With her heart in her mouth, she walked out the front door, looking back once to see a Ford sedan with people in it. She hurried to her Volkswagen, thinking she might be attacked or even shot at any moment. The Ford’s lights went on high beam and blinded her as she started her car.

Farquar and his men, carrying rifles, jumped from the sedan and surrounded Green’s car. They motioned for her to get out.

‘Is Haut in there?’ Farquar asked, pointing his gun at the tower house. Green was shaking. She tried to speak but the words wouldn’t come out. She shook her head.

‘Where is he?’ he asked.

‘Don’t know. Over … overseas, some … somewhere. He flew out the other day.’

‘What have you got in the bag?’ one of the men, with a squeaky voice, asked.

‘Just tax pa-papers. I’m … I’m his accountant.’

The man went to grab the bag but Farquar stopped him.

‘We didn’t come for that,’ he said, ‘only for him.’

*

On a cold Saturday in mid-July, Cavalier and Wombat had brunch at the stylish European Cafe, opposite parliament on Melbourne’s Spring Street.

‘I had a call from Haut in Los Angeles,’ Cavalier said, as coffees were served. He related the story of the accountant’s visit. ‘She bravely took the weapons to Ken Pringle, who hid them behind a panel in his van.’

Wombat sipped his coffee and adjusted his glasses as two young women wearing Melbourne red and blue colours walked by, on their way to a big game at the MCG.

‘Are you going to talk about what happened in Sandy Bay?’ Wombat asked.

‘I’d rather not.’ Cavalier looked up and added, ‘One day in the not too distant future when we’re both pissed on the best scotch money can buy, I’ll tell you about it. For now, I’d rather forget.’ He paused. ‘The mind is a wonderful thing. It manages to block out the bad things.’

‘You mean suppress them. They have to pop up somewhere.’

‘Only when someone reminds you of them.’

‘You don’t have nightmares?’

‘No. Never about missions. About other things, yes.’

‘Such as?’

‘How I made a bright four in a school cricket match when I had my mind on a century. It was against my school’s greatest rival.’

‘You’re kidding!’

‘No, don’t laugh. Even Don Bradman said his biggest regret was not winning for Australia in his first Test in England in 1930. He was eighty-eight years old when he told his biographer that. That was sixty-seven years after the event. He had nightmares about it from then on.’

Wombat sat back in his chair and played with his bifocals.

‘Haut’s still kicking. There’s no trace of the three assassins. Mission accomplished?’

Cavalier smiled.

‘I have always admired your logical commonsense approach to analysis, Wombat.’

‘So your disguise worked?’