, unconvincingly.

‘I’ll think on it,’ Mak replied and smiled.

Oh, it is fun to be at the mall.

Jack Cavanagh stared out of the clear fourteenth-floor window of his city office, unseeing. He was seated beneath his coveted Sidney Nolan painting and his designer chandelier, gripped with ennui and a crushing sense of impotence. Before him, cognac-soaked ice cubes melted at the base of a crystal tumbler. Outside, his future was unfolding without him. He could only sit and wait.

He’d just got off the phone with Mr White.

The operation had been unsuccessful, he was told. Mr White never said much by phone, but it was clear that he believed Makedde Vanderwall was still in Australia, and that she was a potential threat. And now he wanted Jack to consider a personal security guard, just until she was removed as a threat.

Jack squinted.

He wondered about her. Who was this ordinary woman who had managed to single-handedly disrupt his successful business, had managed to single-handedly break the bonds of his family? Where had she come from? Where was she now? In Sydney? Nearby? What was her aim in returning to Australia?
And because of her — an ex-model, a low-level private investigator and out-of-work psychologist — The American wanted Jack to take on a personal bodyguard for the first time? He wanted Jack Cavanagh to be tailed around by some armed man, a man he would need to pay handsomely to babysit him?

It was an outrageous idea. Outrageous.

‘Just think about it,’ Robert White had said.

Just think about it.

How had things got so bad?
he wondered. When had the slide started? With the lowlife who’d tried to blackmail Jack with the video of Damien, or before then?

His mobile phone buzzed.

Jack blinked and rolled back in his chair to look at the number, his mind spinning through the possibilities. Would it be The American again? Could he have news already? A breakthrough? Or had his son, Damien, finally decided to call? He knew he was in Australia now. The American had confirmed his return.

Goldsworthy.

Jack sat up and straightened his shirt cuffs. The two men had not spoken since their exchange on the
Rosebud
. He licked his lips.

Jack looked at his watch, saw that it was already late afternoon, nearly time to head home. He picked up his phone. ‘Cameron, how are you?’ he said casually, his eyes fixed on the darkening cityscape outside his window.

‘I’m good, Jack.’ There was a pause. The line wasn’t particularly good. He was calling from his mobile phone and, judging from the time of day, he was still in Australia. ‘Look, my secretary heard from your VP twice last week. I can’t do business with you, Jack,’ Cameron said flatly.

I can’t.

Do business.

With you.

Jack swallowed.

So that was it. He should not have been surprised, not after their tense exchange on the
Rosebud
. Yet Jack could not help but see this plain rejection as a new phase of his personal demise. Cameron Goldsworthy, previously a powerful ally, had given up any pretence of goodwill. If Jack was to get his business — his life — back on track, he would need to turn things around considerably.

‘I’ll tell him to stop contacting you,’ Jack Cavanagh responded in a neutral voice.

‘I’d appreciate that. Take care,’ Cameron said coolly and hung up.

Jack found himself holding the mobile to his ear, the phone dead. He took a breath. There was a curious sting behind his eyes, but no tears came. He was numb. His index finger hooked itself around the handle of his top drawer and opened it. Inside was a packet of Cipramil — the antidepressants he refused to start taking again. And a small, silver-plated handgun.

He considered both for a moment, and closed the drawer again.

As sunset hit the neon-lit roads of Kings Cross, it was time for Mak to leave the little room she had rented. She stepped onto Victoria Street in sleek black, her newly dyed reddish-brown hair tucked under her hoodie, the trench coat tied tight around her slim waist. It was time to hit the road. All she needed now was something to hit the road with.

There were, naturally enough, a number of options to choose from.

Mak prowled Victoria Street at the Potts Point end for an old car. Not
too
old, but a model built before the early to mid-nineties, when security systems had become more sophisticated. Many cars were too newly built, and others had tiny, flashing alarm or demobiliser lights to ward her off, but because of the area, which was popular with backpackers and drifters, there were a lot of third- and fourth-hand cars and campervans parked on the street, some of which had been used by consecutive backpackers each season. Mak didn’t need anything terribly high tech and fast, but she didn’t want a Volkswagen van either. Too slow. Too obvious. She chose an old Holden parked at the furthest, least frequented end of the street, in part, she supposed, because it reminded her vaguely of Bogey’s beautiful old car. This one wasn’t restored, however. Rust had begun eating away at the blue paint over the fenders and around the headlights.

Mak put her bags on the pavement and bumped hard against the side of the car with her hip. No alarm. She looked around and, finding herself unobserved, she took the wire hanger from her room, untwisted the end and pushed the hook down between the glass window and the door. On her second try, she pulled the locking mechanism upwards, and the metal button popped up. She tossed the mangled hanger inside along with her carry-on bag and loaded backpack, closed the door and took a breath.

Right.

She took the flat-head screwdriver out of her backpack and considered it for a moment before pushing it hard into the ignition where the key should go. She used the hammer to
shove it into place, ruining the old ignition housing in the process. But then, she wasn’t stealing a car to be considerate.

Damn, I hope this works.

She turned the screwdriver and heard the ignition turn over. A smile spread across her face. There was no need for the gloves and wire cutters.

Not bad
, she thought as she strapped herself in.
Not bad.

She pulled out onto the road and headed for Canberra, the GPS on her new iPhone showing the way.

Jack Cavanagh drove his emerald-green Jaguar through the gates of his waterfront mansion in Point Piper, past the high stone walls and down the circular drive, barely noticing his well-tended gardens, which were picked clean of falling leaves, or the rows of tortured willows standing like emaciated sentries, twisted on their feet and fast becoming bare in anticipation of the winter ahead.

The tall gates closed behind him and the broad garage opened, revealing two more gleaming vehicles. He pulled in smoothly between his four-wheel-drive BMW and red Enzo Ferrari, feeling dispirited and anxious. Nonetheless, he was relieved to be within his own grounds. His conversations with The American and with Cameron Goldsworthy had rattled him.

He switched off the ignition and the garage lights flickered on with a hum as he stepped out, shut the Jag and walked towards the interior door of his home, his face slack, shoulders hunched. The cleaner, Rosie, had left him some food. He hadn’t tried it yet, but it was likely good. If it wasn’t, he could
order in. He didn’t feel like going out. He didn’t think he could face anyone so soon after the bad news.

Just think about it.

Jack had hired security for parties, as most people of standing did, but a personal bodyguard? Someone to follow him around for his protection? Since The American had suggested it, the possibility had vexed him.
No.
For Beverley, perhaps, but not for him. He refused to be scared by this woman, Makedde Vanderwall. It was a ridiculous notion and besides, he refused to change his lifestyle for her. It would mean she’d stolen something vital from him beyond what she had already achieved by chipping away relentlessly at his reputation.

No.

If that woman had indeed come to Australia, she had signed her own death warrant. That was all.

Jack Cavanagh pressed a fist against a button on the wall of the garage, and the roller door began to close, humming as the gears clicked over. Slowly the gardens, the tortured willows, the evening light disappeared from view. He opened the door to his house, stepped into the hall and waited for the low wail of the alarm, giving him twenty seconds to type in the security code.

As long as they get to her before she causes any more trouble, that’s the main thing
, he decided. He’d already come to terms with the fact that Vanderwall needed to die, that she wouldn’t have it any other way. It was an ugly fact, but life was ugly sometimes. They just needed to finish what had been started. They needed to finish her and be done with it. The longer it went on, the messier it became — there was no reason for it to stretch on any longer. She was just one woman. It should not be so hard. Soon it would be done and then Jack could move on.
He could get on with turning things around. Jack Cavanagh had faced challenges before. Plenty of them. His father had built his empire up piece by piece, rising from lowly janitor to powerful businessman. The Cavanaghs were resilient men. He’d acquired that quality from his father, that determination. This was just a new kind of challenge: that was all.

In time, Richard Staples’s unfortunate piece in the
Tribune
would be forgotten. He need only replace all that unflattering speculation with something solid, something positive. A high-profile donation, perhaps?
Philanthropy, yes.
Didn’t Beverley have some children’s hospital she wanted to help out? Or was it animals? Jack couldn’t recall. The important thing was that no one had any proof of his wrongdoing. That was clear enough in Staples’s article. It was a patchwork of rumours, nothing more. There was nothing that could be pinned on him: he’d made sure of that, paid handsomely for that.

And that woman, Vanderwall, wasn’t even officially in the country: she’d supposedly arrived under a false identity. So she had appeared clandestinely in Australia and she could disappear clandestinely as well. Mr White would take care of it. He always did. He’d been reliable since their very first dealings in the Middle East. And then once it was done, Beverley would come back and they would make a sizeable donation to the right cause, and they would be seen with the right people again and he could turn it all around …

Odd.

The sound of the alarm had not come, Jack realised. He arrived at the keypad only to discover the system was not engaged. He squinted at the screen, puzzled. He was sure he’d put it on. He always did.

Someone is in the house.

At this realisation, an electric shiver shot up the back of his neck. For one strange moment, Jack found himself frozen with fear — a sensation most unfamiliar — standing in his basement hallway with his mouth gaping open and his mobile phone gripped in one hand like a weapon.

The gun.

Jack had only ever used it once, at his sixtieth birthday party, firing it into the sky from the lawn down behind the house. It was a gift from a former police commissioner, purchased on a trip to Texas and personally engraved with Jack’s name. A collector’s item. Jack wasn’t even sure it was still registered, wasn’t sure where the bullets were. He’d displayed it in his office at one time, in a glass case. Eventually he’d put it in the drawer, a few years after the commissioner had passed on. Jack had never considered bringing the gun home or carrying it with him for any reason. Yet he’d found himself gazing at the thing not an hour earlier, as if reconsidering.

Outrageous. This is damned outrageous.

Jack had allowed the problem of Vanderwall to get to him. He’d forgotten the alarm: that was all. Or the gardener was in. Or the cleaner. Though he’d given them the day off. But that had to be it. It made Jack angry now — angry to think that all this mess was seeping further into his life, invading his thoughts, even at home, in his personal space. He shook off the feeling of fear, replacing it with a seething bitterness. Still, as he walked down the hallway of his hard-won, luxurious home, and up the staircase past his artworks and the expensive vases filled with fresh flowers, his heart pounded dangerously in his chest. And he thought about The American’s words.

A personal bodyguard. Just think about it.

‘Rosie?’ Jack called out. ‘Rosie, is that you?’

Yes, it had to be the cleaner. She’d come back to finish something. That was all. Upstairs, he sensed the shift in atmosphere. The house had been lonely since Beverley’s departure. But tonight something had changed. He came around the corner, into the high-ceilinged living room.

Someone is there. Someone …

‘Hello, Father.’

His son was reclining on the lounge, silhouetted by a flat horizon of water slowly turning black with the fading sunset.

Jack closed his eyes and put his hand to his chest. ‘Damien.’

He flicked on the Terzani Hugo floor light next to him and the living room was illuminated in a soft glow, the tall lamp’s spindly metal legs throwing peculiar shadows up the wall. Jack had not seen his only child in weeks, and he clapped eyes on the familiar features with a mixture of intense relief and horror. He began to smile, to open his arms, but faltered. Makedde Vanderwall was in town. And Damien was, too. His son’s presence might attract unwanted media attention. This was not a good time for any kind of attention.

Jack swallowed. ‘You’re back. That’s … good.’

Damien seemed not to notice his father’s conflicting emotions. He was sprawled out barefoot on the black leather lounge wearing white linen shorts and a trendy V-neck T-shirt and cardigan. In his right hand he held a tumbler filled with some deep amber liquor poured over ice. His dark hair was styled in a new way, long at the front and swept to one side. He looked tanned and fit. Jack remembered being like that — young and strong. That body could almost have been his own, once. Though Jack had never been carefree. He’d never considered himself above responsibility the way his son did.

‘Where’s Mother?’ Damien asked, swirling the cubes in the glass.

‘She’s in Europe.’

He raised a brow.

‘On holiday,’ Jack explained tersely.

‘I ran out of money.’

Jack felt himself harden.
Ah. So that is your reason for returning
, he thought. Once again, he wished he and Beverley had been able to have a second child. A boy, to take over from Jack. A girl even. Any alternative to this young man, who was now looking at his nails and appearing to pout.

‘Vanderwall is here,’ Jack warned. ‘In Australia.’

‘Here? She’s alive?’ Damien said, sitting up suddenly, eyes ablaze.

Jack nodded solemnly.

‘Well, for fuck’s sake, Father, have her killed already. What’s taking so long?’

The words, said aloud, felt like a punch in the guts. For a moment Jack’s head filled with a fog of anger and defensiveness, red and vicious. He went wrong. He went so wrong with Damien. And he didn’t know how it happened.

‘You have no idea what I’ve had to do for you. You have no idea how much money —’

But clearly Damien did know what his father had done. He’d tried to have Mak killed. Unsuccessfully. He’d already docked his son’s trust fund by two million dollars as a form of punishment. The American’s services did not come cheaply.

‘I don’t want to hear another word out of you. You can stay out at the beach house,’ Jack said. ‘And keep a low profile, will you? Don’t get yourself paparazzied. No parties.’

From the look on his son’s face, Jack knew he might as well have told him to eat his Brussels sprouts.

‘
No parties
,’ Jack said firmly. ‘I mean it.’

Parties were what had started this whole mess. One party in particular, where a girl — a fourteen- or fifteen-year-old girl who had no business being in the country — had died of an overdose in this very house. And though Damien denied it, Jack knew his son had had sex with her first. Had paid for that.

It was a mess.

An expensive mess.

‘And I’ll be getting a bodyguard … for you,’ Jack found himself saying.

Damien crossed his arms. ‘A
what
?’

‘You heard me.’

‘I don’t want a babysitter. Christ.’

Jack ignored him. ‘You’ll be driven out to Palm Beach tomorrow. You can stay there until this blows over.’

‘
Welcome home, son
,’ Damien muttered sarcastically under his breath. He curled his bare feet up under him and turned to look out at the water.

With nothing further to say, Jack left his thirty-year-old son on the lounge, sulking like a teenager. He walked through to the kitchen, pulled the fridge door open and examined the meal from the cleaner, Rosie, sealed under cling wrap. It was a roast, with all the trimmings. He pulled it out, heated it in the microwave and ate it in his room.