
Milkshake
by
Matt Hammond
Published by Night Publishing, Smashwords edition
Copyright 2011, Matt Hammond
ISBN 978-1-4661-8290-5
Thank you for downloading this e-book. You are welcome to share it with people you know personally for non-commercial purposes but it may not be shared over the Internet other than via the network of e-book distributors supplied by Smashwords and according to Smashwords terms and conditions.
All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is accidental.
To discover other books by Matt Hammond, please go to http://www.nightpublishing.com/matt-hammond.
Shredded paper lay on the restroom floor, still wet from recent mopping. A steady stream of scalding water misted the mirror above a hand basin. Standing at the urinal, David heard the creak of a stall door. A warm hand from behind pressed something firmly over his mouth. As he inhaled and began to drift asleep, his mind replayed the last conversation before David Turner's life paused.
"You bloody do this every time we fly. You get sucked into the whole holiday mode thing, have to buy the largest cappuccino you can find, then spend the next three hours backwards and forwards to the loo."
"I need a pee before we board the flight, I'll be back in a minute. I'm sorry but once we're on that plane it might be another hour before that seatbelt light goes off, so I'm just making the most of every opportunity."
Twenty years of marriage to Katherine had taught David to leave it there. Anyway, this was different. It wasn't a holiday. They were emigrating. The events of the previous September had unsettled millions of people. Thousands had investigated emigrating to safer, distant shores. The Turners had secured teaching posts in New Zealand. This would be a one-way flight from London to Auckland, via Singapore.
\*
David was sitting in the staffroom, eating a sandwich he couldn't taste. "A bloody plane's only flown into the World Trade Center."
"A plane, straight into it," repeated the Deputy Principal.
"How big was it?'
"A smallish one, I think, but the top of the building is on fire. People are trapped. It's live on the News."
The sandwich and staffroom were gone. Faceless people stood in silhouette against the glass and the open sky beyond it. He could make out the flat roofs of office blocks, cluttered with elevator machinery, switchgear rooms and air conditioning units.
He walked towards the window, focusing on water running down the glass. It was snowing. His eyes followed the flakes downwards, watching as they became caught in the violent updrafts which swirled beneath him. A flashing blue light caught his eye. He was up against the glass, looking straight down, past his feet, to the New York street far below.
He stepped back, turned and was now looking around his own living room. He heard a television and his mind found the images of a second plane being eaten alive by the South Tower.
The wing dipped, the plane gracefully turned and the Tower took the impact as if full in the chest. No time to dodge, it absorbed the missile and was torn apart on the opposite side by the force of the explosion within.
"What film is this?"
David turned to answer Katherine and found he was in bed, tightly holding her hand. Pixelated orange fire shimmered on the ceiling above his head as fragmented shards of glass and masonry wafted down in slow motion towards him.
"Are you awake?"
"Yes," she replied
"I think we should go."
\*
Somewhere deep in his unconscious brain, an electrical impulse touched a neuron and David sparked back to life.
Blinking hard, trying to focus through the blackness, David felt the cold solidity of unyielding concrete against his cheek and the cool of the May evening. The drone of nearby aircraft and the smell of their fuel re-awakened his other senses. He was lying face down, looking underneath a row of parked cars. Head aching and eyes stinging, he tried to stand as he struggled to remember.
Swaying unsteadily in the vacant space between two cars, his vision cleared, sharpening the bright yellow lights, aeroplane tails and shining paintwork of illuminated car bodies. Looking out across the airport from the top floor of a car park, his mind replayed.
Two hours ago they had checked in for their flight, watching as their cases disappeared through a rubber flap. David had joked about the sum of his possessions: passport, ticket, wallet containing a small amount of Singaporean cash for their short stopover, a credit card and his British driving licence. Everything else they owned was either in a shipping container about to land in New Zealand or in one of those cases.
Now the gentle 'tick, tick, tick' of an idling car engine snapped him back to the present. Cars enclosed him on three sides. The fourth enclosure was the low wall of the car park. He crouched, feeling sick.
His foot brushed something. He looked down, the glare from the lights blinding him as he peered into a void, his head instantly filling with waves of disorientating vertigo. Moving his hand to meet his foot, he could feel leather. It was soft, in folds, hard beneath. Both hands felt a jacket and it was on someone's back.
Cigarette smoke seeped into his nostrils, clearing his head. Someone pushed him roughly from behind. He fell, turning to rest the back of his head against a car wheel, feigning confusion, looking up, through semi--closed lids, squinting for a clearer view.
The silhouette of a man gripped the leather--jacketed figure under both arms and lifted, shuffling towards the low car park wall until the limp body was against it, facing out into the night.
The body slumped forward, torso resting on the wall, arms dangling over the edge. David's throat tightened as he realised what was about to occur. How long had he been there? Had he been drugged?
As the questions ran through his head, there was a grunt.
The leather-jacketed body was gripped from behind by his belt and heaved off the ground. The rasp of a zip scraping against the concrete wall broke into the conscious spaces between David's confused thoughts.
The body was lifted until his knees were level with the top of the wall. It was clear his centre of gravity would inevitably send him over the edge.
The man released his grip. The victim instantly crumpled ungainly to one side, half sitting, half kneeling, oblivious to his fate, then toppled silently forward and was gone. The killer stepped back, no macabre curiosity to witness the fatal descent, watching as the limp flailing body collided with the road below.
David's incoherence flashed an image from the TV News last September. A faceless figure stepping from the edge of the smoking World Trade Center through the void left by the melted safety glass and out into the cool autumn air of the New York morning, leaving behind certain fiery death for one of their own choosing.
He sat motionless. Someone who had just killed a man in front of him carefully stepped over his outstretched legs and climbed into the waiting car. The engine note rose, the door clicked shut and it glided slowly away.
The distant lights blurred as his focus disconnected. They'd both left good teaching jobs, sold their house at a good profit, their cars, and had both gained New Zealand residency. They'd said goodbye to friends and family, and shipped all their possessions on ahead. There was nearly £200,000 waiting for them on the other side of the world. He'd made his choice.
Breathing deeply, he pulled sweating palms slowly over his face, trying to wipe any memory of the last fifteen minutes, erasing all questions from his mind. For now, he had to focus on acting normal, find his way back to Katherine and board the flight.
He peered at his watch. It was more than fifteen minutes since he had left Katherine waiting in the Terminal below. Where had the time gone? Looking around the brightly lit rooftop, a few cars were huddled together in small groups. Did one of them belong to the victim? He tried the doors of the nearest car; both locked. Nothing to indicate its owner had just been wrenched from his seat and thrown over the side of the building.
Shaking uncontrollably, he made his way towards the lift. The button marked Terminal re-enforcing the reality of what had just happened. The doors closed, encasing him in the warm silent atmosphere.
Had he been drugged or beaten unconscious? He felt a sudden wave of panic as he checked his body for signs of his own blood. Adrenalin could be masking the pain of physical injury. No blood, no stab wounds, no clothing tears, nothing to indicate he had been taken by force.
He had woken next to a motionless body. Could the victim have been alive, alert even, as he plummeted towards the ground. Who was he? Why had David been allowed to witness his murder without any apparent further retribution?
He followed the signs back to the departure lounge, deliberately not looking left towards where, by now, the shattered body would have surely been discovered.
David instinctively felt for his wallet. His passport was still there. The motive for his abduction was apparently not robbery. Perhaps a failed attempt had resulted in an argument between two thieves which had got out of hand.
An irrational feeling of guilt almost overwhelmed him. Could he have saved the man's life if he had been coherent enough to realise what was going on? Confrontation was not in his nature. Pacifying loud-mouthed teenage boys in class was the limit of his heroism. Should he have tried to reason with the killer? What if he had been armed? Perhaps the victim had been stabbed, shot even? Surely a gun would have been heard even above the constant aircraft noise. Keeping still may have saved his life; the murderer seemed to completely ignore him.
His eyes scanned for the police who roamed the airport, machine guns at the ready, and he was torn between trying to avoid them at all costs and deliberately walking up to the first one he saw.
The sooner he was on that plane, the better. Meanwhile there was a bloodied and battered body lying at the base of the car park. Anyone driving past could not fail to see the crumpled corpse lying in an oozing pool of blood.
David imagined a pretty young woman gazing aimlessly from the airport shuttle bus seeing the unnaturally contorted legs and the growing pool of dark liquid. She screamed at the driver to stop. Startled, he braked hard as the woman frantically pointed to the motionless body now level with his side window. The bus driver called the control centre on his radio. Drivers behind picked up their mobile phones. Ambulances and armed police were already on their way. The area would be cordoned off in minutes.
For now, this was only in his head. If he was arrested on arrival in Singapore, he would just tell the truth.
Peripheral vision caught a familiar blue sign. He still needed to pee! Entering a vacant cubicle, David locked the door and sat down. With legs shaking and palms still sweating, he tried to relax.
"Mr Turner?" It was his name. Someone was calling his name! "Mr Turner, you in there?" David sat perfectly still. The police may have already started searching but surely not found him already, let alone know his name. He took a deep breath, leant back to flush, and unlocked the door. "Mr Turner?"
"Yes. that's me."
"Mr Turner, you're gonna be late for your flight. It's been called for the final time and your wife asked us to come and look for you. She said you went to look for a loo about twenty minutes ago, so you'd better finish up and follow me."
David remained a few steps behind, fearing even the most mundane of conversations would reveal his panicked state of mind. They passed a queue of people awaiting security clearance who eyed him suspiciously as he was escorted to a separate x--ray machine.
David walked through the empty door frame of the scanner. He felt its invisible rays amplifying his guilt. "Excuse me, Mr Turner!" He felt his face flush red and his chest begin to thump as he turned around. It was the same security guard. "It's Gate 30. Your wife is waiting. Go straight down this corridor, then take a right and follow the signs. It's about eight minutes at a brisk walk. I'll radio ahead to tell them you're on your way." David looked at his watch. A brisk walk? He felt like sprinting.
"Thanks for your help." He may as well have just shouted, "Look at me!' having probably just created another few dozen witnesses to the CCTV image likely to appear on the T.V. Breaking News within the hour.
David stepped onto the moving walkway. The machine walked for him. It was impossible to take normal steps. He reached into his pocket, feeling the reassuring presence of his leather passport cover.
He felt in his trouser pocket for the wallet he had placed there moments earlier. It had been out of his possession for a few short seconds as it passed through the x-ray scanner. Justification for a quick check of the contents, not that there was much to check. A brief glance confirmed everything was in place, except there was something he was not expecting.
A small piece of yellow paper protruded from the credit card pocket. He pulled and it came out, stuck to the front of an unfamiliar credit card. He lifted the yellow label. It was plain, mainly silver and, along the top, in bold black lettering Associated Bank of Monaco. To the left, the familiar logo of the credit card company, and next to the expiry date the embossed name was clearly his own. He turned the card over. The signature box was empty.
Was this really his card? He had received unsolicited invitations to apply for credit cards from some pretty obscure institutions recently. An ignored 'gold card' invitation was often followed by an improved offer of the 'exclusive platinum card'. Some companies increased the marketing flattery and went straight for the platinum offer. He had resisted them all. The yellow sticker contained four hand written numbers - '1296'. The PIN number for a card he knew nothing about?
The moving walkway gave way to marble. David still had the credit card in his palm. He could easily snap it in two and throw it into the next rubbish bin. He saw the sign for the ATM Machine. Why would anyone want cash between the security check and the departure gate?
There was no queue. It would only take seconds. Before he realised, David had walked up to the machine, offered the card to the slot and it was sucked in. David thought it would end there, that it had been recognised as stolen or fake, and been retained. Then the screen changed:
Please enter your four digit PIN and press #.
He glanced over his shoulder, then at the piece of paper:
1-2-9-6
He was about to leave the country for good but the bill was bound to catch up in the redirected mail, so there was really no point. But the card seemed legitimate. It had allowed him to get this far and he was curious to find out exactly how far it would let him go. He pressed 'balance enquiry print out' and checked over his shoulder again as the balance briefly flashed onto the screen before:
If you do not want further services press enter to remove your card.
He pressed and the card was ejected into his waiting hand. Numbers on a piece of paper were sent out through a different slot.
David looked but he couldn't read it. It was too long. There was no minus figure. This was a credit balance.
If the card was valid, and the ATM machine wasn't faulty, David was holding a piece of plastic that potentially gave him access to - he was trying to work out the decimal point - two hundred and fifty five million, six hundred and forty thousand, two hundred and eighty seven pounds.
Surely this was a stolen card, yet somehow it was in his possession with his name clearly etched on it. He was too far from the security gate to go back. In fact he was technically already out of the country. He opened his wallet and placed the card and the PIN number inside. Tearing the printout into tiny pieces, he stuffed them deep amongst the other discarded receipts in the small bin under the ATM machine.
Katherine stood at Gate 30, impatiently adjusting her hair and thinking she should have tied it back. All except two passengers on flight NZ001 were seated, waiting for the remaining pair to board.
It could still be too late. Security could have radioed ahead, instructing airline staff to hold him at the gate. Even now there could be a dozen policemen behind him, trying to negotiate the travelator.
The stewardess smiled her best professional 'I don't approve but this is my job' smile. "Ah, Mr Turner, I presume. We've been expecting you. May I see your passport and ticket? The flight is waiting to depart." David detected her emphasis on 'waiting'. It was not just ready to depart; it was waiting. He was keeping an entire plane load of people waiting.
"Sorry, I got a bit held up." Trying to make his excuse vague, fixing Katherine with his best 'I'll explain when we get on board' smile, he thought it would be better to try and nip any public argument in the bud right there and then, and avoid the 'where the hell have you been?' scenario, or at least save it for a confrontation once on board where it would hopefully be diluted by the proximity of hundreds of other people.
"Where the hell have you been? You only went for a pee. You've been gone ages. They called our flight. I waited until the last possible minute and then I had to send someone to find you. We nearly missed our bloody flight, David!"
David smiled inwardly as he concluded that, putting aside the tone in which it was delivered, this was probably a fair summary of what had gone on during his enforced absence, and that frankly he did not really care, given what he had just gone through.
'Boy', he thought; 'Do I have an explanation for you!'
David and Katherine took their seats. The doors were sealed. The plane disconnected itself from the boarding gate and taxied towards the runway.
David noted an incongruous 'ker--thunk' as the wheels bumped over the joints in the concrete. Aircraft streaked past the window, followed by a momentary roar from their engines. As the plane lined up at the end of the runway, the flight crew made final pre-flight checks.
David looked around the cabin. No talking, just nervous yawning. People stared at the in-flight magazine. Some flicked through the new book they had bought for the flight.
Like bumble-bees, jumbo jets are theoretically incapable of flying. They leave the ground purely through the collective willpower of those on board, hence the solemnity of the atmosphere inside. Pre--flight food and drinks had been cleared away. Trays were returned to the upright position, the onboard entertainment system was paused and the lights dimmed.
Now everybody, concentrate.
The cabin crew sat, palms on knees, staring benignly down the aisle. Then a silent chant began. Each passenger took up their own internal incantation until three hundred people were of one mind.
Quiet contemplation was broken as the captain pushed the throttle forward. The passengers were forced back in their seats, their knuckles whitening. They chanted louder, their voices drowned as the roar of four giant turbines grasped at the air in front of them.
Eyes closed as the speed increased.
Sheer human willpower was now seeping into the superstructure, enveloping the entire airframe. The pilot glanced to his right, then at his instruments as the plane passed the control tower. Suddenly the runway lights dipped beneath the nose as it lifted, carried by a cushion of collective mental effort into the clear sky above.
Five hours into the flight, the meal, served as soon as the plane had levelled out, was beginning to have an effect. The ambient noise level disguised the sounds, and hence directions, from where the various offensive odours were emanating. David thought they were permeating through several rows of seats.
The trick was to just sit and hold it in, hoping it would return like warm wax in a lava lamp, and dissipate. He had read the laminated sheet suggesting various exercises to pass the time. No advice on how to safely and politely pass wind at thirty thousand feet.
It was 4.00 a.m. Finally feeling drowsy, he closed his eyes. His hearing became more acute, more attuned to sounds other than the incessant low whistle of the engines. He thought he could hear another noise hidden within the engine sounds, a metallic banging as if someone was deep inside the fuselage hitting pipework with a hammer. Each time he opened his eyes, the distinctive sound melted away as he looked for any sign that other people could hear it too. When he closed his eyes again, the sound returned.
Beneath shoeless feet, under the carpeted floor, below three metres of airframe, there was nothing - an empty expanse of screaming icy air. David resigned himself to being disturbed by his latent fear and morbid imagination for the duration of the flight.
He yelped as a loud bang woke him with a start, the pain deep in his neck thrusting down his left arm as he straightened in his seat. There had been no loud bang and the subdued scene around him was as he had left it before drifting off to sleep. A screen attached to the bulkhead displayed a map of the world indicating that a small yellow aircraft, trailing a thin line of the same colour, was now more than half way to Singapore.
It was reassuring the map showed no other planes in the vicinity. In fact, according to the screen, no other planes were currently in the air anywhere else in the world. He would be able to anticipate the approach into Singapore by watching the numbers on the altimeter decrease.
As the cabin crew processed along the aisle checking seatbelts and clipping trays back into place, he turned to Katherine who had been asleep for much of the flight. "I think we'll be landing soon."
She nodded sleepily and he realised they had probably not spoken more than a dozen words to each other since take--off. They never usually spoke between eleven-thirty at night and seven-thirty in the morning. The previous few hours of silence was no more than habit.
The captain appeared to have browsed through the manual of alternative landing techniques during the long flight. Whoever was at the controls now decided to begin the descent in the manner of a small child going down stairs on their backside.
Every few minutes the plane would suddenly descend as if from one step to the next. This was not going to be a landing, it was controlled dropping. The plane rolled alarmingly to the left, David looked towards the window, two seats away, and saw sea, palm trees and small boats just above the wing tip. The plane continued in a sweeping arc before levelling off as sharply as it had turned.
Through the window he could make out the unfamiliar skyline of Singapore. It sped past at a crazy angle as if gravity itself had suddenly been switched off and everything on the face of the earth not firmly rooted to it was now rapidly sliding away. David imagined every human, every building, sliding off as the oceans poured themselves around the curvature of the earth before forming a giant tear and dropping off at the South Pole.
There was a final plummet and the wheels banged hard onto the runway, the combination of fierce braking and reverse thrust making the cabin bulkheads shake violently from side to side.
As they stepped from the plane, it was as if they had flown in a huge circle. The walkway to the terminal seemed identical to the one in London, the baggage trolleys looked familiar and the brightly--lit posters were advertising the same cameras, phone companies and credit cards as the ones they had seen at Heathrow.
It was not long before some of the essence of the true culture beyond the airport began to infuse the surroundings. It began simply - exotic foliage in locally decorated pots lined their path and signs were bi--lingual, with English as the second language. As they moved closer to Immigration, the hum of humanity grew louder. So many different cultures and creeds were being drawn towards this point.
Insomnia--induced meanderings abruptly halted as his mind returned him back to London. By now the police would have viewed the security camera footage and identified David Turner leaving the car park shortly before the body was discovered. They had tracked him onto the plane where he had remained secure and contained. The authorities in Singapore had been contacted and alerted to his imminent arrival, and armed police would be waiting to arrest him as he approached the immigration desk.
Mingling with a nonchalant lack of interest amongst the slow moving mass of new arrivals might just fool any welcoming party. Katherine had joined the shortest queue. At least this would reduce an unbearable sense of expectation that was now sending his stomach into sickening spasms.
The queue edged slowly forward. David watched the face of the officer scrutinising first passports, then documents, then back to the passport. Had he been told to look out for him? Did he already have a photograph of David? Had he already seen him waiting in line and was coolly working his way through the line until David reached his desk?
David noticed a door opening. Two uniformed men emerged and walked towards them, not the crowd in general but the Turners in particular. Halfway across the floor, the pair divided. David's heart pounded in his chest. He kept his head fixed straight but his eyes hurt in their sockets as they strained to the right. David moved closer to Katherine in a vain attempt to gain protection. "Excuse me," a polite but firm voice said, "Please follow me."
The instruction was directed at both of them. David realised that as far as the Singaporeans were concerned, they had travelled as a pair. It would be prudent to arrest them both.
Katherine still had no idea what had happened to him in London. He had wrestled with telling her during the flight but she had fallen asleep for several hours, then woke and got into deep conversation with a woman sitting next to her who would have been able to hear every word. It now seemed a feeble excuse but the opportunity to explain his incredible story had not presented itself during the entire flight.
Now he was glad she would be able to tell the absolute truth when the time came to be questioned about their short time apart prior to their departure from Heathrow.
David expected to be guided towards the door the two men had emerged from. His mouth was dry. He prepared for an angry exchange. Instead they were led parallel to the queue of waiting passengers to a previously vacant immigration desk at which the second man now sat looking intently at the screen in front of him.
The first man smiled. "No point in waiting long time when we have an officer free to assist, please?" He gestured towards the free desk. Katherine thanked him with the smile David knew she reserved for any man in a uniform. The immigration official ignored their approach and continued to stare intently at the computer screen. He took their passports one at a time, scrutinising first the person, then the photo, before waving them through, to David's disbelief.
Their luggage had been checked all the way through to Auckland, meaning they could bypass the baggage carousel; pass through customs unchallenged and out of the terminal to the rank of waiting taxis, a row of twenty identical Datsuns.
David slowly stretched his limbs and breathed in the warm damp tropical air, contemplating how easily he had succeeded in avoiding arrest. He couldn't ignore the unwashed hair and body odour of the man who now approached with a half toothless grin offering them his taxi. Having spent half a day sitting in the same seat, he probably smelt equally unpleasant. "Can you take us to our hotel please?"
"Sure. You get in, I take you."
David took the front seat, noticing the badly frayed and tattered owner's licence untidily taped to his side of the dash. The photograph on the licence bore no resemblance to the current driver.
Loose change and empty cigarette packets were scattered beneath his feet. The driver reset the meter before glancing over his shoulder, throwing the shift into 'drive' and nudging the nose of the car into the stream of taxis exiting the airport.
David and Katherine sat in silence, staring out at the sights of this unfamiliar city--state. Their driver made an attempt at friendly conversation. "You like a David Beck-ham, Manjester Unided?"
David did not hold out much hope of the driver understanding anything other than a very simple reply, which was all he was prepared to offer given that the question had encapsulated about seventy-five per cent of his entire football knowledge. "Yes, very good," he answered with no enthusiasm, It sounded patronising, a belittling answer to satisfy a simple soul, but it was genuinely his most eloquent answer on the subject. He turned to Katherine to be rescued. "Look at that," he said, pointing to some dull, uninteresting apartment block. "People actually live in there."
Luckily years of previous experience had taught her to recognise when her husband began floundering in a sea devoid of sporting knowledge, a completely dead sea as far as he was concerned. She was ready to dive in, a ring of life-saving banality tucked under her arm. But first she always relished the few seconds of silence she made him endure as she circled for a few moments; hesitating, just to watch his ever--widening eyes sink lower and lower into the murky depths of embarrassment and ignorance. "Do they really?" She smiled. "How interesting."
This device was designed to eliminate the driver from any further conversation. He would not feel confident in either his language or cultural skills to attempt a three way conversation, particularly when the other parties were husband and wife. Just for good measure, she secured his total exclusion. "Jan and Tony came here for their honeymoon, do you remember?" There was little chance they would have travelled in this particular taxi.
At the hotel, they successfully negotiated the curious ritual of giving their hand luggage to the porter at reception, only to have to buy it back from him in their room five minutes later.
The next eighteen hours were spent in a listless, semi-conscious state. They had planned to shop, eat and take in the sights but the heat and jet lag had suppressed their appetite for anything. Completely drained by lack of sleep and the disorientation it induced, an overly frantic search for a suitable restaurant found them sitting down to a hearty steak dinner at eleven--thirty in the morning, their brains telling them it was only seven-thirty a.m. and their appetites craving protein and carbohydrates.
The reality of being homeless added to their sense of disassociation. Enveloped in a suffocating oriental haze of humidity, relieved only by the artificial air--conditioned chill of the numerous shopping malls, their senses assaulted at every turn by the vibrant atmosphere of Singapore, all only added to an unnerving sense of unreality and disconnection with the present.
David's mind was on the next leg of the journey. Too much fatty food and far too much caffeine continued playing tricks. He imagined they were in a jungle clearing, trapped amidst the chatter of machine gun fire. motorbikes and mercenaries selling cheap electronic equipment. They would be rescued by an SAS taxi driver and delivered safely back to the airport to await the last flight out of the country.
Energy-sapping fatigue was not a pleasant feeling. He progressively lost concentration as they sat in the airless cab on the way back to the hotel, thankful someone else was taking the risk of negotiating busy, unfamiliar streets.
Young men on whining mopeds careered past, weaving dangerously between the cars and trucks. Each bike and rider looked identical to the last, their brightly--coloured shirts flapping wildly in the hot breeze as they overtook the taxi, clasping a box or a large bag of food in the arm which was not aiming the small bike at the traffic ahead.
David's head drooped and his eyes came to rest on the taxi driver's licence. The face looked the same as the driver the day before. He looked and the driver smiled. "You like soccer? Chelsea? West-a--Ham?"
David shook his head.
Katherine had fallen asleep in the back of the taxi by the time they arrived back at their hotel. "I'll give you the key so you can go straight to bed," David suggested to her. "I just want to check to see if we have any emails."
He fed some coins into the computer he'd noticed in the lobby. The clock on the website flashed UK time, confirming why he was feeling so exhausted at six-thirty in the evening.
You have no new messages.
On the opposite wall was an ATM machine. He remembered the credit card that had appeared in his wallet the day before.
He had successfully left the UK, had entered Singapore unchallenged and was now an insignificant speck amongst four million others. Taking out his wallet, he almost hoped the card would be gone. It may have already been cancelled and would remain inside the machine.
Please enter your PIN number and press OK.
He fumbled for the small scrap of paper, typed in the number and pressed OK. The option menu appeared. The card was still active.
How could the owner be so stupid as to not cancel a credit card with such a huge balance on it? The answer came straight back at him - because it had belonged to the man who had fallen to his death in the car park!
The other men had stolen it from him. A dead man cannot cancel his own credit card. This would give the thief time to do some serious spending before it was cancelled by the company who had issued it.
Questions began to flow once more. What was his part in their plan and why had they planted the card on him instead of just taking it for themselves? How had he managed to evade the police, leave the country and enter Singapore unchallenged?
The machine beeped, reminding him to make a selection. He looked again at the options. The balance had been some incredibly high amount when he had checked it back in London. He decided to get another printout and keep this one, then get another one in about twelve hours' time, just before leaving Singapore, and check if anyone else was using the account.
The dead man may have a wife or partner who shared the account and he wanted to see if they were continuing to use it, He knew when Katherine had her credit card stolen in Spain both the cards on the same account were invalidated.
He suspected he was already being followed or tracked in some way. The coincidence of apparently getting the same taxi driver twice in a city of four million people had already heightened the suspicion that had been lurking ever since the security guard had somehow found him in the toilet at Heathrow.
The machine beeped again. He pressed the button. It whirred and sent the card back out. David placed it into his wallet. In the lift back up to his room on the twentieth floor, he read the printout. The number was huge, but was it exactly the same as the first one he had read? He would check it against the next enquiry he made.
David decided not to tell Katherine any of this until they were on the plane heading for New Zealand. The long flight would give him plenty of time to explain what had happened so far and she could help him decide what to do next.
\*
The second night was worse than the first. Their body clocks were stubbornly refusing to adjust to the time difference and David sat in bed pretending to read the hotel magazine at 3.00 a.m., his head spinning. Katherine lay beside him reading her latest book. This was not the best time to broach the subject of his lost half an hour at Heathrow.
They finally drifted into a fitful sleep before waking again two hours later. "Are you OK? You're very quiet." Katherine broke the silence as they repacked the small amount of belongings they were carrying. David was taking longer than usual to slip into the happier relaxed frame of mind that was usually evident within a few hours of beginning a holiday. For Katherine at least, this certainly felt like a holiday. "Not homesick already I hope."
"I'm fine, just severe jet lag," David replied, not entirely untruthfully.
David decided to take the hotel shuttle bus, determined not to be unsettled by the possibility of the same taxi driver for a third time, but this did not stop him scanning the faces of all the taxi drivers overtaking the bus.
The departure lounge swarmed with people preparing to fly throughout Asia and beyond. David was trying to work out a way he could re-check the card balance. "I was just thinking maybe we should change our Singapore dollars for New Zealand ones. Give me your Singapore cash and I'll go and find somewhere to do it."
Katherine agreed. "OK, I'll be sitting over there by the magazine shop. DON'T wander off too far, DON'T get lost and be back in ten minutes."
There was an ATM next to the bureau de change. He was confident he could accomplish both tasks and Katherine would be none the wiser.
He completed the exchange transaction, stuffing the crisp new notes unfolded into his wallet. Now he began to feel nervous. So far each time he had used the card no-one else was anywhere near the ATM. The concourse was loud and bustling with people. Two young backpackers were already in front and he was soon sandwiched by others as they queued behind. He considered walking away but the temptation to know if someone else had used the card in the last few hours was too great.
Pulling his wallet from an inside pocket and keeping it protectively within the lining of his jacket, he took out the card. He had memorised the PIN, torn up the paper and thrown it into the hotel waste bin.
David pushed the card into the slot. Just as he was about to enter the PIN he felt a sharp pain in both his ankles and fell against the machine, dropping his wallet. "OW!" David's heart quickened and he turned to defend himself against .... an ancient oriental lady peering over the top of several very large, shiny leather suitcases perched on top of the trolley which she had just rammed into his legs.
"So sorry, thought you had finished." She smiled benignly, gesturing to the small boy next to her to retrieve the wallet from next to David's foot. The child pounced and offered it to David, smiling. "Sorry you carry on, no rush." She said as he turned, ankles still throbbing, and entered the PIN, standing close to the machine, shielding his actions from anyone watching from behind.
Sorry your transaction cannot be completed at this time. Please try later.
David took the card and walked back to Katherine, intending to hand her half the newly exchanged cash. Opening his wallet to pull out the notes, he saw that they had gone. In the space usually reserved for his credit cards, there was nothing but bare black leather. The clever little bastard had managed to rob him in front of his eyes. "Oh shit!"
"What's happened?"
"I was just checking the balance on our credit card and some kid managed to steal it." He looked back hoping to spot the old lady and her young accomplice. Now he could not even see the machine through the crowd which had seemed to close in behind him.
"That's all we need. We'll have to report it"
"NO!" David almost shouted. 'We, er, can't do that right now. We need to get on the plane. The police won't be interested and they'll be long gone already."
"No, I meant the credit card company, otherwise by the time we get to Auckland half our money could be gone." Katherine was right. "I've still got my card." She felt in her handbag . The contents were untouched but her credit card was also missing. She still had the credit card holder. "There's an international help number on the back. You wait here David. I'll find a phone, give them a call and sort this out. Don't move!"
David felt his face flush hot and his stomach tense. Something weird was definitely going on and somehow he was being inexorably drawn into it. Things beyond his control were happening around him and to him. Too much out of the ordinary had happened in the last thirty-six hours.
The flight was to depart in ninety minutes. As soon as Katherine came back from using the phone, he would find a policeman and ask to see someone in authority. He wanted no more sleepless nights trying to ignore the wild scenarios in his head.
Katherine was walking back towards him, zigzagging through islands of people and baggage. Her head was turned and, as she rounded a trolley, a man in a suit met her in front of it. David found himself sizing up the approaching stranger - tall, close-cropped dark hair, European. Police? MI5? They were talking. For a moment he considered walking away, disappearing into the crowd. But then, they were both in front of him. "David, this man is from British Customs. He wants to talk to us about credit card fraud."
Credit card fraud, not murder, David reassured himself. Katherine's face showed the concern of someone whose credit card had been stolen, nothing more. Another man and a woman joined them. "Mr Turner, my name is Tony Burton. I'm with British Customs. We need to talk to you about your stolen card. There's a bit of a racket here at the airport, and we need to get a description from you. It won't take long. Please follow me. The other officers will look after your wife."
A fleeting image of a dank, dark cell, dripping water and electric shocks flashed through David's mind before reassuring himself Burton was British. He had absolutely nothing to hide. In fact there was plenty he was just dying to get off his chest. He just expected Katherine would have been the first to hear it.
They walked towards a door adjacent to the baggage security desk. David went over his story, deciding whether he ought to change anything or leave anything out. At least for now Katherine was taken in the opposite direction. Burton calmly reassured him "Don't worry about your wife. You'll be boarding the flight together." There was no reason to doubt him.
It was a small windowless room. Against the opposite wall three men stood shoulder-to-shoulder, looking a little uncomfortable to have found the size of the room offered them less personal space than they would have liked. There was a table between them and David. Burton clicked shut the door gently behind them.
"Mr David Turner?"
David nodded, his vocal chords momentarily dry beyond use.
"Mr Turner, I'll be as brief as I can. We don't have much time. You have to be on that plane in just over an hour. Firstly, this is about your credit card, or rather the card you currently have. To get straight to the point, there's a group moving large amounts of money around the world at the moment. They're doing it using legitimate credit cards and travellers as mules. They monitor the card and wait for a foreign travel booking to occur.
Just before the unsuspecting cardholder travels to the holiday or business destination, a large sum of money is placed on the card account. Local operatives then steal the card and remove the money. As far as the cardholder is concerned, he has just had his card stolen and is totally unaware of the free courier service he has provided. Are you with me so far?"
"But that doesn't explain ... " David stopped before implicating himself in something they may not even be interested in talking to him about.
"This is where it gets interesting. We've been trying to second guess these people for a number of months now. A pattern has been emerging of the kind of people they are targeting, people like yourself and your wife, planning to live permanently overseas, for example. We've been liaising with a number of overseas agencies, including the New Zealand High Commission in London, and you were, or rather are, a likely profile. We were able to track your internet usage and made other, er, enquiries." Burton hesitated looking at the three others standing opposite.
The middle one continued. "Unfortunately they suspected we were onto them, so they began trying to conceal their targets, intercepting them at the last minute, right at the point of departure in your case. They then plant the card personally on the unsuspecting subject in a kind of reverse pickpocket. The courier's details are pre-printed onto the card. That way, if they find it, and decide to buy themselves a decent camera or watch at the duty-free, they would be less inclined to discard it or report it. For the criminals, it's a small price to pay to ensure the card reaches its final destination where they can retrieve it."
David was trying work out how all this fitted in with his own recent experiences. But it just raised more questions.
"We found out who their contact at Heathrow was, and we also found out when you and Mrs Turner would be leaving the UK."
David had come to the conclusion the four men in the room with him were not British Customs. This was not a simple case of smuggling or duty evasion. It was criminal activity and someone had died. So far that fact had not even been mentioned. So he said it. "What about the dead bloke?"
Burton folded his arms, self-consciously attempting to present a casual persona before talking about the murder only one person in the room did not know the truth about. "David, their man had a card with your name on it. We know the card carries a considerable amount of money, possibly the largest amount they have yet tried to move. We need to stop this now. We need to find out who is responsible. Like I said, we don't have much time. This has all happened very fast. As far as they are concerned, their man tried to place the card on you as you were locking your car. You noticed, thought you were being mugged, and there was a struggle. He unfortunately fell and you walked away from what you thought was an attempted mugging, but with the card successfully placed in your wallet. Sadly life is cheap to them. Losing their Heathrow operative is a small price to pay for successfully getting the money on that card you are now carrying into New Zealand. They seem to have temporarily lost track of you in the confusion and, because you haven't yet made a purchase on the card, they can't pinpoint your current location but, when you do, which you will because we arranged to take your other one, they will be back on your trail, and we will be on theirs."
David leaned against the table, next to Burton. "So just so I know where I stand, just to confirm, you fellas aren't exactly Customs, then?"
"Not exactly no, but you don't need to know any more at this stage, other than that our knowledge of what really happened to you in London, coupled with the fact that we have watched and protected you all the way to that door over there, confirms our credentials."
"So you killed that guy on the roof?"
"Unfortunately he struggled and fell."
David had a very clear recollection of what he had seen two nights ago. He had forced himself to remember it. There was no struggle. An unconscious man was deliberately tipped over the edge of the car park wall to his death. "And you just had that kid steal my only credit card?"
"Yes, we arranged that little scene. The only way to get them back on your trail is to ensure you use the card they planted on you. Once the card was safely inside the ATM machine, the means of accessing your own personal funds was denied to you."
"You mean you stole my credit card?"
"Let's just say we're protecting the assets of an innocent party at this stage. Your own card was cancelled as soon as you left the hotel. You would've found out soon enough anyway. They're watching the cash machines here in the airport, so we just assisted in your identification. They'll simply believe you were accosted by one of the many gangs that operate in this terminal, and the incident was picked up on the airport security CCTV. We, as Customs, have intercepted your wife making her call back to the UK to report the card stolen and invited you to make a statement to us. In fact, as far as your wife is concerned, she is doing just that right now."
"So she knows nothing about all this?"
"For both your sakes, no, not unless you decide to tell her when you leave here."
David had already spent enough time wrestling with whether or not to tell Katherine. This latest incident had left him even more confused and undecided, but he would have to give her some kind of explanation as to why he was not particularly worried about losing his credit card since he happened to have a spare she knew nothing about. "So what happens now? You guys have basically robbed me so you can set me up as bait for God knows what."
"Do what everyone else does, Mr Turner. Walk out of here with a clear conscience and get on your plane to Auckland. As far as your wife is concerned, the British Consulate has furnished you with a temporary emergency card. When you get to New Zealand, we will contact you at your hotel - the Cedar Stars, isn't it? We will arrange replacement cards and you can tell her you'll reimburse the Consulate for any money you spend in the meantime."
"That all sounds very simple and convenient but you won't actually be giving me another card here will you?"
"No, use the one planted on you at Heathrow. Spend little and often in the next three or four days. Maybe withdraw small amounts of cash as well. They will soon pick up your trail again. You may find the card disappears quickly. They have an excellent pickpocketing team in Auckland. Don't worry if they break into your room or hire car. They only want the card, so don't try to protect it. If it appears that you are in any kind of physical danger, my team will be watching."
This didn't sound reassuring. Burton was clearly saying David was being deliberately set up as a target. "So, they'll be watching as I get mugged or will they jump in and help?"
"As I have made clear, you are an unwitting and innocent party in all this and you have my assurance that we'll do everything we can to ensure no harm comes to either of you."
There was a knock at the door. Burton spoke as he leant forward to open it. "As soon as you clear security, I suggest you head straight to duty-free and buy yourself a bloody good camera and some expensive perfume for your wife."
Katherine stood framed by the doorway, flanked by two airport staff carrying their hand luggage. "These people," she indicated the two on either side, "have been so helpful. They've explained about the gang operating in the airport and how the police are onto them. Detective Chow said that Mr Burton has given us an emergency card to use until we can get replacements in Auckland, then we can arrange to pay them back. They seem to have everything well organised."
If only you knew, David thought. Katherine was satisfied by the lies she had been led to believe in the short period of their enforced separation. The lightness of her mood was now in direct contrast to the wave of anger that was suddenly washing over David as he realised the ease with which she had just been totally deceived.
He felt he had lost control of his own destiny, or at least of the immediate future, and with it came the overwhelming realisation that this included losing his ability to protect Katherine. Someone else was assuming this responsibility for him.
At least now he partly understood what was happening to him. Katherine, on the other hand, was entirely oblivious to the deceit, seeing instead only the kindness and humanity of her deceivers. As soon as they were out of that room, he was going to tell her.
David had been given no choice but to be manipulated into an increasingly serious and potentially dangerous situation. It was time he had an ally. More mundanely, he could think of no plausible excuse why he should suddenly want to spend hundreds of dollars in the duty-free shop, something he was now looking forward to doing. Some retail therapy would take his mind off what was happening and would help distract Katherine after the speech he was about to give her.
"Right then, Mr and Mrs Turner, we had better let you continue your holiday. Enjoy your trip to New Zealand."
Liar, David thought. He knows we are emigrating. That was purely for Katherine's benefit.
As she turned to lead them both away, Burton looked straight at him. "Take care."
He nodded and winked, patting his own jacket pocket;
"Remember, enjoy yourself, David." He offered his hand and David found himself being drawn closer as Katherine wandered away, oblivious. Burton spoke in a lowered tone. "We'll be in touch, and don't worry, we won't let you out of our sight."
The door clicked shut once more and Burton was gone. David hurried after his wife. "I need to talk to you about something you were told back there." He tried shifting the blame. "They haven't been entirely honest with you."
She stopped, allowing him to catch up. "In what way exactly not honest with me?"
"Well, this whole thing is a bit more complicated than just my credit card being stolen. In fact, I don't really know the whole story myself. Lets just clear security and I'll tell you what I know so far."
So far? David had implied, not least to himself, it was not over. Not only had Burton successfully manipulated their entire journey so far, he had also controlled the meeting that had just taken place to the extent David was actually really none the wiser. Any opportunity for questioning on his part had vanished as soon as Katherine had reappeared and in the urgency to get them onto their flight. They had cleared security with David's mind elsewhere and now were walking towards the departure gate, with any opportunity to use the card gone.
"You may not believe me, but this is the real story so far. Remember when we were waiting to get on the plane at Heathrow and I went off to the loo?"
"Yes." She raised her eyebrows, not expecting any explanation to begin at that particular point.
"Well, whilst I was standing there, someone came up behind me. They must have drugged me. The last thing I remember is a hand over my mouth."
"So you were mugged for your credit card. Why didn't you say so?"
'No, that's not what happened. They lied to you just now. They wanted to leave it to me to decide whether to get you involved in all this, whatever it is." Katherine had turned to face her husband. He was staring back, looking into her eyes, seeing the word 'lie' in one and 'truth' in the other. "I was unconscious on the top floor of the car park and when I woke up a man was being murdered." Finally saying it out loud sounded overly sensational and implausible. It also sent an unexpected wave of emotion through David.
"Murdered? What man? How? When?" The questions came too fast for him to answer. He wanted to be able to relate the story at his own pace, on his own terms.
"This is difficult. I'm confused enough myself as it is. There's this gang of international money smugglers. They've planted this credit card on me. It carries a huge balance - hundreds of millions of pounds. The police are on to it. That was actually them back there. I have to keep the card on me until we get to New Zealand and then .... "
"What?"
"Shit! I'm not really sure." What would happen next?
Katherine just looked at him with confused concern. She wanted to believe him but the story was just too unbelievable. "Let's just get on the plane David. You need a few hours' rest."
He stared back at her. This either meant that she had accepted everything he had just said or she had just totally ignored every word.
For the next ten minutes they behaved as if the previous two had not happened. Katherine quickly made herself comfortable and began absently flicking through the same in-flight magazine she had read cover--to--cover on the flight from London to Singapore. Burton's voice repeated the same phrase over and over in David's head, "If it appears that you are in any kind of physical danger, my team will be watching." He leaned across. "You don't believe me do you?'
She shifted in her seat, her gaze unnaturally intent on an advertisement for a perfume she was never likely to wear.
He felt for the wallet, opened it and pulled out the only card remaining in it. "Look at this." Disregarding its hidden value, he tossed the card at the magazine where it hit the spine and slid down the crease and into her lap.
"When did we apply for this?"
He had read her correctly. She picked up the credit card and examined it.
"We didn't. I told you, it's been planted on me so I can carry it into New Zealand along with the bloody huge credit balance on it." She looked down at the card again. "You know every other credit or store card we had? I always put my middle initial on the application and it always appeared on the card. Look, it's not there. I never applied for this card, so the initial doesn't appear like it did on every single one of my other cards."
She handed him back the card. "How much?"
"What?"
"How much money is on that card?"
"I can't remember exactly. It's something like two hundred and fifty million and something."
"Pounds?"
"Well, two hundred and fifty million in any currency is a lot but, yes, it must be pounds. That's what the printout said, so it must be pounds."
Gently bouncing at the end of the runway, the pilot struggled to control the power of the beast eager to struggle from his grasp. Then, taking a deep breath, the plane tore down the runway, the roar of four huge engines drowning out the screaming children. The horizon changed direction against the frame of his window. Rising into the air, David felt himself at the same time falling as the front of the aircraft dried to drag its unwilling back end into the sky.
"So .... "
Katherine broke the twenty minute silence as if it had been twenty seconds, picking up the conversation exactly where she had left off. She could do this with ease an hour, or a day, later. " ....does this mean we're rich?"
"Well, not really, I mean the money isn't actually ours. I'm just kind of carrying it, locked in this card, although Burton said I could spend some, just to make it easier for them to track where I am."
"How can they do that?"
"I'm not sure. It must be linked to an online bank account, so whoever actually owns the card can just log on and view the locations where each transaction takes place."
Katherine sighed. "That's just great. We're supposed to be making a new life for ourselves and here you are involved in illegal smuggling. Or is it money laundering?"
David frowned. "Well neither, as far as I'm concerned. What could I get done for? After all, I'm just carrying a credit card with my own name on it."
"Assuming any of this is true, how long do you think you'll hold onto that card once we get into New Zealand? Whoever it really belongs to will want it back and, the more I think about it, the more it worries me how they intend getting it back."
David tried to reassure her. "Stop worrying. Burton told me we'll be watched closely once we arrive and his people will step in if anything gets out of hand." Burton had actually said nothing of the sort. David wished he could just open the window and throw the card out. He contemplated flushing it down the aircraft toilet but had visions of it wedging in the tiny hole as he tried to flush it away. He had no idea what to do next and turned once more to Katherine. "Can you think of something to do about this when we land?"
"Well, we should head to our hotel in the morning. I think the best thing to do is find a police station, explain the whole thing and hand the card to them. Just get rid of the damn thing."
Female logic had just constructed a completely different scenario to the wild conspiracy that continued to rage in David's mind. He thought about her suggestion, before disagreeing. "So, within twenty-four hours of arriving in a country to make a new life for ourselves, you reckon we should walk into a police station carrying a stolen credit card, which a man has already been murdered for, and expect them to just file it under lost property? They're going to be watching us get off this plane, for God's sake! They know which hotel we are staying in, and hopefully they're also watching the people intent on trying to get the card back as soon as they get the chance. In fact, the only reason I wasn't arrested in London is I'm being used as bait for God knows what." He picked at his meal and gave up trying to work out what time his body actually thought it was.
\*
The plane bounced and David woke with a start to see Katherine staring back at him.
"You jumped," she said. "We'll be landing in about thirty minutes."
David could see a featureless mound of grey clouds as the plane descended towards Auckland. It shuddered as it plunged into them, a different vibration indicating the landing gear was being lowered.
Still in thick cloud, the engines were throttled back to an alarmingly slow air speed as rivulets of rain sketched a map of the Amazon Basin onto the window. Through a break in the clouds David could make out the sea only a few hundred metres below.
Once more a collective willpower took hold of the plane, every right foot pushing hard into the carpet, bringing it to a brisk walking pace.
The engine note diminished, replaced by incongruous background music. Four hundred people had just fallen out of the sky. It was probably too late to try and relax them with soothing music. Perhaps, David mused, it was to calm the engines that had been rotating, white hot for the past eleven hours. The captain welcomed them to Auckland where outside it was cool and wet.
"Please remain seated until the aircraft has come to a complete stop."
Why? In case he changes his mind, revs up the engines and decides to go round again?
Even now, safely on the ground, David still had a sense that perhaps the pilots did not have full control of this beast after all. They had just guided it across eight thousand miles of featureless sky, so why did a man have to stand beneath the nose, and coax it towards the umbilical that would tether it firmly to the ground for the next few hours?
Finally David had completed his journey from one side of the world to the other, still completely unconvinced of the means by which he had travelled.
He watched transfixed as the door was unbolted, expecting to see at least two large men in dark suits, possibly also wearing dark glasses, being led by a large slavering dog. Instead, a small man in a fluorescent jacket put one foot inside, took an envelope from the stewardess and retreated.
People were standing, stretching and gathering their belongings before being inexorably sucked towards the exit door, first in pairs, then in small groups. Everyone was on their feet. Anticipation and excitement bordered on mild hysteria.
Looking back down the cabin, David watched heads bobbing towards him before he and Katherine jumped into the stream of humanity flowing towards the exit.
The stream continued, turning left, then right, following the arrows, unnecessarily, David thought, since any other direction would have caused people to simply walk into the walls. Luggage was greeted with the same joyful relief as if a long-lost friend had just stepped from the plane.
Walking towards the customs hall, David recalled the leaflet about New Zealand's bio security regulations. He was not allowed to bring so much as an apple from the plane into the country. He noticed the large yellow bins placed along their path in which to place anything of vegetable origin. The intention was to stop the unwitting, or deliberate, import of pests and diseases that could decimate the indigenous flora and fauna and kill off whole industries which relied on the production of food for domestic consumption and, more importantly, export.
David read the list of banned items on the large poster and remembered the small banana in his jacket pocket. The leaflet had reminded him there was no commercial banana production in New Zealand. The country imported 120,000 tonnes of bananas from a variety of countries every year. He also knew South America had the world's largest population of insects and bugs, and was the world's largest exporter of illegal drugs. Bananas were shipped from that region to New Zealand in neatly packed, tightly sealed, boxes.
If he failed to declare the one small banana in his pocket, he faced an instant $200 fine, plus confiscation and destruction of the banana. He threw it into the nearest yellow bin and walked smugly towards the 'Nothing to Declare' lane, content that he had contributed in some small way to the bio security of the country he was about to call home.
A beagle dragging a customs officer behind it sat at his feet, wagging its tail. David innocently bent to pet it.
"Sir, you have just walked through the Nothing to Declare channel. Are you carrying any fruit or vegetables?"
"I was. I had a banana in my pocket but I put it in the yellow bin back there."
The officer narrowed his eyes. "Powerful odour, the banana, especially to the trained nose. Lingers for days. Wait here, please."
It was clear to David this Customs officer took his job very seriously and was intent on enforcing the law. He turned away, speaking into his radio, before returning to David. "That's all good, sir. We've checked the video and confirmed the banana was disposed of in the appropriate receptacle. Welcome to New Zealand."
David felt guilty before he had even stepped from the plane, convinced he would be arrested once inside the terminal. He suspected the approach by the customs officer was a low key start to the arrest procedure. Now he scanned for any signs of movement towards him by anyone in a uniform. He walked towards the exit and turned expecting to see Katherine just behind him.
"Are you carrying any fruit or vegetable material, madam?"
Her expression, the sudden drop of her shoulders together with the swishing of the sniffer dog's tail, answered the question for everyone.
"I have a small banana in my handbag." The word banana might as well have described a nuclear device.
"Under the Biosecurity Act, the importation of listed products without the necessary permit is illegal. I'll have to confiscate the banana. There is also a penalty of $200, payable immediately."
The Turners were still in the airport terminal. Katherine had just broken the law, been found guilty and had to accept the punishment. The new immigrants were already criminals. Not a good start.
Katherine retrieved the black and yellow banana--shaped piece of fruit from her bag. Even David could smell it some distance away. With gloved hands, the officer held out a yellow plastic bag. It had skull and crossbones and the words BIO HAZARD on the side. The banana was dropped in. The bag was carefully tied and dropped into the yellow bin.
"What happens to that lot?"
"Gets incinerated. Now, how would you like to pay?"
David considered 'incinerate' was overly dramatic; 'burn' would have been sufficient. Instinctively he felt for his wallet. "Is a credit card OK?"
So the credit card, its value greater than the entire New Zealand imported fruit market, made its first purchase - a $200 banana. David hoped the transaction, and the item purchased, was being monitored somewhere.
"Did you just use that stolen card to pay my fine? That's certain to flag up on a computer somewhere."
"I hope it does. With any luck I'm leaving a trail that the right people are following."
They had planned to hire a car at the airport but now David decided they should take a bus to the city centre in an effort to elude anyone who might be following.
At the motel David realised their only means of payment was the credit card. He would have to hand it over when they checked in. "As soon as the card gets swiped, they'll know we are here. But we need to get some rest, so we have no choice but to stay here tonight. As soon as we get the room, I'm going back out to arrange a hire car. Then we can leave early tomorrow morning and head south."
They fell onto the bed and slept for five hours.
\*
David made sure Katherine was safe in the room; "Put the chain across the door and don't answer the phone. I'll be back as soon as I can."
As he walked onto the street it was already getting dark. 4.30pm on a July afternoon. The air was cool and damp. It was midwinter in the southern hemisphere. Auckland felt like an unfamiliar British town - Newcastle or Exeter - somewhere he had never been but had seen pictures of. There was an air of vague recognition.
Driving in from the airport, place names and street names would not have been out of place in the UK. The houses were similar in style, but no two appeared to be the same and the roofs seemed to be made from sheets of corrugated iron. It started to sink in that this was a different country. Zipping up his jacket against an unexpected July chill, he thrust his hands into his pockets, his right firmly gripping his wallet, and headed down the street. He had three things to do.
He decided the less he used the card, the harder it would be to track him. But they still needed money, so withdrawing a large amount of cash would be the smartest thing to do. David quickly found an ATM, slipped the card into the machine, entered the PIN and pressed the option for cash. But how much? He felt like some bizarre celebrity - millions of dollars at his disposal but no idea as to the cost of a loaf of bread. He pressed 'other amount' and keyed in $2000.
For security reasons withdrawals of cash are limited to $500 per day per account.
Shit! Even with a limited knowledge of the exchange rate, he knew $500 would not last long. Withdrawing that amount on a regular basis would leave a nice clear trail as they made their way south. It would have to do for now.
He withdrew the $500, quickly placed the $20 notes into his wallet and continued. It was 4.40pm. Across the street he noticed a sign advertising cars for rent.
The woman at the desk looked up as he entered the small office. "Hi. How may I help you?"
"I'd like to hire an estate car please."
"You mean a station wagon?"
"Yes, can I do a one--way hire to Wellington?"
"One moment please." She looked at the screen. It was only a small office, with cars parked in the front area. He could clearly see she had three suitable cars out there. How long could it take to find them on her computer? "What about one of those?" he said, impatiently, pointing back through the window behind him.
"They're all due out first thing in the morning. I've got one coming back in the next half hour you can have. If you can call back first thing in the morning, it'll be ready for you."
David planned on leaving early the following morning, before daylight. "That's not much good, I need one tonight."
She looked back at her screen. "In that case, if you come back after five-thirty, I'll make sure it's been valeted and waiting for you. We're open until seven. What name shall I book it under?"
They was no point in lying, complicating matters further by trying to come up with a false name, and he would have to show her his passport for identification anyway. "Turner, David Turner."
"Ok David, that'll be $150 for the one--way hire, plus a bond of $500. So that's a total of $650." He only had $500 in cash, with more items still to buy. Using the card would not only give away his current location but also the rental company name against the purchase would clearly show they now had a car.
She sensed his hesitation. "Its ok, you can use a credit card for the bond. We just swipe the details onto one of these old--fashioned paper slips and just process it if anything goes wrong."
"So you don't need to swipe it electronically?" he enquired as conversationally as possible.
"No, just a paper slip which we destroy as soon as our Wellington office let us know the car has arrived safe and sound."
David handed her the $150 cash, then watched intently as she placed the card onto the hand held swipe machine before slowly pushing the roller forward, then back, imprinting the card details onto the paper docket. "Just bring your passport details back at six for I.D."
"Is there a shop near here that sells mobile phones?"
'Yes. Farmers is about half a k down the street. They're open until eight tonight."
"Half a .. ?"
"Half a k - a kilometre. Better start thinking in kilometres, not miles, now you're a Kiwi."
It had never occurred to them that in moving to an English-speaking part of the Commonwealth, they would still be considered foreigners in a country that, so far, felt like part of the British Isles that had just floated a bit too far south.
Two mobile phones cost $300. Now he had $50 left. David ran all the way back up the street to their room on the second floor. He tapped on the door and could hear Katherine's footsteps inside. "It's ok, it's me." She slipped off the chain and opened the door. "Have you unpacked?"
"Not quite, I've just had a quick shower."
"Good, we have to leave."
"Why? We only just arrived."
"Because they know we're here."
David entered the room, glancing around. She had begun to unpack. The routine was already becoming familiar, even after just two days. As they talked, he reversed the process, putting items back into the bags. "It was the woman at the car rental place. She's onto us. I know it sounds paranoid but she said something about me being a Kiwi now. How could she know that? Why didn't she just assume I was on holiday? How did she know I live here now?"
"You're right, you do sound paranoid. In fact this whole bloody thing is beginning to sound like some weird conspiracy that's just in your head. Let's just find a police station and finish this now." Katherine had not seen the poor soul mercilessly tipped over the wall four storeys above Heathrow's solid tarmac.
"How can I prove this to you once and for all, that I was knocked unconscious, witnessed a man being murdered in cold blood and then had a stolen credit card with millions of dollars on it placed on me?"
He remembered he had still not told her the truth concerning what had occurred at Changi Airport. "You remember at the airport in Singapore my credit card was stolen, and the British Customs, whom I am sure have no authority overseas, seemed to be on the case immediately? Well, that's because they set the whole thing up. They deliberately had that old woman bump into me and then the kid go through my wallet so I would have to use this other card. Every time I use it, whoever planted it tracks where I've used it, so they can decide at what point they can steal it back."
Katherine saw a look of fear in her husband's eyes she had never seen before.
"That guy Burton at the airport seems to think they will just go for a straight pick--pocket, assuming I know none of this background stuff. The trouble is, because I do know it, I'm guarding this card like a bloody hawk! I can't help it. I'm expecting something to happen any minute, which is why I would feel more comfortable, and certainly a whole lot safer, sitting in a moving car than sitting up all night in a motel room waiting for something to happen."
"So why not go to the police, like I said?"
"Because I reckon there is more to this than meets the eye. The British police must know who I am by now. They could easily have passed my description to the police here, probably before we had even left the ground in London. But you saw how we came through Singapore and Auckland. They made an excuse to stop us, checked that I had the card, and then let us carry on. Why? Because it suits their purposes in order to catch the person who will try and get the card from me."
Katherine tried reasoning with her husband. "So what? We forget about our plans to travel to the South Island so you can play cops and robbers? David, how can you run? You don't even know what's at the end of this street, let alone trying to evade ... evade .... Christ! You don't even know who's after you! We don't know a soul in this country but you're acting as if any one of them could walk up to you at any minute, punch your lights out and steal that bloody card!"
"And if they do, then what? The police will have their man, I'll have a few bruises and it will all be over and done with. An international smuggling operation will be smashed and the whole thing will probably be hushed up."
Katherine calmed down again. "How much money is on that card right now?"
"Er, hang on, I'll check." He kept the print out when he had withdrawn the $500 and fumbled in his pocket for the small scrap of paper. He read the numbers individually, still uncertain how to say such a large figure. Katherine, the maths teacher, waited until he had finished.
"So we are talking about someone smuggling two hundred and fifty million dollars into a country with a population of less than four million. Why on earth would they do that? What would that buy, apart from an awful lot of something?"
"It's not just me. According to Burton, other people are being targeted in the same way to bring money into the country on stolen credit cards." David had not stopped to consider there might be a bigger picture. He remembered being told others were also unwittingly transporting huge sums of money, but only into New Zealand? He didn't know. Now he wanted to. It was clear that Katherine wanted to know too. David handed her the piece of paper from the cash machine.
"See, I'm not making this up." She wanted to see the card again and stood for a moment, card in one hand, paper in the other, turning the card over, inspecting it thoroughly. She looked up. "And you say you found this in your wallet? You're sure you didn't pick it up off the ground or someone offered it to you at the airport?
"Everything I have told you has happened, I swear to you. Look, the card has my name embossed on it."
She handed him back the card and paper. "Here, keep these safe, finish packing and let's get out of here." She moved urgently round the room, remembering exactly where she had placed every item before absently throwing them into the case.
"Are you Ok?'
"No. I'm bloody scared, David. I'll finish this, you go and get the car and I'll meet you at reception."
David picked up the bag he had tossed onto the bed. "I bought a couple of mobile phones. I thought we should, we might, you know, just in case we need to keep in touch."
She looked up from the case. "Good idea. You never know, do you? Give them to me. I'll put them in my bag and sort them out once we're in the car."
He ran down the stairs onto the street and back to the car rental office, slowing to a stroll before entering, trying to look calm, not too breathless, and not as if he knew she knew. His heart sank as he walked in to see a man at the desk.
"Mr Turner?"
Did he know, or had he just been told by his colleague to expect him. "Yes, I've come to pick up a hire car."
"It's all ready for you. If you would just like to follow me out, I'll show you." It was a blue station wagon, still beaded with water and glistening under the early evening street lights. "The keys are in it and there are maps in the glove box. Just replace any fuel you use. Have a safe trip."
May 1997 - Five years earlier
'The concept of mass migration during the twentieth century has been widely recognized and documented by both academics and governments alike. Throughout the early-to-middle part of the century, this has been attributed primarily to the effects of war and politics. However, in the second half of the century, there has been a trend towards migration for purely economic, or even social, reasons. Worldwide affordable travel has encouraged millions to change continent, or hemisphere, permanently in search of a better standard of living or lifestyle.
Although the term 'globalization' has been in use since the 1940s, its popular meaning is credited to Theodore Levitt, an American economist and professor at the Harvard Business School who used the phrase in 1985 to describe the phenomenon of increasing global connectivity, and integration between nation states, businesses - both national and multi-national - and individuals. The significance of Levitt's work has not been lost on governments who have seen a potential risk to national identity through the influx or exodus of large numbers of people.'
Those within the American Government whose job it was to research and, if required, find practical applications for ideas put forward by academics like Levitt, came to a startling conclusion in early 1997. The theory was tantalizing and eminently provable, but in order to convince the Senate Committees responsible, they had to be persuaded to put in motion a daring social experiment.
The Migration Manipulation Program would be a bold and highly risky course of action, intended primarily to control and influence the mass movement of people from one country to another without the knowledge of the government of any country involved or, more importantly, the people themselves.
The theory was based on research conducted by a team from the University of Southern California who had used published statistical evidence to demonstrate that when the price of fuel rose, Californians drove their automobiles less.'
A simple fact even this current reader found little argument with. He sighed deeply and read on.
'The theory model has been extrapolated into the wider population. In the past thirty years, when fuel prices have increased, people have also been less inclined to fly, so the number of foreign holidays taken has decreased.'
He peered over his half-moon spectacles at the illustrative graph showing a correlation between the fluctuating prices of crude oil from 1973 to the present against the number of overseas flight taken by Americans during the same twenty year period. He could not yet see the point, but still pressed on.
He continued reading as the clock struck midnight. The lengthy report explained that other factors also had a bearing on travel decisions which, in turn, had a measurable effect on population migration trends. Economic and political factors in the homelands of migrants worldwide had been recognized influences for a hundred years but the Californian sociologists had uncovered evidence to suggest that far more subtle issues could, over time, influence a person, or whole families, to decide to move not just house but country. Crime rates, employment and weather were unsurprising, elements on the list.
With increasingly heavy eyes, he read on. Just this last report to finish tonight, he thought, although he could really see little point as to why this was supposed to be so valuable.
By page twenty-four he was ready to give up. His eyes were sore and dry. The clock on the oak mantle chimed half past midnight. He was about to close the cover when the title of the next chapter across the page caught his eye:
'Economic Invasion - how to create and influence a migrant influx and thereby manipulate the economy of a nation.'
By two-fifteen, what he had read convinced him how to potentially save the United States economy nine hundred and fifty billion dollars over the next twenty years whilst quietly bringing down the governments of probably eight countries whose leaders were hostile to the US or whose economies represented a threat to America's growth.
Within the week he would convene a meeting of the Chairs of the Senate Committees to discuss the implications of this report and how the information could best be exploited. He scribbled on the notepaper emblazoned with the White House seal as he replaced the file back into its leather case marked 'For the Presidents Eyes Only' and, sliding the case under his bed, clicked off the light.
Ten days later, the Chairmen of the twenty-one standing Senate Committees convened noisily in a White House meeting room. There was initial confusion, suspicion even, that this unusual unplanned meeting had been called. There was no imminent threat to national security that anyone was aware of, no looming natural disaster or man-made crisis about to unfold.
Most of those present had at least made an attempt to read the report that had been sent to them. Some had merely thumbed through, confused by what seemed to be a report by some hippy Californian post grads discussing holidays and family trends. A few had got their advisers to read it and to summarize the contents for them. What possible significance could this have to bring together such a high powered group of influential senators?
Senator Elmerstein, the Chairman of the Energy and Natural Resources Committee, who had been given an advance copy of the report and had read and understood its implications thoroughly, sat calmly as he waited for the final arrival. He looked up at the clock high on the wall opposite him. It was now ten-thirty. Lifting his stiff white cuff to glance at his watch, he looked up and coughed loudly, instantly bringing the meeting to order. Senators, who had been greeting each other, enquiring after wives and mistresses, stopped talking and looked expectantly towards Elmerstein.
"Gentlemen, thank you for coming this morning. I hope you have read the report in front of you."
Fresh copies had been neatly positioned, like table mats, one for each person present. Those who had discussed the meeting privately beforehand glanced at each other, exaggerated perplexed looks on their faces. There was a thud on the large wooden door. It was a courtesy, not a request for permission to enter. He needed no permission to enter a room in his own house.
The President strode in. There was an audible gasp, combined with a teeth-clenching screech of polished wood on wood as eighty-four chair legs slid sharply back on the parquet floor, their occupants standing to attention as their Commander-in-Chief entered the room.
"Morning gentlemen, sorry I'm late. Have I missed anything Elm?"
Elmerstein had been a Senator for thirty years and had earned the respect, and in most cases the confidence, of every president since Nixon. "No, Mr. President, we were just getting started."
"Good. Gentlemen, let's talk about energy."
The senators looked around for some sign that they were not the only one in the room who had missed that part of the report. The President, sensing the confusion, launched straight into a speech he had spent the previous evening drafting, intending it to eventually be for public broadcast. "Keeping America competitive requires affordable energy, and here we have a serious problem. America is addicted to oil which is often imported from unstable parts of the world. The best way to break this addiction is through technology. We must change the way we power our homes and our automobiles, We must begin to look at cutting-edge methods of producing ethanol and other so-called bio-fuels using by-products of corn, wood and switch grass, to name a few."
The committee members were already very confused. The President had entered the room and launched into a speech about energy. The report in front of them was about human migration patterns. Elmerstein adjusted his position in his seat, turning to face the President, attempting to interrupt him using body language alone. The President responded. "Senator Elmerstein, I sense you wish to say something?"
"Mr. President, if I may interject?" Elmerstein turned again to face his assembled peers. "The point of calling you all here today, in the presence of the President, is that I, that is he, wishes to discuss a matter which relates to the future of the world's energy supply and that the method by which we assure, and indeed secure, this future supply involves an extremely controversial and delicate, not to say highly confidential, matter. The potential, or indeed the likely effective destruction of another sovereign state."
Elmerstein and the President sat patiently, waiting for the mass exhalation by twenty ageing politicians interspersed with the stage-whispers of, as far as Elmerstein could make out, the words Iraq, Iran, Arabia and Kuwait to subside. The pair glanced at each other before the President continued once more.
"Some years ago now, the United States acquired the technology to produce an ethanol-based fuel derived from something called bovine caseinate. Put simply, a milk by-product. The problem is the milk which is produced containing the bovine caseinate, is different from the milk we all put on our coffee, or on our breakfast cereal, each day. The extra component, which makes the milk relatively easy and cheap to refine a high percentage of the whey by-product into fuel, makes it essentially poisonous to drink. Therefore we have to somehow ensure this particular milk never gets anywhere near the human food chain."
The Chairman of the Committee on Agriculture Nutrition and Forestry interjected. "Impossible, Mr. President. Look at the Brits and their mad cow disease."
"Then the answer," continued the President, "is to produce and process the milk in complete isolation; that is offshore, thereby assuring the integrity of our own domestic milking herd."
The Senators began questioning the reasoning of their President. "But any offshore production would still leave us vulnerable and exposed to the security of the country in which we produce, as well as the territories which we import through. Look at our exposure in the Middle East."
"Not if we control that source of production completely and we don't transport across any other sovereign border."
By now the Senators were shuffling in their seats. Some were glancing up at the clock.
"Gentlemen, there is a country, friendly towards the United States, which is perfect. Isolated, and with no other significant land mass between it and us. Furthermore, one of its prime industries for years has been dairy production. It is a democratic country, about the size of the United Kingdom, but with a population just twice the size of Manhattan's."
They stared blankly.
"I propose that we utilize the resources of New Zealand in order to produce enough of this modified milk to satisfy the demands of eighty-five percent of this country's fuel requirements by the year 2015."
A ricochet of twenty different questions fired at the President and Senator Elmerstein simultaneously. The bait had been taken.
It was clear by the President's attendance at this meeting that he backed this audacious plan. However, he left it to Senator Elmerstein to fill in the details. Before he had a chance, Senator McCluskey, a prominent Irish-American, interjected. "But, Mr. President, last time I looked, New Zealand was a loyal part of the British Commonwealth. Heck, they share a monarch. The Brits would never condone such a thing. It would mean the end of NATO; it would cause uproar in the UN Security Council. I'm sorry, but count me out. I can see it now. There'll be US Marines pitched against the Household Cavalry. Jesus, sir, you may as well declare war on the Queen herself."
The President merely smiled his urbane, indulgent smile. He could always rely on Paddy McCluskey not to mince his words.
"Senator McCluskey, gentlemen, let me reassure you .... let me reassure every single person in this room this morning that what I am proposing will be for the benefit of not only the economies of both New Zealand and the United Sates, but for the greater good of the whole world. Let me further reassure you that not a single shot will be fired, not one uniformed American serviceman will land in New Zealand during the course of this operation as part of any invasion force either overtly or covertly, and not one New Zealander will even have the slightest suspicion that his country's good fortune in securing a multi-billion dollar deal to supply what they will believe to be a home-grown technological breakthrough was actually instigated, controlled and manipulated by us in the first place, and will continue to be so throughout the lifetime of the fuel production program."
The President aimed his smile around the room once again. Paddy McCluskey nodded and smiled back. He had been placated. "Gentlemen, I have another pressing engagement. I shall leave you in the capable hands of our esteemed colleague." With that, the door behind him opened, the committee stood once more, and he was gone.
Elmerstein got straight to the point, as usual. "Our intention is to infiltrate the economic and political system of New Zealand at every level, using perfectly ordinary members of the public. As the President has already said, there will be no military intervention and minimal use of professional intelligence staff. Within five years, people sympathetic to our intentions will own or control the means by which the fuel can be produced, and through both overt and subliminal persuasion, we will be pumping bio-fuel across the Pacific and into California within twelve years."
"We're gonna run a pipeline across the Pacific?"
"Absolutely. It's perfectly possible from an engineering point of view. It's also safer and cheaper than using tankers and allows us full control in terms of supply. No more shortages caused by political unrest, weather, mechanical failure, terrorism or maintenance downtime."
A number of senators were scribbling notes, and whispered discussions were taking place at a number of points around the table.
"How do we fund this?"
"How are we gonna get these New Zealanders to agree to all this?"
"How do we know this fuel works?"
"Fuel from milk? Never heard of it!"
"Who is the President of New Zealand anyway?"
The questions grew into an excited cacophony. Elmerstein took this as subdued enthusiasm. He had them. "Gentlemen, gentlemen, all in good time. I will be making an appointment to see each and every one of you separately over the course of the next few weeks to discuss your department's role in more detail, but the key thing at this stage is that you know only what role your own staff will be playing. Let me just say this to you. The key to the success of this whole plan is that there is no plan. The theory model indicates each Department must work in isolation, only implementing its assigned tasks. In this way, there remains a natural fluidity, an evolution if you will. Things seep out. A minor act by one Department will have an effect in another which may influence someone in, say Illinois, or Japan, or Germany, hopefully a great many people. But these people will not recognize the source or even the influence itself."
Elmerstein began to encircle the table. He was in his element. "Let me give you an example. You will all be aware that I was involved in many of the decisions made around our space program in the seventies and eighties. Who can remember our original Strategic Defense Initiative announced by President Reagan in 1983?"
The sudden direct question startled the assembled politicians and there were a few mumbles and nods.
Senator Duggan spoke for them. "You mean the star wars program Elm?"
"No, Star Wars was a movie about a galaxy far, far away. But it's what SDI became known as, right? But does anyone remember how? Who in this room thinks we can trace the origins of the nickname of our multi-billion dollar sub-orbital missile system back to one man? And I don't mean George Lucas. Well, we can. Because the term was coined by a Doctor Bowman who worked on the project from 1977 until it was made public by the President in 1983. Bowman realized that such a controversial plan would need to capture the American public's imagination in order to receive its unquestioning backing, so he decided that we should borrow from the most popular movie franchise at the time, capture the youth of America. And we did."
Elmerstein paused and leaned over the table, placing his large craggy palms face down on the burnished maple. He shot a dramatic glance, catching the gaze of every man as his eyes swept the room. "Why was the first space shuttle called 'Enterprise'? I'll tell you why. Popular myth has it that it was due to a public campaign to persuade NASA to begin a dynasty of spaceships that would carry the name hundreds of years into the future, blurring fact with television fiction. To boldly go where no man has gone before etc etc. A romantic notion, which again captured the imagination of a public actually pretty bored with space travel at that time. So it was decided to call the first Space Transportation Craft 'Enterprise'. The public thought they had influenced the choice of name and it became their spacecraft. Anyway, gentlemen, I digress. Nowadays the corporate guys have gotten hold of the idea, and the technique they are using is termed, I believe, 'viral marketing'. It's just starting to be looked at as a serious marketing tool in the commercial world but we believe we can also use it to good effect."
'Vile what?"
"Viral marketing, taking a pre-existing social network, say a group of kids the same age, or members of a particular profession, and manipulating them to create what is known in the commercial consumerist world as brand awareness. So an example might be, say kids in a school yard talking about a new T.V. show, and the next week more kids tune in. It's a word of mouth thing."
"And this is gonna help us invade New Zealand? We're gonna do it by word of mouth?"
Senator Elmerstein could not resist a smile at how his own over-simplification had been taken so literally. "Yes, well kind of. Over the next few years, we need to make sure we are those kids in the school yard, sowing the seeds, nurturing the dreams and aspirations of thousands of people, shaping their perceptions, allowing us to control, as much as we are able, the kind of men and women who we need to be in New Zealand in the next ten years. But I have said enough already. The key to our success is that you each in turn put in place the strategies I will outline to you individually over the coming weeks. I know you have many questions, and I will try to answer them all, but I will do so face-to-face, one-on-one, at the proper time." Senator Elmerstein raised himself from the table slowly, as if to emphasize that the gravity of the proposal was actually weighing him down. "Thank you for your time, gentlemen. This meeting is now closed and the detail will, of course remain confidential and un-minuted as necessity dictates. God bless America."
Over the next few weeks during July and August of 1997, Senator Elmerstein visited each of the Chairs of the twenty one standing Senate Committees. To each man he gave a dossier and a two hour explanation of what was expected of his Department over the next eighteen months to two years. After that time there would be an update meeting where progress so far, and the next steps forward, would be discussed.
The dossier each Senate Chair received contained a summary of the meeting which had taken place at the Whitehouse a few weeks before. It highlighted the United States' huge appetite for energy, and forecast the likelihood of dwindling world oil reserves within forty years.
It pointed out some startling facts relating to the Military's energy consumption to emphasise America's insatiable thirst for oil. It was noted that in 25 minutes an F-15 fighter jet burned 625 gallons of fuel, more than an average motorist used in a year. An aircraft carrier used that much in 7 minutes. In 1989, the US Military had consumed about 200 million barrels of oil, enough to run the entire US urban mass transit system for 14 years.
There was a page devoted to a draft speech the President intended to make to the United Nations Convention on Climate Change in Kyoto in December that had been written shortly after the Senate had voted that the United States should not be a signatory to what was to become known as the Kyoto Protocol on the basis that it contained no binding targets or timetable for either developing or developed nations. In the speech, the President called for all countries to work together to develop existing and new technologies which would rid the planet of its addiction to oil.
The President would propose international co-operation on the construction of a vast North Atlantic wave farm, an array of wave energy converters stretching over 500 square miles, 70 miles off the North West coast of Scotland. The harnessed energy, it had been calculated, could supply enough power for the five biggest cities in Western Europe or, more importantly, the major cities of the US eastern seaboard.
He proposed international funding for what he had personally christened the Felin Project, an ambitious plan to construct a ring of solar panels around the equator - passing through jungles, deserts and across the oceans - to harness the unlimited power of the sun at that latitude. Cables radiating out from the belt north and south would carry the converted power, supplying an estimated five per cent of the world's electricity. The final suggestion was the conversion of vast tracts of agricultural land into fuel production farms, growing grasses or fast growing trees which could be converted to fuel. The stumbling block, of course, being this would mean using land currently in food production.
But the speech was never made. The Senate Committee Chairmen, one by one, realized that the President was actually blackmailing them. He was preparing to offer American technology, scientific knowledge and financial resources to the world for free unless they backed his plan, the one technology not mentioned in the speech - bovine caseinate additive.
They read on. Sections specific to their own committee's terms of reference had been placed in individual dossiers. There were paragraphs relating to military and trade relations with New Zealand and policy suggestions over the next ten years designed to keep relations between the two countries cool, at least at a political level.
In the dossier handed to the Chair of the Senate Committee for Agriculture Nutrition and Forestry was a specific section on the President's recommendation that an agreement be reached to allocate funds for research into the possibility of using crop-related technology to produce bio-fuel. That was all, no budget allocation, no further clues as to which university or private company was currently engaged in research into such a thing. In this way the agenda remained completely hidden. The individual seeds planted into each committee would be nurtured by its respective chairman until slowly, over a number of years, the tree would grow almost unnoticed, spreading its branches into every facet of American politics, business and beyond.
Alex Weisner, the Chairman of the Senate Committee on Foreign Relations, was, as he had anticipated, handed a particularly weighty dossier. He speed-read the summary of the meeting with the President fifteen days earlier and was keen, excited almost, to learn what had been delegated to his team. He was therefore somewhat taken aback when he opened the dossier to read the first heading.
Identifying nurturing and encouraging investment by companies and individuals expressing an interest in developing motion picture opportunities in New Zealand.
Senator Weisner could not think of a single film or TV show he had ever seen that originated from that small country. He was expecting to be dealing with political, even military, influence. How was encouraging Hollywood to make some kind of film in New Zealand going to encourage people to want to go and live there? Weisner sighed. This was going to be even harder than he expected. The title of the following chapter, however, whetted his politician's appetite:
Maintaining the diplomatic and economic status quo whilst ensuring there is no Free Trade Agreement between the US and NZ until 2015 and beyond.
Now that was more his sphere of interest and influence.
And so, in the late summer of 1997, the seeds were sown. All the Administration had to do now was to wait patiently. No one would even be able to detect the germination phase; that took place out of sight; subtle, unnoticeable. Eventually a combination of apparently unrelated factors would come together to create the environment for the next phase of the program to take its course. No-one was directly controlling what was happening since no one person or group could be seen to be influencing the decisions that were being made as a result of that initial secret meeting in July 1997.
For the experiment and the migration manipulation policy to work, it had to be left to take its own course.
David and Katherine Turner pulled away from the hotel and headed down the street. After five minutes they realised they were heading into the city, not away from it. "We need to be going south. Are we going in the right direction, David? Pull over there." Katherine was pointing to a small car park. "Let's get our bearings and work out a proper route."
David remembered being told about maps in the glove box. "Look at this lot. This is a bit generous." There was clearly more than the usual basic tourist information. There were detailed maps of both islands as well as a plain white envelope marked 'Private and Confidential'.
Katherine handed it to him. "This must be your Mission Impossible tape, Tom."
David hesitated before taking it. "Do you think I should read what's in it?"
"I don't see the harm in reading something, do you? Have a look while I work out these mobile phones."
David was hoping it contained some answers. He felt he had earned the right to at least some of the detail, if that was what the envelope contained. He read it to himself.
The world's supply of oil is running out. Experts predict that within one hundred years all projected reserves will have been extracted. The industrialised world in which we now live will slip back to the dark ages within ten years. It is anticipated that before this happens the major economic powers will have already taken steps to secure the remaining stocks of oil, and that this scramble for the last reserves will result in catastrophic global conflict This scenario has been recognised by the major economic powers for some years and they have all been working towards a solution. The United States favours pursuing alternative forms of energy, coupled with a decentralisation of primary industries. This policy is not favoured by America's allies, since it could involve the covert strategic integration of a number of territories into a situation where they are under the direct governance of the United States.
"What does it say?"
"I'm not sure yet, but it's to do with oil. Let me finish."
For the past thirty years, successive American Governments have pursued a policy designed to covertly destabilise a number of ostensibly allied countries. The most successful example of this was Ireland throughout the seventies and eighties where they actively invested in the Republic whilst funding, through third parties, a paramilitary civil war in the north. In that situation, the economic investment was seen as positive for the region. Consequently Ireland became the 'green dragon' economy of Europe. In fact the Americans succeeded in reducing their own domestic energy bill by a few billion dollars by successfully transferring some manufacturing industries to another sovereign state. The saving made has been used to fund the next stage of their plan.
"Apparently the Americans invaded Ireland in the seventies and no one noticed."
America still needs to satisfy its huge thirst for oil and a number of oil companies have developed successful alternative energy sources based on ethanol. These discoveries are not secret and there have long been rumours of inventors being paid off in order to keep the price of crude oil high. But already ethanol is a widely used additive in petrol and there are currently under development a number of advance prototype cars, ships and planes capable of running on these new fuels. But the stumbling block is getting enough of the fuel. Unlike oil, ethanol cannot just be extracted; it has to be man--made. There are two primary sources of raw material, forestry - ethanol from wood pulp - and dairy, ethanol as a by--product of whey.
"Hey, guess what? This is all about cows and trees!"
These two primary sources are also the primary industries of New Zealand, and this is no coincidence. There is growing evidence to suggest that over the last few years, American business, with the support of its own government, has been investing huge sums of money into New Zealand, purchasing vast tracts of land, together with the businesses which currently occupy it. During this time, the US Government has deliberately cultivated and nurtured a cool diplomatic relationship with New Zealand, aided, unwittingly, by the New Zealand Government itself and its staunch anti--nuclear policy. Ironically it is this very stance against one kind of fuel which is allowing the United States to launch a stealth invasion to cultivate its own source of fuel.
Katherine interrupted. "Have you finished that yet? Here, I've set your mobile up for you. Just keep it plugged into the car to charge the battery for a few hours."
David glanced over what he had just read once more, noting the frequency of the word 'government'. The paper was marked at the bottom, 'Summary of report to be presented to Cabinet by Professor Patrick O'Sullivan University of Otago. Page 1 of 15'.
There was nothing else in the envelope.
"Well?"
"Well, apparently the Americans have invaded New Zealand and the majority of Kiwis don't seem to even realise, according to this. They've covered the country in trees and cows which can then be made into fuel, which the Americans can use when all the oil runs out in a few years." Even in the street--lit gloom of the car park, David could see his wife's puzzled frown.
"Trees and cows?"
"It says here you can make fuel from mincing up trees, or from cows, which seems a little strange as we haven't seen much of either yet."
"Well, we are still in the centre of Auckland."
"Which reminds me. How do we get out of the centre of Auckland?"
They took it in turns to drive, two hours at a time, until six the following morning when the first light of dawn began to glow gently in the sky. Through the night they had headed south, driving through countryside they could not see. There was little sign of habitation. No towns, a few small villages, and once out of Auckland they counted no more than a hundred cars in eleven hours.
Katherine had tried tuning the radio, hoping loud music would keep their senses alert. The seek button found four stations, two of them all--night phone--in shows where the presenter seemed to be deliberately taking an opposing view to elicit responses from the enraged, the insomniacs or the plain mad. It kept them entertained and awake through the small hours and endless driving.
They discussed the contents of the envelope that had been left so conveniently in the car. It seemed to suggest an explanation for the money smuggling operation but, as the night wore on, their theories became more outlandish, until David raised the question of how to milk a tree, at which point, at six-fifteen in the morning, they decided they should stop driving and check into a motel and get some proper sleep.
They drove slowly down the main street of a very small town, deciding to stop at the first motel that looked comfortable but cheap. They had driven through and out into the open countryside on the other side of town before realising the limited choice and made a U--turn on the deserted road before driving back and pulling into the sparsely populated car park of the cheerily named Dresden Motel.
They lied to the night porter about having arrived in Auckland only a few hours earlier and having stepped straight off the plane to attempt the long drive south to Wellington. Tiredness had overcome them and they now needed a few hours sleep before continuing their journey. "It's $130 a night, er day, in advance. I'll need to swipe your credit card for security."
They both knew why they exchanged a nervous glance but the porter did not. Hesitation in presenting a credit card was an excellent way of arousing the suspicion of an underpaid and over--tired night watchman.
It occurred to David as he handed over the card, that the man possibly did not really believe they were a happily married couple and that, in checking into a motel room at seven in the morning, their intention were far more sordid, hence the insistence on pre-payment for the room. The porter swiped the card with an inappropriately dramatic flourish before handing it back to David. He reckoned they had about five hours head start on whoever had just noted the card swipe.
Katherine unlocked the door of the room. On the outskirts of Auckland, a blue Toyota was being driven away from outside a small apartment block, heading south. They could count on four hours fitful sleep at the most.
\*
David's head bounced suddenly on the warm bed and his whole body tingled. It was dark and he could not breathe. He felt as if he was having a heart attack. As he lifted his head, panicking, he realised he had been lying with his face buried in the soft down of the pillow, stifling his breath. The heart attack had subsided to a painless tingling in his chest. The mobile phone, the real source of the discomfort, was trapped in his shirt pocket, between his body and the bed, and had begun to vibrate. He rolled over, his face sweating and eyes instinctively narrowing, as the mid-morning sun flooded the thinly-curtained room. Fumbling for the phone, still humming gently, he sat up, squinting to read the small screen as it reflected the bright daylight.
Theyre cuming U hve 15 mins.
The short message told him someone was following them and someone else was apparently trying to warn them. David turned to wake Katherine but she was already sitting up, reading the text message over his shoulder.
"Let's go," she said.
Leaving the motel car park, David turned right, back into town.
"This is the wrong way. We're going back in the direction we came from." She was right but he had an idea.
"Whoever is following us thinks we're heading for the South Island. They most likely also know that the container with all our stuff has just arrived in Nelson. So, at some point, they either catch up to us, or get ahead of us and wait until we catch up with them."
"So .. ?"
"So, we head back, but not just north. We go somewhere we won't be found at least while we try to work out what to do next. I can't think straight knowing someone is right behind us all the time." There was a sign pointing left into a public car park. David pulled in and stopped the engine. He turned to Katherine; "Get in the driver's seat and stay here. If anyone approaches the car, start the engine, drive off, and then call me. I'll be ten minutes."
"But according to the text, so will they." She looked worried.
"It's alright. We're parked off the main highway. They'll drive straight past, go to the motel and either the receptionist will tell them she knows nothing, or the nosey night porter will have told her about the dodgy pair in room 35 who said they were heading to Wellington. Remember, ten minutes. If I'm any longer, call to remind me, but I won't pick up."
David walked the short distance down the side road and back onto the main street. He could still not get used to the fact that it was July and cold. A week ago they had been saying emotional goodbyes dressed in T shirts and shorts.
At any moment the car that was pursuing them would drive into town. The location of the small shop he had spotted on their earlier drive in, and where he was now heading, meant he was walking with his back to the south facing traffic. He was unlikely to be recognised if they happened to pass him in the next thirty seconds.
The small shabby--looking internet café was gloomy and smelled damp. There was a counter which held a large impressive-looking coffee machine and a dozen computers placed in two rows back-to-back down the centre of the room. The place barely lived up to its description. A fat greasy--looking man sat staring intently at the only flat screen monitor in the shop, the one behind the counter. Having glanced round, David walked up to the counter and, for some reason, enquired, "How much for ten minutes?" in a French accent.
He had decided that if the guy thought he was French, if his pursuers were clever enough to track him to this location, they would be truthfully told, "No, no Poms in here today, just some French fella." Then he reconsidered. But he's seen me. He just has to describe me. By then it was too late. He was stuck with a French accent, at least for the next few minutes.
"Well its three dollars for fifteen minutes. Most people usually take longer once they get online. People on holiday can't resist a quick surf at the news back home."
"Merci." David knew he had to be quick but he was confident he knew exactly where to find what he wanted. He had looked at his old school reunion website frequently, mainly out of curiosity as to what people he had last seen twenty years ago were now doing with their lives. It was surprising how many had never left the small town where he had grown up, whilst others had moved away, some overseas. David was counting on a fleeting recollection of an old friend.
The website prompted him for his user name and password. This was not his own computer where normally a cookie would have remembered him. Putting his details into this computer would leave an easily trackable log of subsequently visited pages. He may as well go down the street and wave the car down now. David needed to log on as someone else. He stood up and walked back towards the door, remembering the phoney accent just in time. "I am sorry, I am changed my mind." The accent was so Inspector Clouseau that he decided a measure of bad grammar would not go amiss. "Is there, 'ow you say, a travel agent nearby?" he said, enjoying the softness of 'agent' in a French accent.
"Three doors down."
"Sank you. Au revoir." Thank God he would never see the man again. The accent was making him sound distinctly camp.
The door to the small travel shop buzzed as he pushed it. Three desks were occupied by three middle-aged women in identical suits, vaguely resembling airline hostesses, as if this would fool potential customers into thinking that by booking a holiday with them they were in some way personally responsible for the complete future holiday experience.
David approached the youngest-looking of the three. He was no longer French. "Hi, this is going to sound like a really strange request and, yes, I know there is an internet café just next door, but I need to borrow a PC to log onto the internet for about ten minutes, then I want you to book me a flight."
The young woman looked at the other two for guidance. They shrugged back. "Sure, why not?"
He checked his watch. He had been gone over five minutes already. Without further explanation he took the vacated seat, clicked onto the internet, and typed in the website address he had tried in the internet café just a few minutes earlier. This time he clicked on and set up a new account.
Enter Name: John
Enter email address: \_\_\_
"What's your email address here?
David typed in the address and clicked Register.
Your activation password has been sent to you. Once activated you have twelve hours free access to the site. Once that has expired you must then pay the annual fee of £5.
He turned to the adjacent desk. "Right, now about that flight, where's the nearest airport to here?"
"Hamilton will get you anywhere in the country."
"The furthest south?"
"That'll be Invercargill, right at the bottom of the South Island."
"OK, could you book me two seats tomorrow morning from Hamilton to Invercargill?"
"Sure, let me check the availability for you."
David had no intention of catching the flight; he just wanted to use the credit card to lay a false trail.
"There are seats on the 10.25 from Hamilton to Invercargill, that's flying with Air New Zealand, changing at Wellington." Changing? Like changing trains? He was familiar with changing flights when travelling internationally, but from one end of a small country to another? It didn't matter. He wasn't going anyway.
'Yes, that's fine. Book it for me please."
"Any return or onward destination I can book for you, sir?"
He thought about how much of a trail of deceit he should lay at this stage. "No, I'll probably be touring round for a bit, probably hire a car and then drive back north."
She confirmed the flight details once more as David did his best to sound interested. "How would you like to pay for that?'
"Credit card."
Once again, he pulled the lone card from his wallet, and she swiped it.
"PIN number?"
He entered it without checking the cost. By now, he thought, the car must be very close, possibly in the main street already. The card had been swiped, the electronic message was being sent, and he only had a few more minutes to complete the task. She confirmed the booking with a click of the mouse. "And you appear to have an email."
David nearly pushed the woman from her seat to avoid her opening his reply which had luckily minimised itself to the bottom of her screen as she had been booking his flight.
"Do you mind? It's a bit private." He read the email before writing down the activation code on a scrap of paper and deleting it.
Back at the empty desk where the website sat, still open, he keyed in the code. Now he could start the search. He knew where to head for but could not remember the precise name. The mobile phone in his pocket vibrated. Glancing at the screen as he instinctively put the phone to his ear, David could see that Katherine had been meticulous as always and could see her name on the screen. He answered, in the expectation the phone was being eavesdropped or the call recorded.
Katherine spoke. "You said you wouldn't pick up. Where are you? Are you OK?"
"Yes, I'm fine. Just stay where you are. Don't say anything on this line that could give away where you are. I'm just sorting something out and it's taking a bit longer than I thought. I'll be another ten minutes. Keep the windows shut, lock the doors and if anyone approaches just pull away casually and drive round for a bit. If you're not where I left you when I get back, I'll give you a call. Love you. Bye."
David had a vague recollection someone he had been at school with had moved to New Zealand. He remembered seeing it on the website but he had not looked at it for at least six months and his memory was hazy. He clicked into 1980 and began scrolling through familiar names, trying to recall which one had jumped out at him as someone else who had decided to make their life on the other side of the world.
It had to be someone who had been clever at school. The names of the intellectually gifted in his year ran through his mind as he scrolled through page after page of people he had spent nearly every day with for ten years of his life and who were now just memories. There was a computer engineer who now lived in Seattle, an architect in Hong Kong.
A mild panic swept over him as he ran out of possible names. Then, 'Hi everyone -- remember me? Left school, went to Bristol Uni & studied animal pharmacy, then travelled for a bit, ending up in New Zealand.' This looked like the one. 'Married a Kiwi, now living on Waiheke Island NZ and a practising vet. Look forward to hearing from anyone who remembers me.'
This was him! David clicked on.
Send a message to your school mate.
What could he possibly write in an email to someone he had not seen or spoken to for over twenty years? Would he even begin to explain the events of the last few days and the fact that actually he was in trouble and needed somewhere to stay? He decided the best course, especially in such a publicly accessible place as a travel agent's business computer, was to make innocent contact, inviting him to make the next move, and hope for the best.
He typed, 'Hi Ed -- Dave Turner here. Remember me? Married now and just emigrating to NZ. Already here, in fact. Just remembered seeing you on this website so thought about meeting up for a few beers so you can fill me in on how to survive here. Email back if you're interested, Cheers.'
It sounded overly-friendly considering there had been no contact between them for so long, but this was a school reunion site. If Ed had wanted to remain anonymous, he would not have signed up to it.
David clicked send then spent a few seconds deleting the history, ensuring no one would be able to uncover his trail. He got up to leave. "Thanks for all your help."
"Not a problem, you're welcome. Enjoy the rest of your stay."
Hopefully he had left enough of an impression that they would be able to give a good description of his intended movements.
David walked back to where he had left Katherine. He looked around for their car but in its place there was now a glaring space. He expected to spot the familiar dark blue of the roof, but the car park was almost empty.
As he reached for his phone, it made an unfamiliar sound. It was a text message.
Im on the mn rd cu ther
David ran, retracing his steps back to the main road where, looking left, he saw Katherine on the opposite side of the road, driving towards him. He crossed in front and waited for the car to draw level. It stopped slowly and he got in.
"What happened?"
"A police car came into the car park. I panicked and drove out, went up the street to the roundabout, pulled over, texted you, then went round and came back."
"Did it follow you?"
"No, I don't think so. Why would it?"
"Well, why panic, then?" There was an uncomfortable few seconds of silence which David broke. "Anyway, we're facing the right direction, so let's go."
"North?"
'Yes, I'll explain as we go. Just don't go breaking any speed limits or anything. We don't want to risk attracting the police again."
They drove out of town, retracing their earlier route. David explained how he had hopefully made contact with an old school friend who now lived at a place called Waiheke Island which was near Auckland. They had to drive back and catch a ferry to the island, and then ....
"Then what exactly? Let's just take stock for a moment, shall we, because this is getting more bizarre by the minute. Here we are driving around New Zealand because you think we are being followed by someone who wants that bloody credit card which was supposedly planted on you to smuggle into the country."
David put this sudden unexpected outburst down the fact that Katherine had barely slept in the past forty-eight hours.
She continued, "So why don't we just go to the nearest police station like I already said, walk in, hand over the card, tell them the story so far which they probably know anyway because they will have already been emailed a bloody great wanted poster with your passport photo on, and then ask to see someone from the British Embassy?"
She had a very good point. All David could see was the tangled conspiracy and drama of his situation, confused and clouded as his mind was by having had even less sleep than his wife.
The town was twenty-five minutes behind them. For much of that time the highway had cut through a large forest, not natural forest, a man--made one of tall, identical pine trees. The road undulated gently, laid in a perfectly straight line as far as they could see. Trees bordered either side behind a small wire fence.
In his severely sleep--deprived state, David found it difficult concentrating on the monotonous, unswerving road. He thought for a moment before discounting as ridiculous that this particular road suggested the Romans may have colonised these islands long before the Maori.
The car swept past countless rows of perfectly planted trees. Each one had been planted many years before, exactly evenly spaced, row upon row, hundreds of thousands of identical trees. This was not a forest; it was a crop, a slow growing one, but clearly a harvestable resource.
As he drove, Katherine asleep next to him, David reached across for the glove compartment. Carefully steering one--handed, he again read from the neatly typed sheet how America was supposedly covertly investing millions of dollars in alternative energy using trees and cows. Suddenly he brought the car to a stop. The engine whined as he reversed a short distance back down the deserted road.
The change in momentum woke Katherine up. "Why are we stopping?"
"I want to read that sign."
At the entrance to a gated track was a large white wooden board. It read, 'This forest is managed by Cowood Industries. Private Property. Keep Out.' It listed the number of successive plantings, beginning in 1980, the most recent in 1996.
"So, here's the thing. Over the past few years the American Government has secretly invested in all this forestry, using it for normal industries like building and furniture, but all this time they have also been buying up the land beneath the trees and using it to plant their own future fuel source. It's so simple and perfectly legitimate. You don't have to invade anyone for it. You don't even have to buy it from anyone else. In fact the people who used to own the land, or manage it for them, are probably grateful for the investment."
"So what's wrong with it, then?"
By now they were out of the car and standing by the side of the road, the almost imperceptible ticking of the engine drowned out by the exotic call of bellbirds somewhere deep in the forest. The smell of fresh pine wafted gently on the cool air.
This was the epitome of the clean, green image which had attracted them to New Zealand in the first place. David gazed around, breathing in the crisp clean air, trying to convince himself there was something wrong with this picture. He lifted his head higher and took a deep breath. "It's because of the secrecy. Have you ever heard of this as an alternative fuel source?" His wife, the science teacher, the one who was meant to know about these things, shook her head, still looking puzzled.
Katherine stood admiring the scenery but David was already back inside the car, this time in the passenger seat, looking through the tourist literature that had been placed, with some apparent forethought, in the glove box. He had already scanned over the maps but now they drew his attention, not for the tourist destinations, but for the amount of land, according to the legend, given over to trees. Ten per cent of the entire land mass of the North Island alone was forestry. He dug deeper. Motel leaflets, a mobile phone recharge card, and clipped to the inside of the small card folder containing all this paper, five one hundred dollar notes. "Look at this," he said, holding up the money, "Somebody is helping us avoid using the card. This isn't a usual car rental perk."
A distant hum made him look back down the road. Through the haze shimmering above its surface, David could see a shape, equally liquid in the late morning warmth. It was a car moving swiftly towards them. They had been on this road for thirty minutes and had passed two other cars, both travelling south. The sight of another one, coming up behind them, made David nervous. They had two choices: stay put or move off now, at high speed, along a dead straight road, with no opportunity to turn off, according to the map, for many miles. It would turn into a speeding pursuit, with the following car eventually catching them up. David moved urgently back round to the driver's side and got in, motioning Katherine to get back into the passenger seat.
"What's the matter?"
"There's a car coming up behind us and I reckon there's a good chance it's the one following us." He put the Subaru into gear and moved off. "I'm just going to drive normally and wait and see what happens."
He quickly accelerated to the speed limit. Once again there had been no opportunity to think his actions through. He had no idea what would happen in the next five minutes. All he knew was the car behind was making steady progress towards them. The driver was certainly breaking the speed limit, which in turn meant either he was just in a hurry or was pursuing them.
By now he could see it was a small blue saloon with a driver and passenger, less than a hundred metres behind. The driver indicated to overtake. As the car cruised past, David turned his head enough to see the passenger to his right was looking straight ahead, completely ignoring him. The blue car pulled back into the lane, maintaining its speed.
"So far, so good." David whispered under his breath. Katherine did not reply. Glancing to his left, he noted her look of determined concentration. Years of marriage had honed their mutual body language--reading skills. He knew she was trying to conceal an inner terror.
Neither expected what happened next.
The rear window of the car in front began to flash blue. David braked and the leading car did the same. Before David realised what was going on, the manoeuvre had successfully slowed both cars to a graceful halt. All four sat motionless in silence, except for the faint burble of their engines. The occupants, two smart but casually dressed fit looking men in their mid thirties, opened their doors, stepped out and were standing beside David and Katherine's doors, blocking their exit. David fumbled for the button to lower the window on his side. As he did so, the man standing next to him lowered himself to meet the space left by the glass.
"Mr David Turner?" The last time someone had said his name in that tone had been in the airport in Singapore. The man did not wait for confirmation. "New Zealand Police."
For a split second David considered asking for proof; a badge or an ID card, but decided not to. He did however notice that he had introduced themselves as New Zealand Police as if any other police force would operate in New Zealand. David thought it wise to defer, at least to begin with. But something about the man's voice was not right
"Could you step out of the car, please?"
He felt safe in the car. The engine was still running and the door was locked. The officer could sense David's reticence and tried to ease the situation; "Look, I'm standing here on the road with my back to the traffic. It's a lot safer if we stand over there on the grass verge," he said, pointing to the parched area between the car and the densely packed trees. David and Katherine both got out of their car and the quartet walked in silence over to the fence. The other police officer spoke. "We understand you have entered the country in possession of a substantial amount of money in the form of a credit card, and that you are being pursued so the card can be re-instated to its rightful owner."
David already knew this much for himself but he was not sure how much more the police knew, so he decided to test them. "Do you know who the card belongs to?" Finally the opportunity presented itself on a lonely road in the middle of a forest. "Do you know the reason why huge sums of money are being brought into New Zealand? Because I think I do."
The two police officers looked at each other, then back at David; "Tell us what you know, Mr Turner."
David relaxed. No longer feeling intimidated, he decided to ask a few questions of his own. "America?"
"No comment." This meant they knew.
"Alternative fuel?"
"Sorry, we can't discuss any of this with you." They were getting restless.
"Ok, why exactly have you stopped us, officer?"
"Because we believe you may be able to assist us in our enquiries into the death of a New Zealand national in London and we would like you to accompany us back to town to answer some further questions."
Now David felt sick. For two days the police must have been playing this waiting game, tracking their every move, perhaps waiting for the owners of the card to intercept them, before finally pulling them over on a quiet country road. "Please get back in the car, turn around and drive back into town. We will be following right behind. A marked police car is on its way. They will meet up with us and escort you to the police station."
David did as he was instructed, performed a careful U-turn on the deserted road, and headed back the way they had come. As they settled in for the thirty minute escorted drive, Katherine and her husband spoke again for the first time since they had been stopped:
"So what happens now?" she asked.
'Well it looks like what finally happens now is the truth and, in the end, after racking my brains for the last few days, I can't see we have actually done anything wrong."
David's phone suddenly rang. Katherine picked it up from between the two front seats and read the text.
Accelerate HARD!
David checked his rear view mirror. Ahead of him, a shimmer of yellow in the far distance came into view through the heat haze. Gripping the steering wheel, he pushed his foot flat to the floor. The gap between the Turner's and the car behind grew as, checking the speedometer, David coaxed the Subaru past 110kph. He had presumed the text had come from the police behind them but their car was not matching his speed and there was now a gap of nearly a hundred metres between them.
The next twenty seconds happened very fast.
The yellow blur which had been travelling towards them suddenly came into focus as a large truck and trailer carrying logs. No longer shimmering, instead small puffs of blue smoke swirled around its tyres. The cab was rocking violently, and despite the road, the driver appeared to be having trouble keeping the huge vehicle in a straight line as it hurtled towards them.
David and Katherine were now speeding at 120kph towards it. The Subaru and truck whooshed past each other with barely a metre between them, the turbulence swaying the Turner's car from side to side. Glancing to his right, David could see the trailer was already leaning in towards the other side of the road. There was a thud as the steering wheel was wrenched from his hands. The back end of the trailer had clipped their car. He wrestled with the steering and managed to pull the car back onto the left side of the road, trying desperately to decelerate.
Katherine was leaning over her seat, looking back up the road screaming; "Oh God! Oh Shit!"
The trailer was now across both lanes of the road and, between its wheels, now at right angles to the direction they should have been facing, David could see in the mirror the front of the police car, smoke also coming from its tyres as all four of its wheels appeared, in silence, to leave the ground, as the trailer unit careered into it. David braked hard and the Subaru screeched and shuddered to a halt.
The accident was about 200 metres behind them. David turned the car around and sped back up the road, stopping where the wreckage on the road made it impossible to continue. The cab of the truck was stationary; sitting upright, facing the right direction, on the correct side of the road. Behind it, the articulated trailer was also still upright but almost unrecognisable as a piece of road--going machinery, a twisted mass of metal and wood, devastated by the combined impact of the police car hitting it and the logs rolling onto the car and surrounding road.
They were both trained in first aid and instinctively ran towards the carnage, noticing as they got closer, a combination of burning rubber, petrol and fresh pine infused into the blue smoke which lingered in the swirling air. There was a 'clunk' and David saw two tree-trunk legs emerge from the driver's side of the truck. Their owner ducked under the mangled trailer and strode over towards them. A large bear of a middle-aged Maori cracked a smile across his swarthy features, wiping sweat and oil from his glistening brow.
"Shit, that went a lot better than I expected."
David and Katherine were speechless.
"Kia ora, I'm Hone Hemiate. How's it goin?" He held out a huge brown muscled tattooed arm and gripped David's nervously outstretched hand with some force, "'S'pect that scared the shit outa you's fellas. Sorry 'bout that. I ain't got the hang of steering and texting yet. Guess I'll have to get the kids to give me some lessons, eh?" Hone laughed loudly at his own humour. It felt out of place in the circumstances.
Neither of them could think of a suitable response after what had just happened. The two policemen still lay trapped in the wreckage beneath tons of metal and logs. Katherine made to go towards them. Hone stopped her, gently but firmly grabbing her arm. "Wouldn't go near there if I was you, ma'am. Don't worry 'bout those fellas - died instantly, I could see from up in the cab. Log straight through the windscreen and the top sliced off like a sardine can".
She took exception to the fact he still had hold of her arm. "Mr Hemiate, you don't seem too concerned that you've just killed two police officers in a horrific traffic accident." She excused his jovial mood as some bizarre post-traumatic reaction.
His mood lowered. "Sorry folks, it wasn't an accident. We needed to get those Yanks off your tail."
"Yanks?"
David's suspicion about the Kiwi accent he had heard minutes earlier was confirmed
"Yeah, they were American agents. Followed you's all the way from Auckland. They were probably going to run you's off the road in the next couple of minutes if I hadn't got to them first. Did you give them the card?" He knew about the card.
"No."
"Good, I'll just go over and put this one in the car, then. Wait here. It's a bit gruesome eh?"
He pulled a credit card from his jeans and walked back under the battered trailer. David could only see his legs as Hone wrenched open the door on the driver's side. Then, moving quickly, he went round to the passenger side which was obscured by the wheels of the trailer. David could make out he was dragging the inert body of the passenger round the back of the car. Perhaps he was alive? He appeared to haul the body upright and took a step back, allowing the limp, lifeless body to collapse face down on the road. Hone turned, walked back and reached up, opening the truck's driver--side door. There was a plume of black smoke as the engine choked into life. Once again he ducked under the trailer and ran towards them.
"Quick, get in the back of the car. We've only got a few seconds." Hone got into the driver's seat. Without questioning, they ran to the car and clambered into the rear. He started the engine and drove forward, bumping over bits of wreckage, steering onto the grass and around the truck cab. As they passed the front of the truck, the full horror of the scene this large Maori stranger had seemingly engineered moments before unfolded in front of them.
Now he accelerated, the back wheels screaming as they tried to grip the still hot tarmac. David and Katherine looked back as the scene quickly receded. Flames were beginning to emanate from under the front of the truck.
Hone spoke. "Another ten minutes and all she'll be is a charred mess. By the time the local fire guys piss water and foam all over it and the cops have done their bit, all they're gonna find is one dead truckie and a dead American tourist. The report back to their Embassy will confirm the car driver was carrying the card supposedly retrieved from you guys, and all the media will get will be a fatal traffic accident involving a logging truck and another foreign tourist who crossed the centre line."
The big guy not only looked intimidating but had also just murdered two people in gleeful cold blood, and was now, quite literally, in the driving seat.
David leaned forward, trying to catch Hone's eye in the rear view mirror; "So, who exactly do you work for, Hone?"
"Well, Dave, let's just say I am working for the interests of my country. That's all you need to know for now."
"So what can you tell us about a company called Cowood Industries?" David could see Hone's shoulders gently shaking as he laughed silently to himself.
"Jeez, you fellas don't waste any time, do you? Where did you get that one from?"
"Well, their name was written on a big sign back there."
Hone was now casually driving at 120kph single--handed. His left hand waved around and his eyes constantly looked into the mirror, alternately checking the view behind and his passengers as he talked. "Cowood was set up by the Americans in the late nineties as a front for its long term plan to buy Aotearoa." He paused, looking at David, who knew full well from reading his immigration pack supplied by the New Zealand Government that this was the Maori name for the country. Hone's stare implied David's ignorance of this fact and invited a question he was not about to give Hone the satisfaction of being asked.
"Go on."
"Well, so the story goes, the Yanks realised as far back as the sixties that oil would only last for another hundred years or so. They started to look at different sources of energy. It's no secret that over the years breakthroughs have been made but the raw materials needed to make commercial quantities of these fuels is massive. So the Yanks started to make some quiet investments in overseas industries which they knew they would need in future years. So Cowood has made huge investments in forestry and dairy in this country as well as places like Canada and Norway. With these investments comes power and influence. That's why you don't see any of these countries as big movers and shakers on the world stage, because basically America, through Cowood, more or less owns them."
David was taken aback by Hone's knowledge and eloquence on the subject. The words didn't quite match the weather--beaten, unshaven pugilistic face. There was more to this man than the initial impression he gave.
He stopped staring back at Hone in the mirror. "So where do we fit into all this? Why all the destruction and mayhem? Surely this is all just legitimate business?"
"Well, up until September 11 last year, the Americans had a deal with the Arabs that they would process one of these alternative fuels. It's one of the reasons New Zealand sends so much dairy produce to the Middle East. Our farmers and the public are led to believe that it's all to do with the Arabs being big milk and cheese consumers but when did you last see Arabian cheese on a supermarket shelf? It's all to do with something called whey. Apparently the Americans are on the verge of perfecting a process to produce commercially usable fuel right here in New Zealand. The small quantities of fuel produced overseas are explained away as the big oil companies just playing around with the formula to try and lengthen the life of the oil reserves. Most cars in the States are already driving around with some milk--based or tree--based fuel in their tanks. Something called bio ethanol."
Katherine had been listening intently whilst trying not to stare into Hone's deep blue eyes. She interrupted him. "I've heard of that, and the trees?"
"Same story. Just look around you. Vast areas of our land given over to forestry, and again our people are told it either goes to the States or Japan for construction. In fact the plan is to use it to produce bio--ethanol. The wood is pulped, fermented and distilled, and usable fuel is the end result. Did you guys know that the earliest cars ran on vegetable oil? In fact, several of Henry Ford's early cars could run on bio--ethanol but, as we all know, the automobile industry took the petroleum route and the rest of the industrialised world followed, or maybe they were led by the Americans."
The road ahead ran straight into the shimmering midday horizon. Through its haze they could see the distinctive red, with blue flashing lights, of a fire truck, quickly followed by another. They sped silently past, heading towards the opposite horizon where a thin black line of smoke rose up between the trees lining the road.
Hone sighed and continued; "So anyways, now we have a situation where the Americans want to have complete control over the production process. They can't invade us militarily. In fact they'll probably do that somewhere else to distract attention away from what's happening here and, anyway, the Poms - sorry folks, the British - would have to come to our rescue and it would be the Falklands all over again but this time with help from the Aussies. All sorts of alliances would be buggered. So they have to take us over politically, commercially or industrially, whichever way you look at it. They know the price they can eventually charge, once all the oil has gone, outweighs the production and transport costs. So, in the next few years, their plan is to build huge bio--ethanol production plants here in New Zealand. Then they can pipe the finished product across the Pacific straight into the tanks of the car--loving Californians and beyond."
David was still puzzled; "I still don't see why this is a bad thing. Surely this kind of industry fits in with New Zealand's clean, green image, not to mention the anti nuclear policy."
A police car approached at high speed and hurtled past.
"He's come from ten kilometres away. They're onto it alright." Hone continued. "Each of these production plants will cost around a billion US dollars to build. The most recent intelligence says they intend to build about fifty of them, from Invercargill in the south to Whangarei in the north, each linked by pipes to the next. Within a 100 kilometre radius of each one there has to be either enough cattle to produce the milk to sustain them or enough forest to pulp. Now the cattle will need a certain amount of looking after, but the trees, well, they pretty much take care of themselves. Once each site is up and running it will probably need no more than fifty blokes working around the clock to operate it. Think about it; no more than 2,500 people to produce up to thirty percent of the fuel needed by the United States. Of course, these guys will be scientists, so they'll need to be brought in especially. No prizes for guessing which country will be supplying them."
Katherine looked at David. For the first time he could see in her eyes that she finally believed him.
Hone had not finished. "So, in about ten years we'll have around fifty of these huge power stations on our land, producing supposedly clean sustainable environmentally friendly fuel, but there is a downside. Almost all of our productive land will be used to feed these power stations in one way or another. So, most of our farming will be gone. So will all the tourism. Who wants to look at a landscape littered with a whole heap of chimney stacks? The economy will collapse as heaps of people move offshore, to Australia or Europe or the U.S.. The remaining population will nearly all live within sight of permanent plumes of white steam rising from shining steel venting stacks. That's gonna take the edge off the thermal pools and geysers in Rotorua for sure eh?"
They jolted forward sharply as Hone braked hard and the car skidded to a halt. The dusty cloud created by the sudden deceleration caught up and enveloped them. The cloud travelled forward, obscuring the trees and the sky beyond. Hone turned, resting his arm across the front passenger seat, and looked first at Katherine, then David, He gestured across the windscreen with his right arm, like a T.V weatherman pointing out the map behind him. As he did so, the dust swirled and cleared, revealing a gap between the trees that framed a vast green plain bordered in the distance by a uniform blue--green mountain range, the silhouette contrasting with the vivid pristine blue of the southern hemisphere sky.
Hone smiled like a proud father: "Kia ora, Welcome." He paused and the trio sat for a few moments staring at the landscape before them, broken only by a thin line of grey, the road they had yet to travel.
Hone broke the silence, speaking softer this time. "When my ancestors came to these shores they named this place Aotearoa. It means land of the long white cloud, and you can see why."
In the far distance, suspended low in front of the mountains, there it was - a long cloud - not in the sky, but resting against the mountain range like a pure white cotton towel that had been twisted tight to wring it dry. "If the Americans have their way, this land will be changed forever. The long white clouds will be vertical and the emissions they contain will alter the climate of these islands within fifty years. The rain forests of the West Coast will begin to die, the lakes will run dry as fuel production uses most of the freshwater reserves, and the majority of the population will be forced overseas to look for work. In fact, they will be paid to leave. Already the US Government is putting political pressure on the Aussies to make their tax system more attractive than the Kiwi one. New Zealand will become the fifty-first state in the Union, and the Yanks will still be able to drive around in their gas guzzlers keeping enough gasoline free for their military to be able to intimidate the world for hundreds of years after any practical sources have long run out for the rest of us."
Here they were, a perfectly ordinary couple, sitting in the back of a rental car in remote rural New Zealand, with a stranger who had just murdered two people in cold blood only minutes before, and who was now explaining some huge global conspiracy that affected every single person on the planet, and in which they seemed to be playing an unwitting but crucial part.
Hone sat, still staring into the distance, as if he had just heard his own revelations for the first time and was finding them equally difficult to comprehend. Suddenly he jumped out of his daydream, wiped his sweating face with his palm, and sighed. "Anyway, that's about the story. My job now is to make sure yous fellas are kept safe for a bit, at least until the mess back there dies down."
"Waiheke Island?
Hone's frown was reflected in the mirror as he put the car into gear and pulled away. David continued: "I know someone on Waiheke Island which would be a good place to go for a few days, wouldn't it?"
The frown remained. "Not somewhere I had down as a first choice, but yeah, Bro', that could work. So who do you know there, Dave?"
"An old school friend. He's a vet, at least he was last time I -- er - spoke to him." He hesitated, realising that he had not actually spoken to him for about twenty five years.
"Ok, once we get over the mountains up ahead, I'll make a call. If your mate checks out, we'll head on over to Waiheke."
They spent the next hour staring out of the window in silence as the landscape changed from endless forest plantation to winding mountain road. Once over the summit, they could see the flat river plain in the distance and, beyond that, the sea. Halfway down, Hone pulled over next to a lookout point, got out of the car, and leaving the engine running, walked round to the front. Leaning against the bonnet, he began talking intently into his mobile phone.
"Have we been kidnapped?' whispered Katherine
'I'm not sure" replied David.
"Because if we have, and I think we have, then now would be as good a time as any to put a stop to this once and for all. Go to the police, give ourselves up, or turn ourselves in, or whatever it is we have to do to actually start our lives in this country properly." With that she clicked open the car door and started to get out.
"Where are you going?" David hissed.
"Nowhere, I just want to see how far he's going to let me get."
He grabbed her arm; "What if he's got a gun?"
"Well you have a go, then!"
'Ok, get back in and don't move. Just keep a close eye on him. If he makes a move, or you see a gun, just cough loudly or something."
As he carefully manoeuvred himself from the back seat through the small gap between the front seats, David felt his heartbeat start to increase and his scalp flush hot. Desperately trying to move smoothly and quickly, he found himself having to squeeze his torso and legs over the transmission tunnel and into the driver's seat without moving the car and alerting Hone to his actions.
He was now in the driver's seat. The engine was still purring and Hone was still perched against the bonnet talking.
Forwards or backwards? If he drove forward, he risked pushing Hone forward also, possibly under the car, and he had no reason to injure him. They just wanted to escape from him. If David put the car into reverse, Hone would no doubt fall back with it and then he would have to drive round him.
David took a chance. Expecting the car horn to be there, he pushed hard on the centre of the steering wheel. The sudden loud noise made the startled Hone spin round as David put the car into gear, pulled the steering wheel down hard to his right and drove sharply forward. Hone instinctively jumped clear but the wing caught the top of his left leg and he spun against the passenger side of the car and fell to the ground, shouting as he did so, a strange unexpected cry of disappointment.
"Wait. It's not safe! Don't be so bloody stupid!"
It was too late. The gravel crunched beneath the tyres as David accelerated down the hill as if expecting Hone to be running after them. He approached a sharp right hand bend and, realising he was going far too fast, braked hard to avoid missing the curve completely and sliding over the steep hillside into which the snaking road had been cut. The car shuddered and rolled violently as he pumped the brake pedal, the smell of burning rubber entering through the air vents.
Hone had not even attempted the downhill sprint David had somehow expected and was nowhere in sight. He brought his speed back up to 60kph and continued quickly, but safely, down the switchback mountain road. As they followed the road north, back towards Auckland, it occurred to David that they were now being pursued by the police, some American secret agents, and whichever organisation Hone and his companions were allied to.
It seemed as if a significant proportion of the entire population was now on their tail.
The map confirmed Waiheke Island lay to the east, in the Hauraki Gulf. It looked like a three hour drive to the coast opposite the island, just outside Auckland. If they were being followed, David hoped the city would conceal their exact location, at least until they caught the ferry.
They approached the suburbs, David pulled into the car park of a small shopping mall and stopped the engine. Katherine looked at him, puzzled. He explained, "We need to mingle, lose ourselves in the crowd. Grab what you need, put it in your back pack and let's find a bus."
Opening the boot and taking out some essential clothes and toiletries, Katherine watched as her husband did the same. "The trouble with you," she said, "is you watch too much TV."
They walked a short distance until they found a bus stop, then stood looking down the road expectantly for what felt like hours, feeling vulnerable and self--conscious. As each car passed, the pair instinctively lowered their heads a little, carefully avoiding the gaze of each driver whose last thought would have been to stare at the innocuous back packers standing at the side of the road.
The bus glided through the city. After about twenty minutes the driver indicated they had reached the ferry terminal. By now it was mid-afternoon. The next ferry was due to depart at four. David booked two tickets and, realising they had not yet eaten today, they walked the short distance to a small café for a coffee and a sandwich. As Katherine savoured her large flat white, David noticed the free internet computer. Perhaps Ed had seen his message and answered it?
You have 1 new message.
David quickly opened the reply, apprehensive at Ed's response to what must have seemed a bizarre request.
Got your message. Bit of a blast from the past? Looking forward to catching up after all these years. Sorry, haven't updated my profile for a while. Bit of a career change. No longer a vet, now own the Mushroom Café on Waiheke, not far from the ferry terminal at Kennedy Point. Just ask for directions. See you soon.
David rushed back to the table. "Good news, Ed got my email. He runs a café on the island, so we'll go straight there."
They boarded the small ferry, crowded with casually dressed commuters, islanders who had been over to the mainland shopping, and a few of tourists. It headed out of the harbour towards Waiheke, assuming a rhythmic pitching motion in gentle time with the clear wind--lapped Gulf waters beneath.
David and Katherine made their way to the stern rail and watched as Auckland slowly receded, the cityscape a thin line of hastily scribbled humanity caught between the twinkling ocean and the milky blue of the late afternoon sky. David admired the view whilst scanning his fellow passengers.
Katherine noticed what he was doing and smiled. "I was right about you watching too much television. You're treating this like some big murder mystery drama."
He could see her point. "To be perfectly honest, it feels more like a Scooby Doo mystery at the moment, especially as we seem to be getting to the part where we arrive on Skull Island. Get that map out and let's have a look in case this island is, like, skull-shaped, Scoob - gulp!" His Shaggy impersonation was rubbish. They both laughed, a quick, false laugh intended to ease the real tension they were both now feeling.
Their lives had suddenly, and without notice, been taken over by something that was obviously much bigger than them alone. It had supposedly been going on for years and affected millions of people, yet, up until a few days ago, it had never knowingly entered their consciousness. Now it had not only crossed their path, it had crashed into it, climbed onto their backs and was somehow controlling every step they took.
David stared aimlessly into the water as the boat bounced swiftly through it. Suddenly, as his eyes focussed on the surface of the water, he felt sick and took a few deep breaths of cool sea air. Looking beyond the stern of the boat, back towards the thin darkening jagged Auckland skyline, he tried to imagine how many of the million people who lived there had any idea that at that moment their country was being invaded.
Katherine was thinking the same thing. "Just think, right now, as four million New Zealanders go about their daily lives, probably some of the hardest working people in the country - forestry workers, cattle and dairy farmers - are all unwittingly helping to lay the foundations for an invasion which is going to decimate their economy, probably bring down the government and hand the whole country over to foreign businesses who are going to completely destroy the flora and fauna in the interests of mass energy production. So how come this isn't news?"
"What do you mean?" David responded. "We've only been here a couple of days, and with everything that's been going on we haven't exactly had time to sit down and watch the TV news, let alone read a paper."
"I know but you would think an issue like this would be world news. Other countries should be up in arms. The Save the Planet greenies should have this issue plastered all over the media, but nothing. In all the stuff we read about coming here, I don't remember reading a single thing about exploitation of natural assets or how this country is going to solve the planet's energy crisis, which is the spin you would expect to have heard. But I can't recall anything."
"We'll ask Ed when we see him. He's lived here for years. He'll know if anything's going on."
David asked one of the deck hands if he knew where the Mushroom Café was. As it was his last crossing of the day, if they waited on the quayside while he tied up the boat, he would give them a lift as it was on his way home.
It was a five minute drive from the small ferry port. The deck hand, a large middle-aged Maori called Jono who had worked on the ferry for five years, had a wife and three kids, and had never been to Europe but met a lot of European tourists in his job, brought his car to a sharp halt in the middle of the street. "There you go, guys. Never eaten there myself. Bit too veggie for my taste. Anyways, enjoy the rest of your day." He drove off, leaving them standing outside the café.
Katherine entered first, pushing open the door to find a small eating area with a bar on one side and a counter along the back wall on which rested display cabinets containing neat piles of fresh Paninis, wraps, pizza slices and large trays of pasta dishes. There was a pleasant garlicky smell, none of the unpleasant fatty odour she often associated with these smaller eateries. They appeared to be the only customers. From a doorway behind the counter, a middle--aged man emerged, tall with a mass of curly grey hair. This spilled down his cheeks, meeting in a white beard on his chin. His face was deep brown and lined. David thought the man looked at least five years older than him, but he wasn't. They had been in the same class at school.
"Bloody hell. Dave Turner!" This was Edwyn Collington, Professor Ed as he had been nicknamed at school. He bounded across the room and engulfed David in a rather over-familiar bear hug before standing back, both hands still on David shoulders, trapping him awkwardly as he looked him up and down. "Well, well, Dave Turner." Still clasping him tightly, as if he had just caught him and did not want to let him go, Ed shouted; "Honey, Dave's here -- you remember, the guy who sent the email about the .... you know."
'Honey' emerged through the same doorway, wiping her hands on a towel. Ed's wife was a Kiwi called Anika whom Ed had met when her first marriage had broken up and she had brought a sick cat to his practice in Mount Eden. They fell in love and moved to Waiheke where Anika had grown up. There they established a successful vets' practice. After eight years, Ed sold his share of the business to the other partners and opened the Mushroom Café with the proceeds, specialising in organic wholefood and local wines.
This story, heavily extended, together with the Turners' own, took all four of them to the bottom of a second bottle of Cable Bay Pinot Noir as they sat in the café, eating from a bowl of fresh salad greens accompanied by a platter of local cheeses which Ed had asked his chef to prepare. Occasionally he would break off from the conversation to greet customers, most of whom appeared to also be personal friends, before going to the doorway of the kitchen to collect the next course and then return, via a guest's table.
By nine-thirty, the last couple were leaving. Ed broke off once more from the twenty--five year catch up to escort them to the door before bolting it behind them. Around the small dining room a solitary waitress tidied up and prepared the tables for the next morning.
Ed walked back to where they were sitting and, with the delicious but potent Pinot having an effect, he slumped heavily into his chair as if he had just completed an evening's hard labour. His glass; although now half empty, still contained a generous amount of wine. Holding it level with his face, he contemplated the deep ruby liquid. "I'm glad we bought this place when we did. Fifteen years in practice was good, but when we moved here, things started to change." He lowered the glass heavily onto the table, his head now starting to loll from side to side as he spoke, "When we moved here and opened the practice, the whole emphasis seemed to change. Sure, we were still treating pets; cats and dogs like in the city, but here it was more stock, which was great, don't get me wrong, more variety than a city practice, but suddenly we seemed to get bombarded by the pharmaceutical companies expecting us to sell stuff the hard-up farmers didn't really need - hormones for this, growth enhancer for that. When we were kids, you got one kind of milk and it came in a glass bottle with a silver top. Last time I looked there were nearly a dozen different kinds of milk, not including flavoured obviously - technology hasn't advanced quite far enough yet to actually get cows to produce strawberry milk, but I'm sure it'll only be a matter of time."
Anika had enjoyed a long chat with Katherine and shown her round the house and floodlit vegetable garden. They were getting along well and had returned to the table only moments earlier. Anika coughed, interrupting Ed. "Honey, it's getting late. Shall we pick this up tomorrow?"
But Ed was on a wine--fuelled roll, "So, anyway, one day we get a sales rep over from one of these outfits and he goes round all the dairy farms on the island, trying to get the farmers to use this latest vaccine which he says will increase their yield by some huge percentage. He persuades three of the guys to sign up for it. Then this sales joker brings over a company vet to inject the herds. This guy, Trevor something or other, spent two weeks here and reckoned the vaccine contained an enzyme that altered the chemical balance of the milk suppressing a lot of the proteins, making it cheaper to process and with a longer natural shelf life. The three guys who signed up also had to sign a contract with the company to say they wouldn't sell the milk off the island and a special tanker would come over to collect it. They got paid a premium per litre and pretty soon another fifteen farmers on the island got wind of the extra money being made and had also signed up. Trevor kept coming over once all the dairy cattle had been vaccinated and kept us local vets well out of the way. So we ended up losing a fair amount of our regular income. In the end, the practice could no longer justify having three vets, so that was as good a time as any for a change in direction and here we are running this place."
David sat contemplating what Ed had just said. It seemed to be exactly the independent and unsolicited confirmation he needed that the conspiracy he and Katherine had somehow become embroiled in was real and already happening on the very island they had come to escape from it.
Anika pointed once more to the clock on the wall behind the counter. "Sorry to break up the party, guys, but some of us have to be up early tomorrow. Deliveries start arriving from seven-thirty onwards and I don't like chilled and frozen stuff just left on the doorstep."
Only when he finally laid his head on the soft lavender-scented pillow did David think what a very long and very bizarre day it had been.
\*
When he opened his eyes again, the mid--morning sun was streaming through the thin flower patterned curtains. He looked at his watch. It was ten-thirty. In the distance he could hear unfamiliar voices. His nose told him Ed and Anika were already busy downstairs serving mid-morning customers their coffee and muffins.
Katherine was already up and had gone for an exploratory walk. Soon David was sitting in the small private courtyard garden at the back of the café, drinking coffee, eating a chocolate muffin and casually thumbing through the newspaper Anika had thoughtfully supplied with his late breakfast.
His heart pounded as he read the headline: Logging truck kills tourist. Just as Hone had predicted, a logging truck had jack-knifed in the path of an oncoming car. Both drivers had been killed instantly. David knew different. He jumped as he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Ed. "Morning, Dave, how's it goin'? Sleep well?" He sat opposite with his coffee. "Bit of a break before the lunch rush."
After last night's alcohol-fuelled revelations on Ed's part, the pair now sat opposite each other slightly awkwardly, Ed not wanting to disturb his guest's newspaper reading, David desperate to tell Ed his story, the real reason why he was on Waiheke. But without the wine for lubrication, he was not sure how to start.
"Ed, the thing you said last night about why you stopped being a vet, I think it may have something to do with why we are here." Ed frowned. "I don't mean here as in New Zealand, I mean here on the island with you and Anika."
David spent the next twenty minutes telling him as much as he knew; the murder at Heathrow, the money on the credit card, the encounter with Hone and what he had told them. It all seemed to tie in with what Ed had said last night. Ed listened intently. His coffee sat untouched, the milky froth dying away bubble by bursting bubble.
David felt a sense of relief that he had finally been able to tell his story from the start but there was no conclusion yet. He had no idea what the ending might be. Ed shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Wow, it all sounds a bit far-fetched to me, Dave, but it certainly fills in a lot of the gaps about what's been going on around here for the last eighteen months."
A deafening ringing interrupted the contemplative silence. Ed winced as he pointed to the large burglar alarm-like bell over the kitchen door. "It's ok, only the phone." He shouted. The ringing stopped and Anika walked through the kitchen door and into the garden, the cordless phone held in front of her as if it was magnetically attracted to Ed's ear.
"It's for you, honey. It's Darren from the practice, says it's urgent."
Ed put the phone to his ear and stood up. "Hey, Daz, how's it going? Shit! SHIT! SHIT!" The same small expletive became progressively more forceful. "Give me twenty minutes, I'll be right over." Ed handed the phone back to Anika. "Me and Dave are going over to the surgery. Darren needs a hand. You and Kath will have to take care of lunch on your own."
He led David through the kitchen and café out into the street and climbed into his 4x4. Ed started the engine and they sped off down the road, Ed urgently stabbing at the keys on his mobile phone as he drove. He put the phone to his ear.
"Daz, it's me, listen, you're gonna have to activate the emergency response plan. Get whoever's on reception to start ringing round the farms. You need to be ready for when the guys from the Ministry get there."
He slipped the phone into his breast pocket, glanced at his watch, and peered first through the front and then the side windscreens, scanning the sky. "Tell me if you see a chopper, Dave. Watch the eastern horizon, over there," he said, pointing past his passenger and into the distance towards the mainland.
"What's going on, Ed? What's happened?"
"I've been waiting for this. It's probably that guy Hone and his cronies. Did you say you told him you were coming here?"
"Yes, why what's happened?"
"Darren who runs the vet's practice just took a call from the Ministry of Ag and Fish. Apparently some crank has sent a letter to the Prime Minister claiming to have infected a herd of cattle on the island with foot and mouth. It's not true because it would be virtually impossible. You would have to gain access to a vial of the disease from one of MAF's secure labs, bring it here from overseas or bring an infected animal onto the island. Darren said there have been no cattle movements on or off the island for the past three weeks, which is well outside the quarantine period."
"So why am I watching for a helicopter?"
"The Government will have to show they are taking this seriously. It'll be on the news in another hour. Darren says they are flying in a team of vets and, as we have the only surgery on the island, they'll be based there."
Ed raised his voice, his words nearly drowned out by the deafening clatter of a large military helicopter, closely followed by two smaller ones. They flew low, following the road ahead, before disappearing below the tree line, and landing.
They drove into the car park of the vet's practice. The three helicopters landed in an adjacent paddock.
David could see people, obviously unaccustomed to helicopter travel, awkwardly disembarking. Large, heavy--looking bags were thrust at them from inside the helicopters, knocking them off balance They crouched as low to the ground as possible, running for at least twice the length of the rotor blades as they struggled to protect their heads from the fierce down draught of the blades which kept up their deafening rotation.
Ed and David ran into the reception area of the building where the group was already assembling. A casual nod to Ed as they entered was the only clue David needed to indicate which one was Darren. The group stood crammed into the small space, some talking quietly, others silent as if they knew no--one else.
"Ok, guys, can I have your attention? Welcome to Operation Waiheke. Now, you should all know your teams. Each group has three properties to visit. You each have a list and the local practice is going to assist with transport and directions." The speaker walked over to where Ed had just finished quickly introducing Darren and David. "Which one of you is Nicholls?" Darren stepped forward, shaking an outstretched hand. "Hi, Darren, Professor Eric West. I'm an exotic disease investigator with Bio Security NZ. Can I put you in charge of sorting out the transport and directions to this list of farms?" He snapped a pre-typed list from his clipboard and handing it to Darren.
David watched Ed's face intently. It was the most serious he had seen him since they had met. His eyes were slit in a barely disguised look of distrust. He slowly turned to David, angling his head back towards the door and whispered. "Walk back to my truck in one minute." Ed made his way behind the reception desk and out into the rear of the building.
Darren escorted his group through the same door before returning alone, stopping at the office space behind the desk. "Just photocopying the list for you guys. I won't be a minute," he called out.
The Professor approached David. "And you are?" he said in a less friendly tone than the one extended to Darren.
"Oh sorry - er - Dave, just dropping the cat off to be done. See you later." The minute was up and he hurried out to Ed who was already in the driver's seat with the engine running. He barely had time to shut the door before the 4x4 was on the road, heading back towards the café.
"So, Dave, here's the deal. There are fifteen farms on the island involved in producing this modified milk which we know is being used for the initial production of this new fuel somewhere on the mainland. This facility is probably closely controlled by an American outfit and our Government is powerless to intervene in the private business of a legitimate company unless they have good reason. So they've concocted this foot and mouth story as a means of legitimately gaining access to the treated herds in order to take blood and milk samples for analysis. They probably suspected this was going on somewhere in the North Island. It appears you coming here has aroused their suspicions enough to risk putting this so-called Operation Waiheke into action in the full glare of international publicity, risking our whole beef and dairy industry in the process."
"So what do we do?"
"In the short term - I mean the next twelve hours - nothing. We need to let them get on with it. They're only doing their job, albeit under a bloody clever cover story. So we just need to co-operate, not arouse suspicion and get you off this island."
Back at the café, Ed rushed into the small office area in the corner of the kitchen. "Aha, good work, Daz," he said, retrieving a sheet of paper from beneath the fax machine, and glancing through it. "He faxed me the list Eric West gave him. Ten of the farms on it are using the enzyme. MAF have some good inside knowledge of what's been going on here."
For the rest of the afternoon, Ed was on the phone. As he had predicted, the suspected foot and mouth outbreak made the lunchtime news bulletins. MAF were responding to a claimed deliberate release of foot and mouth disease on the island. David listened as Ed talked to local farmers, friends and concerned council members, giving advice, sympathy and encouragement but not once giving away what he believed to be the true reason the government scientists were on Waiheke.
At four-thirty, Darren called again. Professor West had told him the Controlled Area Notice for the Island was to be put in place in the next half an hour, before the afternoon ferry was scheduled to dock This would stop animal movements to and from Waiheke and initially restrict human movement also.
"Clever," said Ed when he came off the phone, explaining that there was no scientific reason to restrict human movement but, by doing so, the authorities would be able to stop David and Katherine from leaving, at least by ferry. So, for now, although he was not exactly captive, David was at least restricted by the Government controls that were to all intents and purposes legitimately in place.
As Ed pointed out over dinner, "It's very clever. The Government has obviously latched onto your presence and probably realises that you may be of use to them. So they have concocted this outbreak which serves two purposes - it keeps you under their control by stopping you leaving the island, and it gives them legitimate access to the compromised herds. Brilliant, bloody brilliant. But they can't be seen to be involved in anything that might arouse the suspicions of Cowood."
He stopped speaking and glanced at David but it was too late. "The suspicions of who, Ed?" David had never mentioned Cowood to him by name.
"Shit damn and bugger!" Ed stood up and began pacing the floor, agitated, scratching his head and rubbing his unshaven face, wrestling with what to say next. Slowly he pulled his hands down across his cheeks and bearded chin before letting out a long sigh.
"Tell me what you know about Cowood, Ed."
Ed pulled his chair around the perimeter of the table until he was next to David. He spoke in a hushed tone. "Cowood is the biggest single threat this country has ever faced. It's an invasion, a take-over, a complete desecration of the land and people of New Zealand, and only a handful of people even know its happening, let alone are trying to stop it. Look at me, Dave. Tonight I'm stone cold sober, so believe me, what I am about to tell you are cold hard facts, mate. Firstly, you are part of the invasion, Dave. You and hundreds like you are being innocently recruited to bring money into the country, barely hidden within the thin magnetic strip on a credit card. During the last two years, we reckon about $180 billion U.S. dollars have been brought in by unsuspecting tourists and immigrants like you. It's a brilliant plan. Plant the cards at the point of departure and then let them travel into the country. Our Immigration Service and Customs haven't a hope in hell of even beginning to know where to start as far as confiscating credit cards from everyone coming in, so in they come, tourists and immigrants carrying that valuable piece of plastic, sometimes minus a few hundred bucks if they have found the card during their journey. Once they are here, the card is retrieved, usually within twenty four hours and usually by pickpockets or bribed hotel cleaners. Occasionally the couriers deviate from their expected itinerary. Sometimes the card has to be retrieved by force. So we see a small but steady number of foreigners apparently dying on our roads, or in climbing accidents, or getting lost in the bush. Of course, the police never investigate the theft aspect of these murders because as far as they are concerned the card was never there in the first place. Once the card is back in the possession of Cowood, the money can begin its slow journey buying up the land beneath our feet. The cards are used to buy high value items, mainly from Asia - electronic goods, cars, boats, that kind of thing. It's no coincidence New Zealand now has one of the highest rates of boat ownership and the highest rate of car ownership per head in the world. These goods are sold off primarily on a publicly accessible internet auction site which is controlled by a Kiwi holding company, but it's ultimately owned by the American parent through a complicated series of offshore trusts."
"A bit like EBay?"
"Kind of. Cowood realised they needed a legitimate way of laundering the money, so they set up a complex system, relying on New Zealand's physical isolation from the rest of the world. There are a number of agents who import these goods and advertise them on the auction website under the guise of being one of the hundreds of thousands of legitimate online traders. In reality there are probably only about seventy-five to a hundred Cowood agents trading on the site, but each has several hundred online pseudonyms. Of course, they set a reserve price to cover the cost of the item and then, if the item sells for more, Cowood makes a small profit as well as successfully laundering the money. The bizarre thing about all this is that, as a result of Cowood coming up with this scheme, New Zealand now has one of the most enthusiastic online trading populations in the world. So many Kiwis have signed up to buy or sell their own stuff perfectly legitimately that, in the past year alone, the population of New Zealand has contributed around eighteen million dollars in commission to Cowood's online trading scam and therefore is actually willingly bankrolling its oppressors. So there you have it, Dave. A subtle invasion. The money comes in, gets laundered and is absorbed into the economy with the tacit co-operation of the population. The money is then used to purchase vast tracts of land, again with the entirely reasonable aim of establishing forestry or dairy herds. The profit from these operations will then be used to construct the conversion plants to produce the bio fuel and connecting pipe work infrastructure, and eventually a Trans--Pacific pipeline. Because all the profit is re-invested in the business, there is very little the regulatory authorities can do to either influence or stop how the business grows. It's only a matter of time before Cowood actually achieves its aim. They're obviously very secretive of their true intentions, and we have a hell of a job trying to convince people any of this is happening at all."
That was it. Right at the end, just then, the confirmation David had been waiting for. Ed had finally let slip an innocuous 'we'. He was involved in this far more than he had let on up until that moment. Sure he knew the background story and seemed to have a good grasp of the bigger picture, but with that one small slip of the tongue he had confirmed a suspicion that had been increasing in David's mind ever since they had reunited the day before.
"You said 'we'."
Ed sat back, momentarily startled. "What do you mean?" he said, defensively.
"You said we have a hell of a job. Who are we?"
Ed shook his head, trying to find the right words. 'However I say this, it's going to come out sounding melodramatic and overly sensational, so I'm going to just say it, OK? I'm with the resistance."
A smile turned into a gentle chuckle, which developed into full scale laughter as, in David's mind, Ed was now speaking in a French accent and wearing a beret.
A momentary grin crossed Ed's face also. "Piss off, Dave! I can't think of any better way of putting it, alright?"
"So what does this resistance do then, Ed?"
"Well, we try and find out what the Government knows about Cowood, try and resist by stopping the money coming in. That can be the most difficult thing. We know the New Zealand Secret Intelligence Service has agents in all the major cities around the world that immigrants originate from - London, Johannesburg, Los Angeles and about a dozen others. For example, in London the SIS placed an agent in a senior position in the Royal Mail. He, in turn, handles a number of other agents who are employed as sorting office supervisors. The SIS have trained them to re-programme the sorting office technology to recognise the distinctive pre-printed envelopes that the Associated Bank of Monaco uses for mailing out the credit cards to potential couriers. They can then send a list of who the bank has targeted to be cross-referenced with passenger lists for flights inbound from the UK to Auckland."
"So you knew I was at the airport waiting to come here?"
"Not exactly. I found out about four hours into the flight that it was you, after the stuff happened with the SIS agent being murdered."
"You already knew about that?"
"He was working as a cleaner at the airport and was trying to intercept you and get the credit card before you left. It was the poor bugger's first proper mission and he decided to take on the guys who were planting the card on you. The poor sod was overpowered and thrown off a roof. Anyway, your name sounded familiar. I ran a quick check on your last address and confirmed it was the same fella I went to school with. Meanwhile the SIS put what they call an Alpha One Zone in place. They kept watch and guided you all the way to the seat you're in now."
"All the way?"
"The intercept at Changi Airport was the SIS. They can only work officially within our own border, so had to assume British identities before the Singapore authorities would allow them to question you. The guy at the car rental in Auckland was also SIS. I didn't anticipate you trying to track me down, and you threw them off for a bit when you booked that flight south. They traced my email reply back to you, which they could only do when you went back online at the ferry terminal in Auckland. We didn't count on them having a cover story ready and coming here quite so soon."
"So how did you get involved in all this, Ed?"
"It was when Trevor, the sales guy from the Pharmaceutical division of Cowood, came to the island and started promoting their so called wonder product. Being a vet myself, we got chatting about this and that, and one night after our third bottle of Pinot his tongue loosened up. At first it all sounded wildly far-fetched, until a few days later when a farm hand called me to come and look at an animal. When I got there, we drove out in the 4x4 until we got to a deserted paddock. Not a bloody cow in sight. I stopped the engine and we sat there for an hour while he confirmed not only everything Trevor had said, but far more stuff. Trevor had painted this rosy vision of a hugely successful multi-national conglomerate that was investing in the future of this country and would make all the farmers - dairy workers and everyone in between - stinking rich. This farm hand said he had heard another darker side to what was going on. He explained how Cowood was about to move onto the next phase of their plan. Coffee?" Ed decided now would be a good time for a break, stood up, and made his way towards the kitchen. "He said the biggest obstacle Cowood would have to overcome, when the full extent of their plans eventually became public knowledge, would be the huge international and local opposition to their proposal. They would need friends in high places, and lots of them, when the time came."
David interrupted as Ed continued making the coffee. "So who is going to support this supposed invasion if everything you have been told is true?"
"The Greens."
David was surprised by this unexpected reply. "The Greens?"
"Exactly, the Ecological Political Assembly of New Zealand. EPANZ, is our equivalent of the European and North American Green parties. They have a significant groundswell of popular support in New Zealand, especially in the middle class. Cowood recognised this early on. Slowly and methodically they have infiltrated the Party. Just think about it. Cowood advocates sustainable, renewable energy using existing resources and infrastructure. The tree huggers love the idea but the poor bastards don't realise their principles are being manipulated for massive corporate gain. The next general election is in three years time. Between now and then Cowood aims to have a leader of EPANZ who is completely sympathetic to their aspirations. They'll pump huge dollars into EPANZ, quite legally, through member donations from ordinary Kiwis; farmers, land owners and the like who traditionally would have been the last people to vote Green, but who now, of course, sell their products exclusively to Cowood, who in turn will exercise complete control over the manifesto of EPANZ. In three years, New Zealand will be the first country in the world to elect a leader from a Party founded solely on ecological issues. They will have such an overwhelming majority that they'll be able to pass any bill in Parliament that Cowood needs in order to begin work on the construction of the interconnecting pipelines and the consequential destruction of the land in-between." Ed passed David his coffee and sat back down. "Believe me, Dave, it's going to happen. In fact, it's already started. Today is evidence of that."
David sipped his coffee. "Ok, Ed, so how do you stop it?"
"We can't really stop the money; we can only slow it down. Each card brings in such huge amounts of the stuff it's like fighting a forest fire with a bucket of sand. There are some guys on the mainland who are starting to take direct action, mainly out of frustration. Some of the smaller landowners feel they are being intimidated into selling out when Cowood buys up the surrounding acreage. These fellas might start a fire and destroy a few hectares of Cowood forestry, but Cowood just ignores it or puts it down to personal grievance or jealousy. So, for the moment, they don't seem to be aware that there is any kind of undercurrent of unrest or resistance to them."
"But what about what happened at Heathrow? Surely that must have shown them someone is trying to sabotage their plans?"
"The Government managed a pretty good cover story with that one. The High Commission in London issued a press statement saying the murdered agent was part of a criminal gang at the airport who were employed as cleaners and who then branched out from pick pocketing and petty theft in the public areas to stealing from vehicles in the car parks. The press release said the car parks are the territory of the Asian baggage handlers who work at the airport. He was busy casing vehicles when they saw him in his cleaner's uniform and took exception to him working their patch, so they threw him over the wall as a signal to the other cleaners to stay away. Unfortunately, the fact that he died in the line of duty, trying to protect his country, can never be revealed to his family or the public." Ed glanced at his watch. It was six-thirty. "Go upstairs, grab a bag and meet me by the truck. We don't have much time. MAF have called a public meeting in the Memorial Hall at seven to brief the farmers and the rest of the islanders. It's going to be our best chance to get you off."
David walked into the bedroom. Katherine was lying on the bed, sobbing. She looked over to him and another wave of salty tears rolled down her left cheek to join the others steadily moistening the cotton sheet beneath her head. She sniffed. "Do you know where they are taking you?" She seemed to have known the next step before he did;
"Er, not sure, back to Auckland, I think, at least for tonight anyway, How do you know? What's Anika been saying?"
She sat up, dabbing at her eyes with a crumpled tissue. "She said a war has started, and that by coming here and invading their own island, the Government has made it clear that it knows what's going on and that it isn't prepared to let it go. She thinks the Americans will make the next move and that'll probably be to try and intercept you. Ed is taking you to meet some guys in the South Island who can protect you and what you are carrying." She stood, the vertical movement unleashing another wave of tearful emotion as she hugged him tightly. "Dave, what's going on here? Why can't they leave us alone to just get on with setting up home and living our lives? How have we become so heavily involved in all of this?"
"It's precisely because we're just normal Mr and Mrs Average, the kind of people who can move into and around the country without attracting any suspicion or attention. So we've become part of their plan. But we've realised what is going on, paid attention when we shouldn't have, so I just need to be kept out of the spotlight. The Government want to use me as bait and Cowood wants their card back."
Katherine dried her eyes and looked up at her husband. "Anika has said I can stay here. Of course, I want to come with you but she says, if I stay here, it'll throw them of your scent, at least for the next twenty-four hours. Hopefully they'll think you're still here as well and that will give you time to get away, down south, somewhere safe, then you can let me know and I can come and join you." She trailed off into yet more sobbing, hugging and tears.
They stood for several minutes holding each other, feeling each other's warmth. They had not held each other like this for a long while.
Ed called up the stairs. "Dave we have to leave NOW!" They didn't move. Ed called again, this time softer, more apologetic. "Sorry, both of you. We have to go, Dave."
Reluctantly they pulled apart. The room became instantly cooler. David kissed her again, turned, picked up his bag from by the door and hurried down stairs, through the deserted café and out into the dark early evening gloom.
Ed explained high tide was at seven-thirty which left just enough time to drive as far as they could before tramping the final kilometre to the isolated bay where a boat waited to take them back to Auckland.
Ed turned off the road into open countryside. The 4x4 loped over the undulating terrain until they reached a wooded area. Ed slowly weaved amongst the thick tree trunks, their bark and leaves unfamiliar to David, before stopping and turning off the engine. "That's as far as we can go by car. Grab your stuff, Dave. We're on foot from here."
They made their way down the steeply sloping wooded terrain. In the increasing darkness, exposed tree roots and slippery rocks made the descent treacherous. David used the thin whippy trees sprouting from the hillside as handrails - grab and jump, grab and jump - each time jarring his wrists. First left then right, each took the full weight of his body as he continued the steep downward journey.
Ahead, and below, a uniform lightness as if the trees suddenly ended and there was just a void beyond, nothing he could focus on. He felt about to tip over the edge of the world. Three more leaps and they would be horizontal once more, standing upright on a small sandy beach. Ed managed it. David misjudged the angle and landed face down in the sand.
He looked up, spitting out the dry crunching, gritty sand. A small boat bounced around in the breaking waves, its bow facing towards the shore. Standing in front of it, and holding a rope as if controlling an unbroken horse, he could just make out in the darkness Hone's amused grin.
David hesitated. Shit! The last time he had seen the huge Maori was in the rear view mirror picking himself up from the dusty road where he had been left to find his own way back to civilisation. What was he doing here? Was it a trap? Why had Ed betrayed him? It must have been some consolation to him that it was now David lying spread--eagled, about to pick himself up, and shake the sand from his hair, eyes and ears, with some semblance of dignity.
Ed was already walking straight into the sea, shoes and jeans still in place. He shook Hone's free hand, said something the breaking waves completely drowned out, then catching the crest from an incoming wave, pulled himself over the side of the boat.
David paused, hopping around, trying to casually slip off his shoes and socks. It was all right for Ed - he could go home and get a dry pair. Maybe he should keep them on and run back into the trees? The next problem, standing as he now was on the high water mark, were the shards of crushed razor sharp sea shells beneath his bare feet. With shoes in one hand and socks in the other, he made an undignified zigzag dash towards the smooth wet sand and into the surf.
Hone laughed. "How's it goin', Dave? Bit of a mission getting this far, eh, Bro'?"
David wasn't sure if he meant the last four days or the last four metres. The important thing was the tone had been friendly.
Trying to judge the incoming surf as he had seen Ed do so expertly before, he heaved himself aboard on an incoming wave, deftly avoiding the hard metallic hull that was rising up to meet his flailing body as he hauled himself over the side, landing face down on the wet deck.
The rumbling Mercury engine roared and a whoosh of white spume flew into the air as Hone expertly guided the small craft into deeper water before turning the bow to the west and out into the blackness of the Hauraki Gulf.
David negotiated his way to the bench at the stern, desperately trying not to lose his balance once more as the aluminium hull rhythmically bounced and thumped through the waves.
Ed shouted above the combined howl of engine, wind and sea, "We need to get to the mainland as soon as possible. Our rendezvous point is on a rocky bit of coastline and it's hard enough to negotiate in daylight, let alone pitch black."
Bumping westwards for over an hour, Hone finally eased back on the throttle. The small boat was once more at the mercy of the waves and, within four hundred metres of landfall, barely visible through the thickening darkness of night that had now enveloped them.
Hone cut the engine and they drifted the last twenty metres towards the shore. The rolling motion abruptly stopped as the metallic hull grazed against the shallow sandy seabed. Each wave lifted them, supporting the vessel's weight before dropping it heavily back on to the sand as the boat was hoisted closer to the beach.
Ed disappeared over the edge and into the sea, taking the painter with him. He pulled the boat through the water, looking back, judging the wave, using its force to haul the boat out of the sea and onto the sand. Finally it tilted to one side, beached, and David followed Ed onto the wet sand.
They were in a small bay, enclosed on three sides by steep wooded cliffs, just like those they had left behind on the island. Now they had stopped moving, the wind had died down and David could feel his face glowing despite the cool evening air.
"I need to get the boat sorted," said Hone. "You two go on. I'll catch up."
Ed began to stride up the beach towards the trees. David ran, trying to catch up, stopping and starting as he tried to slip on his footwear. Soft sand gave way to stony soil beneath the trees. They climbed up through the bush, jumping from one steep foothold to another. David considered for a moment that they might have sailed in a circle and were now retracing their steps back up the slope they had clambered down to get to the beach on the island.
He had to concentrate hard just to keep Ed's back in sight. If he momentarily lost him, he had to listen out for the snapping of a twig or the scuff of a small stone, signalling his position somewhere in front.
In the darkness David felt dewy grass against his legs as the ground levelled out beneath his feet. They had no torch and, as they made their way across the open ground, he could just make out a faint light a short distance ahead.
Ed was making his way towards it. David felt somehow obliged to whisper, "Where are we going, Ed?"
Ed whispered back, his voice muffled by the dark cloak of nightfall. "See the light over there? Hone left it unlocked. It's pretty remote out here, so it should be alright. He'll be up to join us as soon as he secures the boat."
David could just make out a metal door handle just above head height. Ed reached up, opened it and climbed three small steps before going in. He followed.
A short narrow dimly lit corridor stretched out before them. As he turned to close the door, David noticed the sign above it.
EMERGENCY EXIT
He tapped the floor with his foot. It was hollow. Bracing both feet either side of the narrow corridor barely wider than his shoulders, he pushed, first left then right. The floor creaked and gently rocked under the pressure. Ed turned, startled, as the floor beneath him moved also;
"So this must be some kind of camper van, then?"
Ed smiled and nodded before flicking a switch. Three fluorescent tubes along the low ceiling hesitated and then flashed into life, wiping out the cosy glow from the unseen light source at the other end. "Well, yeah, I suppose basically it's a bus. But it's a bit more than just a bus. I'll give you the guided tour in the morning. This is your bunk." Ed pulled a curtain, revealing a small bed against a curtained window. Submariners had more room, David thought.
They continued towards what David had worked out was the front of the bus and into a small kitchen and sitting area. There was a full length curtain separating the living area from the driver. "We'll have a cuppa before turning in, I think. Hone's got the first driving shift. I'll be up at three to take over, so no late night for me tonight."
Hone climbed in through the driver's door and appeared through the front curtain. He fell into a row of cushions strewn over the bench seats that ran down each side of the bus and lay there silently until Ed brought him his coffee.
He sat up, took the mug and began sipping in earnest silence as if it was medicine. David still felt uneasy in his presence and Hone made no attempt to even acknowledge him. David took his cue and made his way to bed. Moments later, Hone started the engine and, within minutes, the gentle throb of the engine beneath his head and the bounce of the chassis sent David into a deep sleep.
\*
He woke and pushed aside the thin curtain, revealing the daylight outside. Through the condensation delta trickling down the glass, he could make out trees just a short distance away. The whooshing of vehicles indicated they were parked next to a highway, busy with early morning traffic. The bus shuddered several times as large trucks sped close by.
Making his way towards the front, he found Ed hunched over a small table, moving the mouse pointer around on a laptop computer. He acknowledged David without looking up. "Morning, Dave. Sleep ok?" He did not wait for a reply. "Just checking overnight emails. Apparently MAF had the milk samples from Waiheke analysed overnight. One of our people just sent through the data before MAF have had a chance to check the results for themselves. I'll have a proper look once we get on the ferry. Hone's getting some sleep now. He ended up driving until four this morning, so I'll give him a shout once we get to Wellington."
David was not sure why he was so surprised about the destination. After all, they had been driving for nearly nine hours; presumably not round in circles, so they must have covered a fair distance. "We need to catch the midday ferry to the South Island and then meet up with the rest of the guys. By the way, can I borrow the card? I need to make a ferry booking."
It had been a while since he had thought about the card. Everything that had happened to him in the past few days was a direct result of the innocuous sliver of plastic he now carried. He casually handed it to Ed who keyed in the card number and expiry date, and handed it back, without comment.
"Doesn't it bother you, using that money?"
"Not really. As soon as I hit ENTER, I know it's been logged that you've made a ferry booking. But this booking is for two days' time and we'll be long gone by then. No, what really bothers me is the fact that I could have bought the whole bloody ferry company with the money on that card. Luckily they don't offer that option on the website."
Ed drove the bus the rest of the way into Wellington. Hone slept soundly until ten. The trio sat at the front of the bus as it entered the ferry terminal. Ed parked the bus in behind a line of commercial tour buses. "Grab your bag, Dave," he said as he climbed down from the driver's seat, 'and follow me."
He rushed back to his cabin, picked up his unopened bag and made his way out the back door, running to catch up with Ed.
"Why do I need my bag just to check us in?"
"Because we're not going back to the bus, Dave, Hone is taking it across on a later sailing and we're getting the Fast Cat. We need to travel across the Cook Strait undetected."
Ed paid cash for two foot passenger tickets for the next sailing, due to depart in twenty minutes' time. He handed a ticket to David. "You board now. I'll be up in about five minutes. Walk on with a family or a group. That way you'll be harder to spot when they look back at the CCTV in a few days when they realise you weren't on the bus. I'll meet you in the café."
David made his way towards the gently sloping tunnel and latched onto a group of eight other passengers. Only then did he realise that they were Japanese, half his height and age, and were chattering and pointing at him, laughing as he so blatantly invaded their communal space. If anything was calculated to highlight his presence to a bored security guard reviewing hours of video footage, this was probably it.
He smiled back, trying to look as if the animated laughter and talking was mutual and he was just engaging in friendly conversation. He pushed his way into the middle of the group and handed his ticket to a crew member who didn't even acknowledge him.
Stepping through the small doorway, he was surprised to find himself in a small shopping mall. There was no indication he was now afloat, compared to the tiny vessel he had found himself in the previous evening. Following the sign to the café, he positioned himself next to the window. Only then did the sight of open sea beyond the harbour give any clue to the journey to come.
He thought of Katherine, took his mobile phone from his bag, switched it on, and composed a text message. Ed sat opposite, placing a tray of coffee and sandwiches on the table between them. He shuffled a heavy-looking pack from his back and placed it on the empty seat next to him. "Texting the missus?"
"Yes."
"Make it quick and make it general - no times or places. When it's intercepted, it needs to have been transmitted from one of the beacons on top of one of those tower blocks in the city, not from the transponder onboard. That way at least they won't realise you are actually afloat already."
All OK & on track
The sound of the engines could now be heard above the piped music and excited chatter of tourists, instilling David with a sense of urgency as the catamaran moved sideways, away from the dockside.
Spk to u soon luv u xx
He clicked send, cursing himself for not saying how he really felt, thinking of Katherine's reaction to such a bland, meaningless message having been suddenly torn apart from each other only the day before.
Ed sat, coffee in one hand, the other on the keyboard of his laptop perched on a dangerous slant on his knees. Katherine must have been waiting for any contact. Before he could put the phone down, David received a reply.
Luv u 2 xx
"Better turn that off now," Ed said, without looking up, "We are just going past dock head. Any more messages going through that phone will be transmitted from the aerial on the roof of this thing."
David turned the phone off and sat aimlessly eating and drinking, focussing on the back of the laptop as Ed stared intently at it from the other side. Suddenly he sat back, closing the screen, the look on his face a mixture of triumph and concern. "This is it! This is bloody IT!"
"What is?"
He leant across and pushed his back pack from the seat next to him and onto the floor. "Come over here and have a look at this." David moved next to him. Ed lifted the screen again and angled it towards him as if looking at it would somehow help David understand what he was about to be told.
"Ok, Dave, I'll try and explain in simple terms. The Ministry has taken a sample from a single cow from each of the herds on Waiheke that have been injected with the enzyme supplied by Cowood. The data has been emailed to three labs around the country for analysis and interpretation. Now, if my reading of it is correct, it's showing the milk these cows are producing contains at least five thousand times the level of gamma casein that is found in regular milk."
"Which means what?"
"When it's processed using the method that Cowood is trying to perfect, the by-product is a particularly pure form of ethanol."
David looked confused. Katherine was the science teacher. This was beyond him. Ed noted his blank expression. "Processing milk down into its component parts produces, amongst other things, whey which can then be refined into low grade ethanol, the kind used in perfumes, ink, that kind of thing. By introducing a mutated form of the normally present beta casein, the overall casein level is increased. The whey retains a greater proportion of the casein which is usually lost in the distillation process and that means the whey is able to yield a much purer form of ethanol relative to the original volume of milk."
"Which means?" David was already lost on mutated beta casein.
"This confirms that Cowood is aiming to distil commercial quantities of fuel grade ethanol from milk."
David nodded slowly, still barely comprehending.
"Ok, here's the science. Up until now only about 4% of the lactose could be harvested from the whey, the rest is lost in the form of lactic acid. From this remaining lactose, only 20% of the raw solids can be distilled into ethanol, but with the mutated casein present in the milk, there is virtually no lactic acid conversion. 95% of the solids are usable and the resultant ethanol is perfectly viable as liquid fuel with very little, if any, further refining needed."
Ed sat back, running his fingers through his thick grey hair, shaking his head. "It looks like this is the breakthrough they've been working towards and, if it's true, nothing can stop them now. This is big, I mean really big."
David was still confused. He appreciated the marvel of being able to mass--produce fuel from milk, but he still couldn't understand why it was a bad thing.
"There are a couple of really negative issues here, Dave. Firstly, fuel from milk means we need vast quantities of the stuff to make it commercially viable. Imagine for a moment barrels of oil. The United States alone consumes about twenty million barrels a day, or nearly a million litres a minute, twenty-four / seven. New Zealand milk production currently amounts to about fifteen billion litres a year, which works out roughly three times as much oil as milk. But, for every litre of milk, still only 5% can be distilled into ethanol which means a colossal increase in dairy capacity will be needed to satisfy the demand."
"So why not just raise the capacity by producing the milk around the world?"
"Cowood will need to raise production to meet the demand but it means turning over vast tracts of otherwise productive land to grazing. Every field and paddock on both islands that isn't already given over to forestry, which is of course the other prime source of ethanol we haven't even touched on yet, will be given over to dairy farming. The reason the milk can only be produced here is simple; it's to do with the Gamma Casein that the herds will carry in order to produce the right kind of milk. Beta Casein, the regular kind, which occurs naturally in milk, has been scientifically linked to diabetes, autism and heart disease. Gamma casein is five thousand times more potent. It's more powerful and more harmful in every respect to humans than the Beta variety. If this modified milk is allowed to enter the human food chain, the results will be catastrophic. Just half a litre, even as an ingredient in some other food, will be enough to put huge numbers of people at risk, especially those with an inherent susceptibility to things like heart disease. In some cases it could kill someone outright. Apart from raw milk, cheese and butter, any food product containing dairy derivatives originating from New Zealand would be instantly banned worldwide. The dairy industry in this country, at least as we know it, would simply wither and die overnight as soon as the first modified herd becomes public knowledge. The export market will literally dry up. Those remaining farmers will plead with Cowood to be allowed to produce the modified milk in order to stay in business or, one-by-one, they would be bought out until there is a single national dairy herd, isolated from the rest of the world, geographically and genetically. This 'super herd' will be owned and controlled solely by Cowood. They own the patent; they have the sole rights to the Gamma Casein and therefore the monopoly on the grade and quality of the bovine ethanol. They will have complete control over its distribution via the Trans-Pacific pipeline, and ultimately be able to dictate the price to the rest of the world. America will finally be in the position it has coveted from the Arab states since the nineteen seventies."
David was still not convinced by Ed's apocalyptic vision. "So remind me again why the government can't just stop them right now?"
"What Cowood are doing at the moment, controlled and monitored research, is perfectly within the law. There is no legal justification for shutting them down. Commercial sensitivity protects them from having to reveal their results and hence the true nature of the research remains secret. Of course there are elements of the Government who have been made aware of the negative potential of the outcome of this research. That's why we saw the foot and mouth cover story yesterday. Unfortunately, as I said the other day, the environmentalists are being heavily lobbied in all this. Their political wing has already been infiltrated to the point where their official line is that bovine ethanol is good for the environment and for the economy. They are not concerned with the chemistry involved. They have absolutely no idea of the potential massive human cost of all this. All the time the process is being developed and refined, the Ecological Political Assembly is gradually being been bought and paid for by Cowood, and their leader, Pat O'Sullivan, could potentially be our next Prime Minister."
The catamaran was clear of Wellington Harbour, and in open water, heading across the Cook Strait towards Picton Harbour, and the South Island. David had read this was one of the most treacherous ferry crossings in the world. The southern Pacific Ocean in the east, and its accompanying winds, try to squeeze through the narrow space between the two separated halves of the country, whilst the Tasman Sea fights to do the same from the west.
Today they were lucky. The waves were slight and the vessel seemed ideally suited to slicing through the small crests that undulated across the water's surface. Unfortunately, the design meant it was a giant floating box, with no thought given to the idea of an external deck from which to admire the spectacular views as they entered the Marlborough Sounds, a complicated series of twisting channels through which the captain had to slowly navigate to reach Picton which, looking at the map on the café wall, appeared to be several miles inland.
The Cat slowed to a sedate cruising speed as it entered The Sounds. Through the salt--spray encrusted windows, David saw green mountains rising from an emerald sea, now glassy smooth. It was as if the water had flooded a primeval jungle and only the tallest peaks had escaped the surge.
Ed's comments preyed on his mind. The modified milk was poisonous. It could kill people. The most powerful country in the world was intent on producing the stuff in huge quantities. As far as he knew, none of this was public information. He was one of only a handful of people in the entire world who knew about any of this, and as far as he was concerned that made him vulnerable. A man had died at Heathrow because of this and Cowood seemed prepared to risk the lives of millions of people.
What had started as an intriguing diversion to the start of their new life had developed into a life-threatening predicament. David no longer wanted to be part of it. He wanted to escape, not just from Ed and whatever it was he was planning, but also from the whole situation. For now, he was stuck on a boat.
The vessel negotiated the winding channel. The mountains seemed to close in behind it, sealing it in, forcing it to sail onward. After an hour of meandering, the catamaran rounded the final bend. In the distance David could see colours other than green and blue. He could make out a small town resting in a valley between two of the hills. In another half an hour they would be alongside in Picton and he could start looking for his opportunity.
Ed stood up, checking his mobile phone. He nodded, before replacing it back in his pocket. "Good, they're waiting for us." David moved to stand up in preparation for disembarkation. Ed touched his arm. "Wait here. I need to check everything is ok first. Make sure you're one of the last off. I'll meet you over by the car hire place. If I'm not there in ten minutes, book yourself straight back on the return crossing. Understand?"
Ed's dominant tone took David by surprise. He sensed it was compensating for some nervousness in Ed about whatever was about to happen next.
"These guys don't mess around, ok?" Ed caught the look on David's face and he softened his tone. "Look, sorry, Dave, but once we are in the car with them, I won't get another chance to explain. It's just that, well, we need some muscle, rent a mob, whatever you want to call them. They are well paid for what we ask them to do but they run on a pretty short fuse, if you get my drift. I just thought I should warn you." He hoisted his pack on to his back, pulled a cap David had not seen before firmly on to his head and made his way down the gangway.
David waited until the sound of a vacuum cleaner indicated all passengers except him had disembarked. As he made his way down the gangway, the posters advertising the many tourist attractions this island had to offer reminded him it had always been their intention to make this final short southward journey together arriving, as generations before them had, like true immigrants, by sea.
Instead he was being swept along on a roller coaster ride of subterfuge and intrigue, wanting no part of it, but somehow being the focal point of it. According to Ed, many other people had been involved in similar journeys recently. Had they been involved to the same extent David was? Was it just coincidence that he had made contact with Ed, an old school friend, who not only happened to have an intimate knowledge of exactly what Cowood was up to, but also what was being done to try and stop them?
Ed was waiting for him as he emerged into the late afternoon sun. They made their way towards a battered grey Toyota Hilux, already occupied by two large men silhouetted in the cab. David followed Ed onto the back seat.
The two men in the front simultaneously turned to greet David. For hired muscle, they were older than he had expected, silver grey hair framing both heavily lined faces, and their distinctive features clearly Maori in origin. Their mothers would have called them 'heavy set'. David considered 'obese' was more accurate as they heaved and puffed, straining to extend a hand to shake. "Kia ora, Bro'. I'm Tommy." The driver smiled revealing yellow teeth, chipped and uneven, as he gripped David's hand in a firm single shake. He reached across to meet the hand also being extended from the passenger side. "Kia ora. I'm Billy."
"Good to meet you both."
David was not pleased to meet them. Nothing about the last few days had been truly pleasant. Nonetheless, he had no reason to scorn a genuinely offered hand of friendship and risk upsetting the two men he sensed Ed had placed his trust in.
'Eddie here tells us you're from England," Tommy continued as he weaved through the car park towards the port exit gate and swiftly out of Picton. "Our great nanna was from Liverpool."
David found that as hard to believe, given their obvious ethnic origins, as he did Ed's previous intimation that they were dangerous gang members. Billy continued, "So, Eddie, Dave is gonna help us with our big cheesy mess tonight, eh, Bro'?" The two brothers laughed as the truck continued out of the town and onto the open road, heading toward Christchurch, according to the road sign David managed to glimpse.
Ed leaned across. "I'll explain later."
After an hour's fast driving, Tommy turned the Hilux onto a narrow track through dense forest. They bumped along the winding dirt trail, emerging from under the canopy of trees into a small clearing. On the left, a high wire fence separated the track from a large scrubby paddock on the other side. Ed leaned forward and tapped Tommy's shoulder. "I reckon about here, Tom, if that's ok?"
All four climbed out, meeting expectantly at the rear of the vehicle. Billy dropped the tailgate and climbed on. David hadn't noticed the large metal crate securely fastened to the bed of the truck just behind the rear window. Billy unlocked the two heavy padlocks on either side and carefully lifted out two smaller, identical green boxes, followed by a green canvas bag which he handed to Ed. They were ammunition boxes. "Right, here's the plan."
Ed explained, once it was dusk, they would make their way across the paddock. On the other side, he would cut the wire fence and they would head towards the main building.
"Whoa, back a bit, rewind, one step at a time, Ed. Did I miss something here? Why exactly are we cutting wire fences and breaking in?"
"Sorry, Dave, You're right. Let's rewind. Behind the fence is the Dairytree Cheese factory, owned, obviously, by Cowood. It's one of the sites where the Waiheke milk is being taken for trial processing in the lab buildings at the rear of the main plant. The cheese factory is the ideal cover operation, producing high quality cheese for the home market but also conducting the preliminary ethanol distillation using the modified milk. We need to destroy the lab, but before we do, I need a sample of the whey powder containing the gamma casein. About two kilos should be enough. So, back to where we came in, once we get onto the site, Tom and Bill will start a fire in the main cheese factory that will be fierce enough to spread to the other buildings. They'll make it look accidental, of course."
"Jug fire," smiled Tom, pulling an old electric kettle from one of the ammo boxes.
"While the boys are setting the fire, we'll find the lab, get the whey powder and meet back here. Any questions?"
"Clear as mud, boss," Billy smiled.
"What about the security guards?"
Ed smiled at David's innocent question. "Dave. This is New Zealand. They don't pay people to guard cheese."
"But what about the milk powder. Isn't that top secret, highly sensitive stuff?"
"It is, which is exactly why Cowood doesn't want to draw attention to it by setting up any kind of special security. Quietly working on it in some run-down old South Island cheese factory keeps it all nicely low-key."
This was getting worse. Tagging along for the ride was one thing; starting fires and destroying property was taking things to a whole new level. David was off the ferry but now he was deep in a forest in a strange country. Escape would have to be put on hold for a while longer
They waited until dusk before silently making their way under the fence and around the perimeter of the field until they reached the far corner where a change in the fence indicated the boundary of the cheese factory. Tom and Bill pulled on the bottom edge of the fence until it lifted, creating enough of a gap for Ed and David to squeeze beneath it. Once on the other side, the pair did the same for the brothers.
They were in the factory grounds, on the neatly cut grass border between the perimeter road and the fence. In front, on the other side of the road, were three single storey brick buildings. They looked old and solid, reminding David of an old hospital or an army camp. The site had the same well-kept, but sparse, air about it. "Looks like a barracks," he whispered to Ed.
"Nearly right. It was built as a military prison in the Second World War. The Government was expecting air raids and seaborne raids in submarines by the Japs. In the end it was never needed. In the fifties and sixties it was a mental hospital and then the land was sold for redevelopment in the late eighties. Dairytree set up their factory using the existing buildings. Until now, the research and development lab has been used to work on the ethanol conversion process."
"Until now?"
"Well, yeah. We need to cover our tracks, and the fact we are going to liberate some of this gamma casein stuff means we'll have to torch the entire site."
"Shame," Chipped in Tom. "Me and Bill worked here for a season or two. There are some good blokes here."
"I wouldn't worry too much," replied Ed. "This place is well insured and, to keep up the cover, Dairytree will have to rebuild. That'll probably keep most of the building contractors in a hundred kilometre radius busy for the next six months, so it's not all bad news. Now let's get to work."
Ed led David to the rear of the main factory building, towards a small concrete lean-to which looked like little more than a tool shed. Meanwhile Tom and Billy quickly disappeared in the opposite direction.
Ignoring the sign, DANGER VOLATILE CHEMICALS, Ed hauled himself up and over the high fence which formed a compound around the small outhouse. Once inside, it only took three steps to reach a heavy looking wooden door. He peered at the handle and two small reinforced windows on either side of it. On the frame next to the door was a swipe card and key pad mechanism. Ed stepped back towards the fence. 'Have you got the card handy?"
David frowned. He didn't have the access card to open this door.
"The bloody credit card you've been carrying for the past few days. Give it to me."
David hesitated. The card would be useless without knowing the PIN number. Ed was stuck behind a ten foot fence like a dog in a kennel. There was no ATM on his side. Why did he want the card?
There was greater urgency in his voice as he asked again "Just pass me the Goddamn card, Dave. What do you think I'm going to do with it?" He had a point. David took the card from his pocket and passed it through the fence to Ed who grabbed it, turned and stepped back to the door.
He watched as Ed, with his back to him, stood close to the door. Suddenly there was a distinct black stripe down its right side which grew wider as Ed pushed the door open.
"Did that card just open that door?" Ed's back had obscured his actions.
"Sure did. I just swiped it and hey presto! Wait there. I won't be a minute." With that, he pushed the door far enough to enter and disappeared inside.
David stood silent, alone, staring through the wire at the closed door. In his mind, he was running back under the fence, straight across the field, under the second fence, and into the driver's seat of the Hilux. He imagined how he could start the engine without the key.
He had no idea how to do that.
Darkness was now closing in quickly, accompanied by a sudden rapid drop in air temperature. He shivered, realising he was only wearing a thin shirt. In the surrounding trees he could hear birds getting ready to roost for the night, an incongruous chatter amidst the starkness of the factory.
From the outbuilding there were also noises -- scratching, followed by heaving and grunting. Finally the door re-opened and Ed emerged carrying a large plastic bucket. "They've got the stuff stored in bloody ten kilo drums!" he complained as he puffed and panted over to the wire. "Somehow we need to get this out of here."
In the distance there was another sound, a muffled 'boof' followed by the sound of glass shattering. David turned to see Tom and Billy half-running, half-staggering, around the corner. The pair stopped, puffing and panting as they reached the fence, clinging to it, their heads bowed, gasping for breath. They were laughing like schoolboys. "Did you see that? Jesus that was close, Bro'."
Tom wiped sweat from his face. Billy explained. "We broke into the kitchen and filled up our jug, the one with the dodgy cable. Then we plugged her in and switched her on. While she was getting hot, we found some old cooking fat and spread that around a bit. Then the jug let out an almighty bloody flash, the fat caught alight and hit the water coming out of the exploding jug, then a window blew out. The whole bloody kitchen just took hold. It must have been so full of grease and dust." He paused, looking up. "Can you fellas smell chips?"
There was a distinct smell of fried food in the air as the stench from the burning canteen reached their nostrils, followed by a curl of black smoke wafting around the corner. Ed took control. "Right, guys, we need to move fast now. We have to get this container over this fence and off the site right now. It's too heavy for me to lift over. Any bright ideas?"
He was right. There was no way he could heave the ten kilo drum over the three metre fence. There was a loud bang, followed by another, then another.
Billy just smiled. "She's going up pretty fast. Better get a move on, Eddie!"
There was another bang, followed by the clang of falling metal, this time much closer. The sense of urgency in Ed's voice as he stood trapped behind the fence grew. The familiar cooking smell was now being overtaken by another familiar but less welcome one - chlorine gas. "C'mon, guys, think! We need to move now!"
He put the drum down and shuffled from one foot to the other, looking at the container, then the fence, then back again. It was clear he had no intention of leaving it behind. The door to the storage area was still open. At the far end, another door led directly into the factory. White smoke was beginning to creep under and around the door. Next to the door, as if by way of explanation, was a sign: FIRE.
David was the first to sense the signs of mild panic in Ed. The smell of chlorine, the white smoke creeping up behind him and the dilemma of what to do was beginning to affect his usual cool and logical demeanour.
It would take too long to explain. David took four paces back, ran, then leapt for the top of the fence and pulled himself over. Now he could look Ed in the face, the wire no longer between them. "Wait here." David took a gulp of clean air and walked into the storeroom.
In the confined space, the strong chemical vapour made his eyes sting. He tried holding his breath. Making his way to the door at the far end, he unclipped the fire hose nozzle from its bracket and ran back outside. Still holding it, he measured out enough hose to go up and over the fence and down the other side. Then, taking the handle of the container, he ran the hose under it, and looped the nozzle back, tying the handle to the hose, with about eight metres of spare hose between the nozzle and the bucket. There was enough slack in the hose and enough weight in the nozzle to allow him to give it a few lasso-style swings before launching it over the fence.
Tom understood David's intention, quickly grabbed the nozzle and began pulling. The drum tipped and scraped along the ground before rising into the air, banging against the fence as it made its way up. It reached the top of the fence but the combination of shape and weight meant it could not be levered over onto the other side.
By now Ed had sensed victory and had recovered. "We need to get up there, Dave, and help her over." They were both straight up the fence on either side of the drum. With their waists balancing over the top for support, they each reached out a hand and pushed it over. Once it had cleared the top, gravity took over and it fell, intact, onto the concrete below.
Ed and David followed, pulling themselves over the fence and landing simultaneously on the other side.
By the time they had regained their composure, Tom and Billy had already untangled the heavy container from the fire hose. Billy lifted it, ignoring the handle and instead clasping his arms around it, holding it close to his massive chest. He was already gasping and puffing his way across the service road and back towards the gap in the fence.
There was a thud behind them and they turned to see the doorway at the back of the storeroom consumed by thick white smoke that billowed through the small room and out into the open air beyond. An invisible, but deadly, combination of gases that had already mixed and been trapped in the main part of the building now spread freely, wafting past their nostrils. Each took an involuntary breath as if their bodies needed confirmation of the imminent danger they were all in.
Ed responded. "Ok, guys, now would be a good time to run. Once the flames reach those chemical containers, they'll be going off like bloody fireworks and I, for one, don't fancy having ten kilos drums of dairy by-products whizzing past my head."
They broke into a steady but determined trot, soon catching up with Billy as he struggled to get himself and the container under the fence. As they started back across the paddock, Billy quickly lagged behind, struggling with the weight of the drum and his own lack of fitness. He tried holding it by the handle, first in his left hand, then in his right, but the weight and consequent pendulum action as he tried to move faster made it catch against his legs, slowing him even further.
Ed ran back to assist. Tom and David stopped to watch. Ed took the container from Billy and lifted it. He called out into the dusk. "You two, wait there. If we each carry it fifty paces or so, we'll gain ground faster and no one's gonna get left behind or have a heart attack."
They began their one-team relay across the gloomy paddock, taking it in turns to carry the ten kilo drum. Small unseen mounds of earth and tussocks of grass that littered the field, now almost invisible in the darkness, made the short journey even more treacherous.
It was Ed who stumbled first, catching his foot on a hard clump of reedy grass and spread-eagling onto the dewy ground. David took the drum as Tom helped Ed back to his feet. He took a few cautious steps, ensuring nothing had been broken, before breaking into a brisk stride and taking the lead towards the far side of the field. By the time they finally reached the truck, all were panting heavily, their combined warm breath clearly visible as a wispy evaporating plume above their heads.
"Right, let's get this in the back of the Hilux and get out of here." Ed heaved the container onto the open tailgate, slid it along the bed of the truck and into the metal box behind the cab. As he made his way around to the driver's door, he pointed past the bonnet to the glowing eastern sky. "She's well alight now."
In the distance they heard the shrill electronic sound of a siren. Ed pressed the button on the side of his watch to illuminate the face. "We might just make the ten-thirty news."
Two months later the official report would explain ....
The fire started as a result of an electrical fault in the staff canteen located at the front of the factory complex, adjacent to the reception and administration areas. It spread quickly through the offices, fuelled by paper and furniture, and then through the roof space to the despatch area which contained packaging material. The intense heat broke through the cladding in the main production area where it further ignited a number of volatile substances used in the cheese making process. The fire blazed through the building before reaching the rear where it completely destroyed the chemical storage compound.
The whole place was beyond saving within twelve minutes.
Ed swung the truck around, back-tracked to the road, turned left and headed into the darkness.
After about thirty minutes, Tom gave a silent left hand gesture to Ed who turned onto a narrow dirt track. The vehicle bumped and twisted until it arrived outside a small unlit cottage. They got out into the cold night air. Tom made his way towards the cottage, fumbling as he went for the correct key amongst the many that jangled in his hand.
Silence, except for the gentle tick of the rapidly cooling engine.
David could hear insects. All around crickets chirruped, making a sound he remembered from watching old cowboy movies as a small child. It was not a sound he had ever heard in rural England and it was unexpected in the remote midwinter New Zealand bush.
He looked up, trying to get his bearings, to make out an horizon in the ink--black sky. A faint line could be the trees a little way off or mountains in the far distance. The one spectacular sight he could not fail to miss, from just above the trees to vertically straight up, were the thousands of stars. Even along the horizon, there were hundreds of them, glistening brightly.
Back in the UK, even out in the countryside, looking towards any horizon at night, there would always be a faint glow, some human habitation not too far away. Man-made light pollution made it impossible to see all but the brightest stars in the sky. But here, at the other end of the earth, looking up on a moonless night into the pristine southern hemisphere sky was like being in deepest space.
He gazed upward as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. It was not dark at all. This immense expanse of sky, from one horizon to the other, was filled with a mass of twinkling suns. A faint wisp of cloud floated across. As he looked away, his peripheral vision focused and he realised the wisp was actually the Milky Way. For a moment he felt as if gravity itself had disappeared and that he was standing on a precipice, about to fall into the void that was so clearly defined all around him. His could see now how ancient sailors had believed the earth to be flat. The idea of falling off the edge suddenly felt very real to him. He rotated on the spot, transfixed by the beauty and sheer number of stars surrounding him.
Two square lights suddenly appeared in front of him. Tom had found the right key, allowing him inside to flick the switch which had jolted David back to reality. "Come on in, Dave, you'll catch your death."
There was a small room, a sofa at one end, a small kitchen area near the front under the window and two doors in the back wall. In the centre of the room a small table stood surrounded by four chairs. The whole room was no bigger than a single garage. Bill was already on his knees, blowing gently into a wood--burning stove. Tom stood at the sink filling an old kettle. "Put the telly on, Eddie. See if we're on." The picture was black and white, grainy, but the words were clear enough.
And in breaking news we are getting reports of a large fire at the Dairytree Cheese factory just south of Picton. Fire crews are at the scene. There are no reports of any injuries although there are concerns about toxic chemicals being ignited and the situation is being monitored in case the nearby settlement of Remerana has to be evacuated. A spokesman for Dairytree has said it is too early to speculate on the cause of the fire.
Ed smiled and sipped his black coffee. "That'll put them back about six months, I reckon, and stir up the local council when they realise the amount of dangerous chemicals being stored at the site."
They sat silently contemplating their hot drinks. Something was niggling David. Ever since they had left Waiheke, everything had gone too smoothly. From the moment they had left the Mushroom Café, Ed had assumed control. He knew what was happening next without any apparent reference to anything or anyone. He knew his way around the cheese factory site and where the casein was stored, and how did he know the card would unlock the storeroom? Billy and Tom had barely spoken to him except to follow his orders, and yet Ed obviously knew them. All these questions were about to come tumbling out when there was a scrunch of gravel. "That'll be Hone."
Slam, scrunch, scrunch, scrunch indicated Hone's impending entrance. Billy and Tom stood to greet him; a warm handshake followed by the hongi, the traditional Maori greeting -- the gentle pressing of nose and forehead against that of the other person. David watched, fascinated by this intimate but very natural exchange.
The three began talking animatedly in their native tongue. David looked on, unable to understand words, yet completely grasping the tone and warmth of the conversation. Their mood turned solemn for a moment and he thought he caught a name. Perhaps the man who had died in London? Hone looked over to where he was sitting. "How's it going, Dave. What's it feel like to be an eco-warrior, man?"
Ed interrupted him. "Where's the bus, man? I didn't hear it."
"Bloody thing wouldn't start once the ferry landed. Had to get it pushed onto the dockside, then get a bloody taxi all the way here. Cost a bloody fortune!" He turned back to his friends and all three made their way to the front door. "Just going for a smoko. We'll leave you fellas in peace eh?"
There was a brief commotion as they decided who had cigarettes and who had matches, then, with a slam of the door, there was silence once more - an uneasy silence.
David was sure Ed sensed he was about to ask him something. He shifted in his chair, suddenly very interested in the pile of old junk mail that one of the brothers had picked up from the mailbox on the way in.
David jumped straight in. "So, Ed, now we have a big drum of this casein stuff, what's the plan?"
Ed stood up and began pacing in his now familiar fashion. "Tomorrow morning we head into Nelson, about two hours drive away. We need to find the EPANZ leader, Patrick O'Sullivan, who's in town for a conference. O'Sullivan is the poster boy for the so--called Green movement in this country but his political ambition has blinded him to the corruption and manipulation that's happening through the financial and ideological pressure that Cowood's putting on him and his fellow party members. It's time for O'Sullivan to be removed from the scene before he gets too close to the throne, so to speak."
"Removed? Meaning what? Kidnapped?"
Ed stared back at David.
"What, you mean killed? Murdered?"
Ed continued. "O'Sullivan is just a puppet. If he ever becomes Prime Minister, or even gets close enough to whoever does, he will do irreparable damage to this country. The only way to stop him is to eliminate him completely."
David stared at Ed in disbelief, shocked into silence. Outside, three men were laughing and coughing their lungs up; inside a man who had devoted his adult life to saving sick animals had just calmly stated his intention to kill someone, coolly talked about murder and, what was worse, apparently trusted David with this revelation as if it was completely normal and acceptable. David gestured towards the door. "Do they know about this?"
"Sure they do, them and a handful of others, mainly politicians or people in, or loyal to, the Government. We need people with influence, people with access and people who love their country." Ed smiled apologetically, "Sorry, that last bit sounded a bit too American. Ironic, really, as it's the yanks who are the cause of all this."
David's mind raced. Exhaustion was beginning to overwhelm him. But before getting a restful few hours sleep, he needed to hear more. "So stop me if I miss anything here, Ed, because I'm having a bit of trouble dealing with all this at eleven o'clock at night. In a nutshell, America intends to take over New Zealand by this economic invasion process, buy up all the land and turn milk and trees into bio-fuel. They can do all this because they persuade the tree huggers that it's a clean and environmentally good way to produce safe fuel, oh, and by the way, here's a few million dollars for the cause."
Ed interrupted, "Which, don't forget, has been actually been donated by sympathetic farmers and landowners who have sold out to Cowood who, in turn, have persuaded the farmers to produce the milk for them. So as far as O'Sullivan and his little green friends can see, it's the farmers, who have always historically been against the environmentalists, who are now backing them for the next government."
"So why did the card open the door?" David threw this in, attempting to catch Ed off guard, realising it came out sounding as important as why did the chicken cross the road? He needed to know as much detail as possible.
Ed's response sounded like he was going to evade the direct question. "I've already explained to you, Dave, on a primary level, the cards are used by Cowood to bring funds into the country. The money is then used to buy land or equipment, and sometimes influence. But there's more to it than that. They are also the means by which we keep track of the Cowood agents already here. It works like this. They plant the card on you at Heathrow and then assign a tracker to watch you from a safe distance. We, in turn, watch the tracker, monitor their movements, and tap their conversations. By doing this we slowly build up a database of faces, individuals who may be working for Cowood, the advance guard, if you like. They are people like you, immigrants, surveyors, architects, draughtsmen, white collar men and women. We call them soft combatants. They are the unwitting forward guard of the invasion. They are invading with ideas, suggestions, lobbying and cajoling, creating an atmosphere in which their ideals and visions can become reality before anyone has the chance to stop and question, or realises their true intentions. So take tonight, for example. We may have been observed, but no attempt would have been made to stop us destroying the Dairytree factory because that would have risked exposing them. They will just have noted our presence and reported back. Cowood management will have had time to compose what would have looked like a hastily prepared press release when TVNZ called them for a reaction."
"So we were being watched the whole time?"
"More than likely. Cowood has been tailing you from that airport roof in London. We managed to keep a tight enough rein on you to stop them getting too near, but allowed them close enough that we can observe them. It's been a bit cat and mouse. Neither side dare do anything too dramatic in case it attracts the police or, worse still, the media. That's the last thing either side wants at this stage. Hone and his bloody logging truck came a bit too close, though."
"But what about the foot and mouth thing on Waiheke. Didn't you say the Government staged that?"
"That was devised as a credible cover story for the press, manipulated all the way from producing the threat letter, instigating the emergency then, in a few days time, the whole thing will conveniently be exposed as a probable hoax. Meanwhile the Ministry get to test the cows legitimately, under the protection of the Bio Security Act, and Cowood has to stand by and watch. Even if they suspected the true nature of the emergency, they dare not kick up, for fear of having to admit to the presence of the gamma casein in the Waiheke herds. By now the Government is likely to have compelling evidence of Gamma Casein production taking place here in New Zealand."
David was not sure he could understand the logic. "So how do you go from pussy-footing around each other, spying on each other, and the Government staging a fake emergency, to blowing up a factory and assassinating the leader of a political party? That's a hell of a leap, Ed. One word springs to mind, starting with 'terror' and ending in 'ists'."
Ed shook his head. If he had trouble persuading one man in one room, how could he expect the rest of the country to believe him? "Don't get me wrong. We've thought long and hard about all this. We can skirt round the issues, bury our heads in the sand for the next couple of years, but in the meantime EPANZ is going to grow in popularity and power, and our voice will become an insignificant minority, if it survives at all. In ten to fifteen years, these two islands will just be a vast production and refining facility. People won't actually live here, just come and do their four week shift or whatever and fly back home to Australia or California." Ed managed a faint smile. "By the way, assassination is a very provocative word. We're not about to assassinate anyone. Let's just say, for now, that Mr O'Sullivan will die a perfectly natural death. Oh, and to answer your question, the card opened the door at the factory by me slipping it between the latch and the door. I already knew the PIN number for the lock, the latch was just a bit stiff and I left my wallet in the truck. So, sorry, no mystery there, I'm afraid. In fact, here, you'd better have it back."
"So what happens tomorrow, then?"
"The EPANZ national conference has just started in one of the big hotels. These places always take on extra staff for big events, so me and one of the guys should be able to get temporary work looking after the coffee drops."
"The what?"
"Coffee drops - you know, when you go to some course or big meeting and they take a break and out comes the coffee and biscuits? Well hopefully it'll be me or one of the guys serving it so we can make sure O'Sullivan gets his coffee nice and milky."
"So you're planning to kill him by spiking his coffee?"
"Exactly. He's a big coffee drinker; at least five a day. We just have to make sure that over the next week he drinks as many of ours as possible. Each time we serve him his favourite cuppa, he'll be consuming an ever-increasing dose of gamma casein. He won't taste it - after all, it's only a milk by-product -- but, depending on his tolerance, it'll rapidly induce the onset of heart disease--like symptoms. Of course, we can't be sure as it's never been properly tested, but I reckon if we can get about three teaspoons of the stuff into him over the next few days, then he should succumb sometime in the following ten-days-to-a-month to a perfectly natural myocardial infarction."
Ed's alarmingly smug expression met David's less than comprehending one.
"Sorry Dave, that was the vet talking for a moment there - a heart attack."
"So you're gonna give the poor guy a milk-induced heart attack?"
'Exactly. Humane, natural and completely untraceable, gamma casein only exists in the lab. It won't show up on any pathologist's toxicology report."
The three smokers burst back through the door, laughing and joking, oblivious to the serious conversation they had interrupted. Ed continued, ignoring their rowdy entrance. "Look, Pat O'Sullivan is the key to all of this. He came here from Ireland in the early eighties to study chemical engineering, a trip paid for by his father who owned a small agrochemical business in Southern Ireland. The old man had done some early research into milk-based fuel, basic garden shed science really. But he was canny enough to sell his discovery to a New Zealand company for a few thousand dollars and some shares in the business which would give him a financial interest in any commercial applications his original research might be put to. When he died, Pat inherited the shares and, seeing he was already in New Zealand, after finishing his degree he joined the business, hoping to develop his father's original process into the environmentally friendly alternative to petrol old man O'Sullivan always thought it would one day become. He started courting the fledging Green movement. That was in the late eighties. He quickly rose through their ranks and became leader within three years. Meanwhile the company the old man had sold his idea to had already been acquired by Cowood some years earlier. They quickly realised the potential benefits of having young Patrick already studying here, ready to inherit his shares in the business once he finished his education. They also knew they could develop and perfect the process quietly down here at the arse end of the world, without anyone else paying too much interest. They got a huge bonus when they realised Patrick was getting heavily involved politically in trying to get the Green movement up and running. So, once he joined the business, which by this time was called Dairytree, he was offered a place on the board - as far as he was concerned, a nod to his father's original research and also to his own environmental credentials. So now, a few years later, we have the Managing Director of Dairytree, by now well aware of Cowood's true intentions, also the leader of what has now become a fully fledged political party which advocates the introduction of full-scale ethanol production and who are on track to win the next election."
"But that can't be ethical, surely? How can O'Sullivan become the next Prime Minister when he has such a substantial interest in an industry that's going to completely change the economic and environmental landscape?"
"Because he is only the party leader, not an elected Member of Parliament, so he isn't bound by the same rules of disclosure or conflict of interest matters. Because of the way they have structured their party, only they will decide which of their MPs will actually be Prime Minister. Meanwhile, O'Sullivan is able to present himself as a part political leader and environmental activist and part ethical businessman, whilst all the while being a heart beat away from actually running the country."
David was surprised at the detailed level of knowledge and network of like-minded sympathisers Ed had seemingly acquired despite the apparent isolation of his years working as a vet on Waiheke Island. "Ed, the thing I don't understand is how you came to get so involved in all this stuff. How do you know so much and why has it got to you to the point where you're prepared to kill for it?"
All the time he had been speaking, Ed had been moving animatedly around the small room, clearly enthused by his subject. Now he stopped pacing, moved back towards the kitchen table and sat opposite David once more.
The Maori trio, noting his change of mood, stopped talking and turned to listen as he sat, his face serious, his hands clasped in front of him. "The first thing that attracted Patrick O'Sullivan to the environmental movement was Anika Tamaki. She was the Chair of their university campus Green movement. They quickly fell in love, moved in together and later got married. Only when Pat's dad died did she find out about his wealthy family back in Ireland and the Dairytree connection. Once Pat got his degree, and consequent inheritance, things started to change. Of course Anika subsequently found out it was because Cowood was on his back, but as far as she was concerned at the time, he was becoming distant, obsessed with his work and, from her point of view, he was just using her, abusing her principles, to gain a foothold into the fledgling Ecology Party for his own business ends. They argued, drifted apart, he ended up having an affair and they finally divorced. I met her about a year later. We got together and, over a fairly short period, the whole story, up to that point at least, came out. That was a few years ago now, and since that time we have both taken a keen interest in Patrick O'Sullivan's business and political dealings, and the result is where we sit tonight."
"So she knows what's going on here?"
"Absolutely, in fact she knows him probably better than anyone. After all, she was married to the guy for five years. She understands what he is capable of, she understands he has to be stopped and she accepts how."
David looked over to where Hone, Tom and Billy stood listening intently, almost devoutly, to Ed. They were nodding in agreement. Ed finished talking and stood signalling it was time to sleep. He had said more than enough for today.
They each made their way to one of the five rough camp beds. David lay down, fully clothed, pulling the cold, damp blankets over his head to keep out the chill night air that has already penetrated the thin wooden walls.
The light went out, plunging the room into a thick, heavy darkness. The wind outside blew gently, scraping overhanging branches against the tin roof. David found himself relaxing, content in the knowledge that Katherine was safer being looked after by Anika than being with him now.
\*
The bed was moving violently.
David sat up, his shoulders aching from the sag of yet another unfamiliar bed. It was Hone shaking the base. "Wake up, man. We're leaving in fifteen minutes." David peered through crusty eyes at his watch. It was nine-thirty. He had slept soundly for ten hours. It felt more like three.
"There's a shower out back, clean towels in the cupboard by the door. Don't be long; we'll eat on the way."
He found the small dirty shower cubicle that had gone unnoticed the night before and worked out the intricacies of getting the right temperature whilst removing the clothes he had slept in. He was determined to spend as long under the steaming hot water as possible, letting it wake and fully refresh him. Instead it suddenly ran icy cold. David yelled out. As if in answer, a voice somewhere in the house yelled back, "Sorry, Bro', had to kill the electric. The generator is just about running on empty and Hone didn't bring some more diesel with him."
The quicker they get this bloody bio-fuel on stream, the better, he thought stopping the freezing torrent and putting the same clothes back on, still warm from wearing them for the past forty-eight hours. He walked into the back room to collect his bag to find all the beds already folded away. The main room at the front looked as if they had never been there.
Ed was standing in the doorway. "Ready then?"
They walked out into mild mid-morning sunshine. The cottage was set in a large clearing amongst pine trees. In any other situation it would have been almost fairytale-like, except for the stripped dead car bodies piled three-high at the rear of the property which itself seemed to have fallen into greater disrepair the further back it went. A corrugated iron lean-to at the rear had leant a bit too far and collapsed in an untidy uninhabitable mess of metal, wood and broken glass in rotting frames.
Last night Ed had said they were heading to Nelson. This was the city David and Katherine had planned to live and work in. It was where all their belongings now sat in a container awaiting collection. David knew exactly what was in the container. Nelson gave him the ideal opportunity to escape.
They were back on a main highway. Other cars, trucks and several tourist buses passed in the opposite direction. For everyone else on the road, it was a perfectly normal Thursday morning. David was on an unfamiliar road in a foreign country, surrounded by terrorists, heading towards a town called Nelson which, according to the green road sign, was eighty kilometres away, and very soon he was expected to help them kill a politician.
Was Patrick O'Sullivan an innocent man? He wasn't sure any more. Ed had certainly tried to persuade him otherwise, but why should he believe an old school friend who was making this whole thing out to be some kind of secretive civil war?
David pondered on the fact he had grown up in a time when his own country had regularly been targeted by terrorists, yet he had never felt threatened or endangered by them. He was not a target - neither a soldier, nor a policeman, nor a politician - just a schoolboy growing up in an age when the only precaution he had to take was not to go shopping in Central London around Christmas. He smiled to himself, remembering the warnings to never go on holiday to Ireland because of the bloody murdering IRA, and yet now recalling that their most spectacularly horrific bombing had actually occurred less than eighty miles from where he had grown up - London, a city he had regularly visited throughout his childhood when the IRA were most active with their bombing campaigns.
The Hilux slowed to a crawl. Despite a four litre engine, it struggled with over a tonne of its own body weight, plus five fully grown adults, as it hauled itself up the steep mountain road. When it could barely move any further, with black smoke belching from its exhaust and all five occupants unconsciously leaning forward as if it would somehow help, it reached the summit.
What followed was ten minutes of the most frightening driving David had ever been subjected to - a steep, downhill, switchback rollercoaster, stomach-churning descent. To the right, a steady stream of slow moving uphill traffic and, to the left, a sheer drop, with no safety barrier, into a thickly forested ravine.
The truck rolled violently at every turn, the combined mass of bodies forcing it to sway from side to side on its chassis. Hone seemed to be deliberately braking late on the sharp downhill left handers, then allowing the heavy truck to coast dangerously fast, its excessive weight assisting the rapid downwards momentum. As they descended, the smell of heated rubber increased to the point where they had to wind down the windows to release the pungent fumes.
Finally they reached the base of the mountain and all four passengers visibly relaxed, looking at each other with barely disguised relief, thankful to have survived a terrifying few minutes. As the road levelled and straightened, Hone did not let up. Exhilarated by his successful descent, he pushed his foot harder to the floor, increasing the speed of the truck until Ed finally gave in and shouted at him to slow down.
David knew all too well the consequences of Hone's driving ability.
Steep forested hillsides gave way to fields, before houses began to dot the landscape. David had started to think the South Island was just a vast landscape of verdant bush and tree covered mountains. Finally here was a proper town, with buildings higher than two storeys and what looked like some kind of civic clock tower.
This was Nelson; the town they intended moving to. Somewhere in the port, the container with all their possessions was safely stored. It felt wrong to be seeing it like this, as a hostage in a truck full of terrorists. This was not the first impression of a new home anyone should have to experience.
"We'll go straight to the house," directed Ed
Hone turned at a roundabout and headed away from the City Centre. David looked back over his shoulder above the buildings. Between them and the sky was an expanse of yet more vibrant green tones. Nelson was bordered by the same mountainous green forests he had been seeing all morning, bearing down on the city like tremendous freeze dried tidal waves.
The air clarity sharpened the contrast between the bright green hills and the pristine blue midday sky. It reminded him of seeing colour TV as a small child, and turning up the colour to maximum. It was as if the over the top of the South Island colour had been turned from 'natural' to 'extreme'.
David recalled the long winter evenings spent planning once they had been offered work. He and Katherine both thought Nelson looked a little isolated on the maps, although it had the amenities and infrastructure they needed to maintain a comfortable lifestyle.
Now he was actually here, he could see a map couldn't possibly convey the vast impenetrable undulating wilderness that lay just beyond the boundaries of the city and continued all the way to Christchurch, over four hundred kilometres further south. A million people on an island the size of England. Now he was beginning to get a sense of what that actually looked like.
The road curved between the sea and an outcrop of sandstone cliffs. Expensive-looking houses perched precariously close to the edge high above. Tasman Bay curved into the distance before appearing again on the western horizon opposite.
On the other side of the bay, snow-capped mountains, jagged blue silhouettes rising from the sea, headed south, forming the skeletal-white backbone of the island. David could see why people risked building million dollar houses in such an earthquake-prone area, for the pleasure of waking up to a view like that each morning. The sunsets must be spectacular;
"Before we get to the house, we need you to see something." Ed nodded to Hone, who turned the Hilux sharply up the steep curving narrow road cut into the sandstone cliff. Again the Ute twisted and turned, climbing higher with each sharp bend, before emerging in a small car park built as a lookout at the very top of the cliff, facing the sea.
At the wooden rail on the cliff's edge. Hone pointed out the Boulder Bank; a thin ribbon of shingle beach that acted as a natural barrier protecting the inner harbour from the open sea beyond. Between the end of the Bank and a small tree-lined Island was a breach in the shingle through which the open sea spilled in from Tasman Bay.
Below them, the rocky shoreline gave way to an expanse of clean yellow sand that stretched for miles into the distance before blurring into yet more trees. A backdrop of increasingly misty hills blurred into the snow-covered mountains crowning the vista.
David always enjoyed sea views. He found it hard to comprehend this fabulous sea and mountain panorama was completely devoid of any obvious commercial encroachment - no hotels, no holiday villas, not a single cruise ship, or indeed any ship, in the bay. The scene reminded him of the Mediterranean, but apart from the road below, and the crane in the port, the only indications of human activity were faint wisps of smoke from agricultural bonfires on the far side of the bay.
"Stunning, isn't it?" commented Ed. "Still takes my breath away every time I stand up here, and you know what? Come back in an hour and it'll look completely different. The tide will have turned and the sun will have moved, changing the whole perspective of those mountains. It's literally a different view every time you look. This is what we are trying to protect, Hone, show him why."
Hone stepped forward, pulling a pair of binoculars from a small brown case and handing them to David. "Ed's right, Bro'. Take a look over there," he said, pointing south along the coast to where the bay began to curve away into the distance; "See that big plume of smoke? Take a closer look."
David scanned the shoreline. He saw half a dozen smoke trails that rose before heading north, driven by the constant southerly breeze.
But whereas the others appeared to rise from inland and had the distinct blue tinge of wood smoke, the one that Hone was directing his gaze to, he could tell, even with the naked eye, was different. Not one trail, but three, and not blue, but white, more like steam than smoke. He put the binoculars to his face and focused on the source of these plumes.
Large steel chimneys surrounded by metal buildings rose from the shoreline amidst this otherwise unspoilt picture of perfect clean green spectacular scenery. What was this bloody great industrial blot doing right in the middle of this pristine landscape? He lowered the binoculars to see the others staring, waiting for his reaction;
"How the hell did they allow something like that in a place like this?"
"It was originally built about twenty years ago. It's been gradually added to over the years as demand has increased. It's used for producing medium density fibre board - MDF. They mince up wood pulp, compress it into sheets and ship it all over the world for making cheap furniture, or for building. Apart from being a huge eyesore, the factory itself is not really a problem - the current operators have done a lot to keep the environmentalists sweet - but we're more worried about the long term plans for the plant. The building's already there, so no debate about that. No need to apply for planning consent. No environmental impact reviews required. The machinery takes in huge quantities of low grade pine and spits out the finished MDF. So the basic infrastructure is in place. Switching production to bio-fuel can be done at a relatively low cost. When the time is right, Cowood will make a few fairly inexpensive modifications to the equipment and, within a few months the plant will re-open and start pumping fuel processed from the wood pulp through feeder pipes out across the bay, joining up with the other pipes coming from the other plants along the coast. Cowood's dream of making New Zealand the world's primary source of bio-fuel is another step closer. We reckon they'll need to build another six or maybe seven similar size processing plants around this bay alone to make it a viable proposition. The pipes running out along the seabed will need to be vented, so there'll be dozens of stacks rising up into the air, climbing about twenty metres. A constant plume of vapour will either drift back towards the city or out into the bay. These stacks will have to be floodlit as a warning to shipping and fishing boats, and they'll probably have some kind of security cordon round them. Imagine that factory times seven; with vertical and horizontal pipe work criss-crossing the ocean floor and most of the surface of the bay lit up like a Christmas tree, out of bounds to leisure craft, commercial and sport fishing. No more kayaking from the National Park on the other side of the bay. Multiply the combined effect of that by fifty similar sites around the country. That's just trees. Don't forget the ethanol production from milk you already know about. That's what we face."
David looked out into the bay, trying to visualize all that Ed had described pasted onto the scene of natural perfection before him. It was all so obviously wrong in such a stunning location. But David was still not convinced it was inevitable, or that it was worth killing in order to stop.
They drove back down. Five minutes later they had pulled into a quiet side street, onto the drive of a badly maintained weatherboard house. Getting out of the truck, David looked along the street. Each house was distinct and different from its neighbour. All except this one appeared freshly painted, with a neat well-kept garden.
David looked across the badly cracked drive, the swathe of green in front of the house a mass of healthy weeds, not grass. The windows were opaque with dirt, wooden frames cracked and rotting. It looked as if bed sheets were being used in place of curtains. The tin roof was dented, rusting and blackened with soot, or possibly mould. As safe houses went, it didn't look very safe, at least from the outside.
Inside was no better. Stepping into the gloom of the hallway, there was an overwhelming smell of damp mingling with decaying food. There were three bedrooms, each with two rough looking beds covered by dirty bed linen, and a lounge area with two ancient armchairs and a flattened ochre carpet that couldn't even be bothered to reach the edges of the room and, in stretching to do so, had managed to tear a number of ragged holes into the fabric through which bare wooden boards could clearly be seen.
A filthy bathroom and a tiny kitchen area, identified as such only by a chipped ceramic sink and food-encrusted cooker, completed the scene of domestic hell.
"You can share with me." Ed directed David to the bedroom at the front of the house. He threw his bag, claiming the cleaner looking of the two beds, and then followed it.
"Think I'll have a nap," he said, looking at his watch and noting it was nearly three in the afternoon.
"Good plan," agreed Ed. "I'll get one of the boys to go and stock up for the next few days. We can get take-away for tea." The bedroom door clicked as Ed shut it behind him.
There were two possibilities for escape. Firstly David could play along for the rest of the evening before creeping out in the dead of night. Then he would have to get past a sleeping Ed, out of the door and away. He intended to head back towards the port, which he estimated was probably a half hour's walk away. Then he would have to wait around until the offices opened in the morning.
The second idea was to go now, or at least as soon as someone went to get supplies. They were bound to take the Hilux. Once his escape was detected, the others would either have to follow him on foot or wait until the car came back. This would give him time to get away. He could get to the port before the offices shut for the day and locate the shipping company who were looking after his container.
David lay perfectly still, listening to the others moving around the house. With the bedroom door shut, voices were muffled. He heard keys jangling. The front door on the other side of the bedroom wall banged shut. There was the clunk of a car door, the chugging of the engine and the nostril-tingling exhaust fumes seeping in through the cracks around the window frame.
David listened intently, trying to guess the sounds the house was making. Two people were moving around. There was a rattle as a door opened, the glass jarring in its frame as the door was unstuck with a forceful tug. Someone had gone into the back garden. There was a hissing sound which turned into splashing. They were taking a shower.
This was his chance. The bathroom sounds were masking all the others the house made. David could not tell when the person who had been in the garden might wander back into the house. Slowly he sat up, aware that for every movement someone made in this house, it appeared to make a corresponding one, generating a creak or a groan.
Collecting his bag, he put his weight on both feet and slowly stood. The longer he took to creep out, the more likely it would be that his escape would be discovered.
It was four carefully placed steps to the bedroom door. He pulled on the handle. For a moment he thought Ed had locked him in. The door was old. A keyhole would have gone right through to the other side. There was no keyhole on his side. There was no lock. He pulled harder. The top of the door moved away from the frame but the bottom quarter was wedged against it.
He took a breath, pulling the door forcefully but continuously, trying to avoid wrenching it. He would close the door behind him so they would still think he was in there, asleep.
He took three steps to the front door, two down the concrete steps then, increasing the pace down the drive, turned right, back down the street.
He had run fifty metres before realising he had left the front door open. This was a heck of a long street. If the car drove back in the next ten minutes he would easily be seen. .
The purposeful run slowed to a puffing jog. He continued on, carefully admiring as many gardens as possible, trying to keep his face turned away from the sight of any oncoming car drivers.
He came to a junction. Ahead of him the busy main road that ran along the base of the cliffs and around into the city centre. He could either take the footpath next to the road or walk down the steps to the beach below and continue, hidden from the road.
Luckily, the tide was out. He left the footpath and made his way down onto the solid tidal sand.
From here it looked as though he could safely walk all the way along to the port. He could see cars on the road above. Any driver looking down would be looking straight into the late afternoon sun and see him only in silhouette.
The beach gave way to jagged slippery rocks and his gentle jogging became two handed clambering. Finally the rocks fell away into gently lapping waves. At this point, even at low tide, the sea came all the way up to the wall beneath the road.
He looked for a path through but there was no way of telling how deep the water would get as the sea wall curved around a gentle bend. A concrete staircase led back up onto the road. There was no other choice. He would have to make his way back up and walk as quickly as he could to the dock gates.
As his head reached the level of the pavement above, his heart sank. By now it was the start of the afternoon rush hour. On the other side of the road, the traffic heading out of the town was creeping slowly home, nose to tail. With their vehicles travelling at walking pace, the drivers had little incentive to concentrate on the road ahead. They were texting, talking, staring out into the bay or watching people walking along the beach.
There was no way he would be able to walk past without being spotted. They could casually step from the Hilux, drag him kicking and shouting back across the road, and bundle him into the back before the car in front had even moved forward.
Two joggers overtook him. David decided to match their pace, staying close enough behind so, from the road, they appeared to be a trio. He kept pace and managed to make up a hundred metres before, without warning, they crossed over and disappeared up the driveway of one of the expensive-looking houses that nestled at the base of the cliff.
Head down, not daring to meet the gaze of any driver coming the other way, the jogging continued, The path curved more sharply now. David knew this meant he was near the port. He could clearly see cranes and shipping containers. Finally, with the sea wall now behind him and the town centre within sight, a sign pointed to the next road on the left, PORT ENTRANCE.
He slowed, catching his breath, hoping to appear casual, not bright red and wheezing, before asking the gate keeper for directions to the shipping company who had handled their container of possessions.
"Third building on the right," he said, looking slightly perplexed as the pedestrian ducked under the barrier that he usually had to raise to allow people through.
David felt the need to apologize having denied him the chance of performing this most important task. "Sorry, just arrived, no car yet."
"How are ya?" enquired the young lady behind the reception desk of Alexander Shipping.
"Um, I'm fine." He hesitated, realising he had no paperwork or means of proving who he was. "My name is David Turner and I think my container may have arrived. Your company is handling it for me. The thing is I need to get into it quite urgently. There are some bits and pieces I need and ... "
Whilst he had been talking, the receptionist had scanned her computer screen. She interrupted him. "Yes, David, your items were landed three days ago. We needed the container for another urgent shipment, so all your stuff has been checked by Customs and it's sitting in our secure warehouse in Tahuna."
"Where?"
"You drive round Rocks Road and the warehouse is just off Parkers Road."
"But I don't have a car. " The thought of retracing the walk that had just taken him half an hour was not appealing and the warehouse would be closed by the time he got there.
"Not a problem, David," she said. "It's on my way home. Just let me call John the warehouse manager to let him know you're on your way and then I can finish up here and drop you off. I'm Debbie, by the way.
David waved appreciative thanks to the mystified-looking gatekeeper. A few minutes ago the guy had no car. Now Debbie from Alexander's was driving him around.
As he made his way along Rocks Road for the third time that day, David carefully explained how they had arrived earlier in the week, flown down from Auckland and were staying in a motel.
"Which one?" Debbie was trying to make polite conversation, little realising that David was making the whole thing up as he went along.
"The one near the airport." He had seen several large passenger planes come in low over the beach whilst making his way to the port and, not having heard a thunderous crash behind him, could only assume they had landed safely. There is always a motel near an airport. So that, he lied, was where they were staying.
"Cool, so are you planning on living in Nelson?"
His mind raced with images of what had happened in the past week - murder, international intrigue, the future of the world's fuel source. All she needed to know at that moment was that, yes, they were planning to buy a house in Nelson.
Debbie's car joined the queue of slow moving traffic. She pointed out Tahuna Beach, the plantation of pine trees half way around the bay and the mountains, silhouetted in grey-blue between the sea and late afternoon sky, the Western Ranges, which in turn joined the Southern Alps as they snaked their way southwards.
"You certainly picked a good spot in the world."
If only you knew.
They pulled into the car park of an industrial warehouse unit. The warehouse manager greeted them and Debbie drove off.
David was taken across the large, cold empty warehouse to a gloomy corner. He could make out packing cases and cardboard boxes of various sizes. There were shapes wrapped in brown paper that were comfortingly familiar. A lampshade, a wheelbarrow and, propped up against a wall, the package he was looking for.
David began pulling at the stiff corrugated cardboard, searching for a loose edge to tear. Even though he knew exactly what to expect, it still felt like Christmas morning.
Finally the last piece of brown tape was carefully removed. His motorbike was unwrapped and gleaming like new, even in the dim half light of the warehouse.
The warehouse manager helpfully checked down the manifest. "Your helmet should be box number thirty four .... there you go." He plucked the box from the top of a pile of similar sized boxes. David bent down and reached beneath the rear mudguard until he found the spare ignition key exactly where he had taped it weeks previously. He put the key in the ignition and turned it to unlock the handlebars, then pushed it off the centre stand and wheeled it away from the rest of his belongings. He stood back admiring it.
"Shame you can't just ride her away."
He was right. In his eagerness to reclaim his independence, David had completely overlooked the fact that in order to ship his bike safely, he had removed the battery and drained every last drop of petrol, oil and brake fluid.
In her present state, she was useless. The warehouse manager must have seen the look of disappointment on his face. "Not to worry, Dave, I'll give Greg at Lightning Bikes a call if you like. They're only just up the road. You can wheel it up there and they can have you back on the road in a day or so."
A day or so was not soon enough. David needed to be able to ride her away now. Escape was not really a viable option if he had to push 160kgs of motorbike around with him.
"Greg says take her over and he'll have a look at her now for you."
David walked the bike to the other side of the warehouse where he opened a large sliding door leading out onto the street. He signed for his bike. The signature matched the one on the original manifest that David had completed himself as the boxes were packed into the container, back in the UK.
"Take a right at the end of the street. Lightning Bikes is about three hundred metres down. Greg's expecting you.'
As he walked his machine towards the line of perfectly parked motorbikes, another problem dawned on him. David had ridden this bike overseas many times before - in France, Belgium and Germany. But here, in New Zealand, he could not ride on his British plates. They would be plainly obvious and eventually he was likely to be stopped by the police. As he had permanently imported the bike, he would have to register it. That would involve getting a new set of plates. It could take days. His carefully considered plan to regain his freedom was looking worse by the minute.
By the time he reached the bike shop, Greg, a short rotund, bald Englishman, was already waiting to greet him. As he rested the bike on its stand and offered his hand, another plan had just about formulated in David's head.
There were two things about Greg that helped to crystallise plan C. He was obviously a passionate biker, and the Union Jack above the shop doorway, together with the Triumph dealership sign, indicated their shared heritage.
David explained he had collected the bike straight from the warehouse as soon as he had arrived in Nelson and he needed it urgently. His wife was still in the North Island with the ownership papers. Greg gave the bike a cursory check over. "Well, she's certainly survived the trip alright. Nice bike. Don't see many of these over here. If you ever want to sell her, let me know. Give us a call in three days and she'll be good as new. I'll get a WOF done as well."
"A what?"
"Warrant of fitness, like the MOT back home, shows she's safe and roadworthy."
David feigned his best startled look, He was familiar with the warrant, having checked all the red tape before even considering bringing his beloved Triumph with him, but he had to fake complete ignorance if the plan was to work. "Any chance you can lend me a bike? Sorry, I didn't realise I needed to do all this and, to be honest, I completely forgot the bike wouldn't just be ready to ride away straight out of the container. The thing is I promised my wife I would sort out some sort of accommodation by the time she arrives tomorrow, so I need a set of wheels to get around. No point hiring a car when there's a perfectly good 650 straining at the leash."
David had successfully pushed all the right buttons. There was no hesitation from Greg in agreeing to lend him a late model Suzuki for three days.
David signed the paperwork and Greg directed him to the nearest filling station. He sped away, exhilarated. On a New Zealand registered bike, the helmet and borrowed leather jacket completing the cloak of invisibility, for now, he was free.
\*
The official website of the New Zealand Security Intelligence Service states:
Established in 1956. Prior to that, national security was taken care of by a branch of the police, except for a brief period during the Second World War.
During the period 1939 to 1945 the British Government took a lead from their American Allies. It's now widely known the United States recruited native speaking Indians into special units within the army and navy, using their language and tracking skills to run covert operations within both Europe and the Pacific regions.
At that time there had been very little study into these unique and obscure dialects, and the American Indian soldiers were able to freely transmit important intelligence about enemy movements and send coded messages from the battlefront back to their commanders, simply by speaking to each other in their own language, using their field radios.
The British searched their dwindling Empire for subjects with similar skills and soon realised they enjoyed the loyalty of the native New Zealand Maori people. They too possessed a fierce warrior spirit, legendary tracking skills and a spoken language largely incomprehensible to the rest of the world, and in particular the axis powers of the northern hemisphere.
The skills of the American Indians were used in the South Pacific islands, geographically New Zealand's closest neighbours. Here Japanese commandos were known to be landing by submarine in order to gain intelligence necessary for any potential invasion which may be launched against Australia or New Zealand.
Suitable Maori soldiers were recommended by their commanding officers, to join the elite Z Force. Nowadays this sounds more like a creation of Marvel Comics. In reality It was a joint British, New Zealand and Australian commando force which carried out over 280 covert operations in the South Pacific theatre during World War Two.
When the war ended, the Intelligence Service was once again absorbed back into the New Zealand Police. An exclusive unit of fifteen Maori marines, highly trained, highly motivated and a valuable asset, were retained as a solely Kiwi version of Z Force; a secret unit, within the Army.
When the NZSIS was established in 1956 Z Force changed its name to Te Kowhiti Matauranga Tuke, roughly translated as special knowledge service, or KMT Division. The use of the Maori language was unusual in the white 1950s New Zealand, but reflective of the strong tradition which had already built up in the Division.
To this day, the KMT has only ever operated with a maximum of fifteen personnel at any one time, recruiting its elite membership, by discrete invitation only. Their skills are exploited in covert operations around the world and their cultural knowledge and appearance helps them blend in, when required, on their home soil. Since 1945, the KMT have been involved in operations in both the Korean and Vietnam wars, as well as back home, most notably during the now infamous Springbok tour in 1981.
This tour by an all white South African rugby team took place at a time when apartheid was still an integral part of South African society, yet reviled by the majority in the western world. Despite international condemnation, New Zealand allowed the whites-only team to tour the country, sparking a fury of protest never before seen in this small pacifist island nation and catching the Government of the time off guard, badly misjudging the mood of its people, misinterpreting tolerance for acquiescence.
During the tour, the KMT had one of their own in the New Zealand All Blacks rugby squad, acting as a clandestine liaison between the hapless players and the security forces trying to protect them.
The KMT takes great pride in the fact that their small elite division number just fifteen, coincidentally the same number as in a rugby team, the beloved national game of New Zealand.
The Acronym KMT is recognised in Egyptology as the shortened version of 'kmet' the name the ancient Egyptians gave to Egypt. Literally translated it means 'Black Earth' or 'Black Land'.
As much as they love their country, and their rugby, the KMT take quiet satisfaction in this happy linguistic coincidence. They consider themselves to be the true All Blacks, protectors of all the people of New Zealand/Aotearoa, whether Maori or white 'pakeha', and the soil beneath their feet.
\*
Captain Brent Piri joined the New Zealand Army straight from Auckland Boys College where he captained the first fifteen rugby team and excelled academically.
His forebears had fought against the first European settlers in the so-called musket wars. His great-grandfather, Maui Piri, had been part of the Maori Pioneer Battalion Force and fought at Gallipoli in World War One. The Maori fighting spirit was in his blood. He was proud of his heritage and fiercely patriotic. Brent's superiors had recognised the young soldier's mana tangata, his leadership skills, early on and knew that, given the right nurturing, he would have a future in the KMT.
So he was more than a little surprised some years later when his first overseas assignment as a Captain found him in the northern hemisphere summer of 2002, a stinking mop in his hand, cleaning the restrooms in Terminal Four at Heathrow Airport.
The briefing at Waiouru Army Camp had been concise. Fly to London; make your way to the safe flat in Earls Court, then liaise with the contact in the personnel department of Airclean Services. They would provide work for two cleaners at Heathrow. He would be given a file of photographs. The aim would be to confirm the identity of each of the targets as they moved through the Terminal.
This seemed an impossible task, given the tens of thousands of people who passed through the Terminal each day, although he did have assistance from an unlikely, but officially sanctioned, source.
During the summer of 2002, the production crew from the film Love Actually had been given permission to install high quality video cameras in the arrival and departure halls at Terminal Four. The intention was to capture the emotional greetings and farewells of unsuspecting members of the public and to use some of the best footage under the end credits of the film.
To avoid too much disruption and cabling, six cameras had been set up, each beaming images to a hard drive recorder installed in the boot of a car parked nearby. At the end of each day, a member of the film crew would plug a laptop into the recorder and transfer the raw data which would eventually be edited down into the final four minute sequence.
An NZSIS officer on duty at the Air New Zealand checkin desk had noted the installation of these cameras, as had a number of other agents whose cover was the uniform of their own respective national airline. They all had the same concern; that their country's agents, entering or leaving the country, could potentially find themselves unwitting extras in a major movie production.
Back at Waiouru, Piri's commanding officer scanned his copy of the weekly intelligence report from London and realised that, with some assistance from Tech Ops, they could probably tap into the wireless feed from the film company's cameras, giving them not only the eyes of Piri and, on the opposite eight hour shift, his compatriot, Maaka, but also pictures from the cameras positioned in the departure lounge.
The day after the cameras had been installed, a Tech Ops officer from the New Zealand Embassy spent fifteen minutes sitting in the departure lounge coffee shop, sipping cappuccino and working on his laptop, hacking into the wireless camera feeds and uplinking them via a microwave transmitter placed inside one of the Air New Zealand checkin computers, back to the Embassy, in Central London. Here, the footage was fed through new facial recognition software developed by a team at Dunedin University and lent to the New Zealand Immigration Department for evaluation.
A face passed in front of the camera. The image was sent from Terminal Four to the Embassy, and then through the software, which checked the facial image matching it to any known targets already held in its database. The image, the target's name and GPS position were then sent straight back to the airport by text message, to be received by the phone in Brent's or Maaka's pocket. This was supposed to take no more then fifteen seconds
By the time the phone beeped, the target had usually walked no more than twenty metres past the camera. The message indicated which camera had taken the shot and the direction in which the target was walking.
Both officers had practised using unsuspecting members of the public. Over several weeks they had managed to perfect the 'eyeball' within a minute of the person passing any one of the three cameras. Once actual visual contact was made, their job was to confirm the target's intended airline, flight and departure gate.
Both agents had been working at the airport for eight days. The modified phone which they shared for eight hours at a time had not beeped once, except during practice runs. When they finally got a 'live' message, they expected to find themselves following a target to the departure gates of one of the three airlines that flew into New Zealand from London.
Neither officer knew why they had to identify particular targets. They had only discussed why KMT officers had been given such a mundane surveillance task. After a few days cleaning restrooms and emptying rubbish bins, the conclusion was, having noted the other employees of Airclean Services, they simply had the right skin colour for the job.
The New Zealand Immigration Service was concerned. In the weeks immediately following the events of 11 September 2001, their website was getting fifteen thousand hits a day. This in itself was not surprising, given the country's staunch anti-nuclear policy and overt pacifist stance. People simply saw it as a potential safe haven in a time of world crisis.
Within six months, the torrent of website hits was beginning to translate into a steady stream of applications for residency visas. The High Commission in London alone was receiving seven hundred applications per week. The interest in New Zealand as a preferred emigration destination was further heightened by the release of the first in a trilogy of movies based on Tolkein's 'Lord of the Rings', in December 2001, just three months after 9/11. The film, shot entirely on location in New Zealand, had grossed forty seven million dollars in its opening weekend in the US alone, and had served as a three hour travelogue, showing the stunning and varied scenery of both islands on a scale never before appreciated by such a huge worldwide audience.
The Immigration department was caught on the back foot by so much sudden serious interest in the country and simply did not have the capacity to deal with the flood of residency applications. They sought assistance. Victoria University's Sociology Department agreed to work with the Census Office, filtering out applicants at an early stage who were unlikely to be granted residency. They did this by compiling a profile of the 'ideal' New Zealander using link analysis software being developed by the Department as a result of their research into social network analysis theories.
The first set of results, based on data from their London Embassy and presented a month later, was unexpected and startling.
According to the statistics, eighty-five percent of the UK applicants between September 2001 and January 2002 lived within a seventy five mile radius of the capital city, not a surprising statistic in itself, given that London has the largest population of any city in the United Kingdom. From the fifteen hundred applications processed, nine hundred and forty-five came from two very specific areas. In twelve cases they found multiple applications from the same street. It was as if a significant proportion of the applicants knew each other, almost as if the decision to emigrate to New Zealand had become a word of mouth phenomenon.
The statisticians were unable to explain this first set of results. The next detail, however, was more sinister, particularly given the heightened state of paranoia brought about by the events of the previous September. Seventy-three per cent of the applicants who had applied, from the sample of fifteen hundred, had paid their application fee either using a credit card issued by a relatively obscure bank, not one of the popular 'big five' UK banks.
A large proportion of the applicants had downloaded the application paperwork from the official Immigration website. These people were internet savvy. The Government decided to interrogate the internet usage of a cross section of the fifteen hundred.
As expected, many had looked at websites to do with job vacancies, schooling and real estate - nothing untoward on the face of it. A wider search also revealed extensive interests in Lord of the Rings websites, regular visits to current news sites, and multiple hits on sites relating to the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center.
Email accounts were also hacked. Many of the applicants had been sent unsolicited mail in the previous twelve months with headings such as 'Thinking of emigrating?', 'Is your lifestyle getting you down?', 'Thinking of switching banks?' The contents were designed primarily to unsettle, to make people question, to sow seeds of doubt.
To the analysts, these clues were subtle but they were there. More disturbing was the fact that these emails had begun in December 2000, gradually increasing throughout the year before stopping abruptly in January 2002. The filtering software that was supposed to make the job of the Immigration Department easier, had thrown up a number of unexpected, inexplicable, but potentially linked results.
The Prime Minister convened a meeting of the Cabinet. The Immigration Minister presented the information. "We've been able to track back and these emails have all originated from one source - a computer server in California, probably Los Angeles, and possibly within a university complex. Furthermore, the bank which all these people have used to pay for their applications, although called The Associated Bank of Monaco in the UK, is actually a US institution, based out of Baltimore. Since this data was analysed, we've also run the program against a batch of emigration applications received via our German, South African and US embassies, and the results are similar enough to give cause for concern. The content of the emails is virtually identical, and the bank, although using a different name in South Africa and America, is actually the same corporate business. We've also conducted more research using our sources working in the postal services of each of these countries. They've confirmed this bank has been sending out a significant quantity of targeted mail shots over the last year."
The Prime Minister interjected. "Why would someone, or some organization, apart from us that is, spend so much time, effort and money persuading people to move here? We have our own publicity through Tourism New Zealand. The 100% Pure campaign has been running successfully since 1999."
"That's fine for the tourists, but we're talking about people actually wanting to come and live here permanently."
The Deputy Prime Minister spoke. "Look, are we saying we actually have an issue here? After all, at the end of the day, The Immigration Department has the final say as to who comes to live here."
"That's exactly the point," replied the Prime Minister, "We think we're having the final say. But what if the applicants have largely been pre-determined beforehand, surely then someone is making that decision for us? The data seems to speak for itself; someone or some group is clearly targeting a preferred group, for whatever reason, to move here."
The Immigration Minister took her turn. "To a certain extent, Prime Minister, we already do that ourselves. The points system is a rigorous process designed to ensure that we accept people who are suitable educationally, financially and morally - people who are prepared to contribute to our multi-cultural society."
The Prime Minister continued, "But these targeted applicants already probably fulfil those criteria. They are being attracted here for another purpose. I don't know if it's political, social or what, but I think we do need to start some kind of random monitoring of some of these people, once we have accepted their applications and they are in the country. I want to know what happens once they get here. In fact I think it would be prudent to monitor them before they get here. I would suggest we get the NZSIS onto it straightaway."
Merely confirming arrival in Auckland would not allow surveillance during transit. The monitoring of incoming emigrants would begin at Heathrow.
Maaka's phone beeped as he made his way across the concourse, slowly pushing his cleaner's trolley. Instantly he changed direction, moving towards camera number one, before the mobile phone was even in the palm of his hand.
Finally, an opportunity to put into practice the endless training exercises. He gazed firmly ahead, pushing the keys, unconsciously counting the strokes until he knew he would be able to glance down at the screen, and see the information he needed.
His hunch was correct. The data had come from camera one; a clear profile shot of a male target, good enough for the software to have made a positive ID. He was heading north, away from the main departure area.
Maaka stood beneath the camera, aimlessly wiping the rubbish bin in front of him, scanning the immediate vicinity for the blue jacketed male with brown hair.
There were thirty-four people in his field of vision; discounting females and children, twenty-three; eliminating men not wearing jackets; fifteen; ignoring men wearing glasses; nine. Now where the hell was he?
There was no means of escape except for two doors marked Airport Personnel Only. They had digital security locks. If the target had somehow doubled back, he would have to have gone past the camera again, triggering another message on Maaka's phone.
He looked for an exit route he might have missed. An illuminated blue sign - Restrooms - caught his attention. A false panel obscured the entrances to both the male and female toilets. It had to be the only reasonable explanation why he could not see him.
The target was oblivious. Maaka would simply wait for him to re-emerge, trail him at a comfortable distance to his final departure gate, and then make his report when his shift finished. He moved towards the next trash can, outside the entrance to the restrooms, instinctively manoeuvring through the crowd, all the time not taking his eyes away from the restroom's entrance.
Then something happened that confused him. Emerging from behind the partition, three men were staggering and laughing, obviously quite drunk. Or were they? Their arms were draped over each others' shoulders. All three wore baseball caps and sunglasses. The two on the outside talking animatedly, but the guy in the middle appeared subdued, not reacting at all to his companions. They were definitely holding him up. His feet were dragging limply across the ground and they were trying to disguise the fact that they were supporting his whole body weight.
The hat and glasses had been added so the man in the middle blended in with the other two, and to disguise the fact that he may not have been fully conscious. Maaka slipped the cleaning cloth into his pocket and felt for the phone, pushing seven digits in sequence.
Inside the Embassy, the string of digits initiated an icon on a screen, showing Maaka's exact location in the terminal. The phone began recording voices through the rustle of his clothing, relaying the sounds around him. A small marker moved slowly across the screen as he made his way, not towards the departure gate as he had expected, but in the opposite direction.
Maaka barely heard the phone announce another text as the trio made their way back past camera one. The disguise had not fooled the software that recognised the target's distinctive blue jacket it had digitally noted only a few minutes before.
He had to get closer. They were heading for the car park. Six levels held over eight thousand cars when full. This looked like abduction. He would need to get the details of a getaway car.
Maaka followed, keeping members of the public between them and him. If they stopped or turned round for any reason, the configuration of the people between them meant he would not be in their direct line of vision. They would not realise they were being so closely followed.
On the ground floor of the car park, they turned a corner and were momentarily out of sight. Would they continue or get in one of the cars parked just the other side of the elevator shaft, and be gone before he rounded the corner? Maaka ran.
They were standing right in front of him, looking up, waiting for the lift to arrive; the target a lifeless body held between them. Maaka looked down, avoiding eye contact and pressed the button. The pair struggled in with their sleeping victim. Maaka followed. One pressed the button for the sixth floor and the doors closed.
Now they made no attempt at their pretence of drunkenness. In the close confines of the lift, all four stood silent, three pairs of eyes watching the lights above the door as the lift ascended.
Maaka was desperately exposed in such close proximity to the target and his captors. They were likely to be tense, alert, their senses acutely attuned. He had to distract them. He felt his shoulders slouch, his back stoop as he nodded a vague greeting, conscious of the Airclean uniform and photo ID clipped to his breast pocket. "Long shift today, eh, boss? Glad to get home to me bed." He had no trouble adopting the lazy Kiwi twang and manner of someone who had left a rural Northland school at fifteen and followed a janitorial career ever since.
The words shattered the stuffy silence. He peered through dark lenses for any reaction. In return, two slow head turns snapped back again as the lift doors opened and the cool night air flooded in. "After you's, fellas."
They turned right, dragging the third man between them. Maaka walked straight ahead to the line of cars. He turned lowering his head, pretending to open the car door. Hunched, peering over the tops of the vehicles, he watched as they dragged his unconscious target towards a row of cars at the far end of the car park.
Finally out of earshot, he could use the recording device he had activated a few minutes earlier. "Terminal Four long-stay car park, sixth floor, two suspects and immobile target moving towards the northern end of the building. Moving in for a closer look."
Maaka crept towards the front of the car and down the line, checking as he went for the position of the three men ahead. Just a few more cars and he could stop and take photos to send back to the embassy.
They were rifling through their compliant victim's pockets. Had he over-reacted? Was this just the coincidental robbery of one of his targets, simply a crude mugging? He crept closer still, ready to raise his camera phone above the roof line of the car, to get some clear pictures.
He crouched, slightly off balance. A car door clicked. Paintwork flashed towards his face, the window reflecting the strong yellow lights above, momentarily blinding him. Pushed hard against the front wheel of the car behind him, he looked up.
A blue fog of cigarette smoke swirling around the silhouetted head above him reached his nostrils a moment later. At the front of the car, another outline blocked his escape.
The crunching punch to his face forced the mobile phone from his hand, smashing it onto the ground. The signal terminated, triggering an automatic response inside the computer which had been receiving and recording the audiovisual information. The message was read by the duty officer in Wellington a minute later as he returned from his morning tea break.
The error message related to monitoring device UK35. He phoned the night watchman in London who checked his screens, confirming the sudden signal termination.
He scrolled the recording back two minutes. Even at ten-thirty in the evening, Heathrow was a noisy place and there was a lot of background noise. Vehicles and air traffic made it hard to distinguish what was happening in the immediate vicinity of the microphone.
Heavy breathing, the click of a car door, a thud and a cry of pain. Then silence. The night watchman clicked on the images folder, enlarging and enhancing the most recent file. A blurred figure, silhouetted against a bright yellow light. It looked like it could spell trouble. The previous image, sent ten seconds earlier, showed two back-lit figures looking out over a low wall into the brightness beyond.
Maaka's head smashed against the protruding edge of the wheel arch for the third time, He could barely focus. Caught completely off-guard, he was now in the worst possible position. Two large men loomed over him as he crouched, shocked and in pain on the cold concrete between two parked cars. "The bastard took the bait."
It was a London accent. Even in such a perilous position, training kept his brain alert, analysing, considering his options.
"Fucking idiot. As if a cleaner would park in the long stay car park."
Pulled out from between the cars, Maaka felt the momentary relief of a cooling breeze against the throbbing pain below his eyes. Dragged face down along the hard concrete, he tried to regain his balance and fight back.
Hands gripping his shoulders tightly on either side let go. He slumped to the ground, his nose taking the full impact. He lay still, breathing deeply, desperately trying to overcome the pain. Then the kicking started.
\*
Brent Piri had finished his shift five hours earlier and been watching the late evening news when his personal phone rang. He had already pressed answer before the second ring. The message was short and to the point:
"The mission has been compromised. We have a man down. Report as cabin crew on flight NZ200 departing Heathrow for Los Angeles 00.30 hours."
Brent knew this meant only one thing - urgent and immediate evacuation.
Maaka's contorted face was an horrific bloody mess. Swollen eyelids were split as cleanly as a defeated boxer's. He could barely distinguish light from dark through them. His head pulsated with the searing pain from the multiple kicks. His ran his tongue around his gums. Jagged edges where moments earlier there had been teeth. Fragmented shards floated around his blood-filled mouth.
He felt himself being dragged to his feet, arms held tightly behind his back, unable to defend himself against the sudden painful intrusion as he struck a solid object in front of him. The air felt different, a stiffer, cooler breeze. The beating had been so severe he could no longer stand. His face, already swollen and with so many teeth shattered in his bloodied oozing mouth, couldn't even contort into a scream. He tried. Hot blood dribbled down his chin and his throat. He started to choke.
Now he was being lifted up, the breeze on his face cooling the terrible wounds momentarily. He realised the truth too late. He was on a thin ledge. His knees had no hope of balancing. With his eyes beaten closed, he had no reference point. As he lost his centre of gravity and fell forward, he braced for the impact. Only the sudden rush of air allowed him to sense the distance in his final seconds. As he flailed, desperately reaching out to protect himself from the inevitable, unable to see the rapidly approaching ground, he thought of his parents, his brothers and sisters, and revenge.
Brent grabbed his passport, phone and wallet, the small empty travel case from under the bed, shut the apartment door, and hailed a cab to the airport before Maaka had hit the ground. The rest of their belongings would find their way home in a diplomatic bag.
The cab was on the M4 motorway, heading west, when Brent's phone rang again. From twelve thousand miles away, the familiar voice needed no introduction. "Brent, g'day. Did you get the message? Where are you now?"
"I'm in a taxi, sir, heading to Heathrow to get the late flight to LA. What's the story with Mak?"
"Doesn't look good. London is monitoring the emergency frequencies for us. It sounds like some kind of incident on the roof of one of the airport car parks. The report is one casualty at the moment."
Brent sensed Commander Dalton was down-playing the situation. The fact an emergency evac had been ordered meant that Mak's situation was likely to be more serious than just 'casualty'. "Mak, managed to confirm details of a target. London has cross-referenced the wireless cam snap with recent residency application photos, and checked these against names on the airlines' booking systems. The target and his partner are flying east, via Singapore, en route to Auckland. Lucky for us they have a twenty-four hour stopover booked, which means as you'll be flying west, virtually non-stop, you'll be back ahead of them. Make sure you get some rest on the plane. I'll speak to you again when you land here."
The cab dropped Brent outside Terminal Four. At the Air New Zealand checkin desk, a solitary employee checked details on a computer screen as Brent approached. He had received a call from the Embassy at 10.50pm asking him to keep the desk open and delay the flight. A recognised code word signalled an urgent diplomatic passenger on the way, Brent's emailed passport photo the only proof needed to identify who now approached the desk.
Brent knew the drill, offering his passport for the benefit of the airport security camera fixed to the wall over the clerk's shoulder. "You have a reservation for me?"
"Yes sir. Please place your hand luggage on the weighing scales."
Brent lifted the empty bag onto the scales. The clerk, positioning himself between the camera and the scales, lifted Brent's empty bag off and replaced it with an identical one. He smiled and winked at Brent. He knew he was likely to be an agent of the New Zealand Government and couldn't resist a moment of kinship. "There ya go, Bro', plane's waiting for ya. Have a good trip."
Brent kept his composure - "Thanks." - before lifting the heavier bag and walking away .
"Sir!"
Brent froze as the voice echoed through the empty checkin area. Shit! This guy is determined to blow me, he thought.
"The plane's holding on the gate for you. The Captain has requested your urgent embarkation. He needs to make his twelve thirty slot."
Brent waved his free hand and continued. He knew pilots disliked it when NZSIS, or in this case, the KMP effectively commandeered a commercial flight. They had to make up excuses for cabin crew and the passengers. Poor service made the captain and the airline look bad.
In the deserted restroom, Brent unzipped the bag and changed into the Air New Zealand co-pilot uniform which had been neatly folded in the case, together with perfectly fitting black shoes. The bags were kept in a large crate airside, marked Diplomatic Luggage and protected from scrutiny. Agents on active service had a tailored set of clothing complete with ID tag in a small case in the crate.
The immaculately dressed Maori airline pilot pulled the small case with the official New Zealand Diplomatic Seal past the few remaining passengers and was waved through.
Airport Security staff were aware of the status of people like Brent. The disguise was for the benefit of the agents from non-friendly countries who kept a close watch on all departures. Brent walked swiftly past deserted duty free shops towards the departure gate. As he stepped aboard the Boeing 747-400, he was greeted by the chief purser. "Kia Ora, good evening, sir. Good to have you aboard. Please follow me."
He was home already.
Senior cabin personnel never asked questions, never presumed the reasons why these men and women in company uniforms always boarded last. But the instructions were clear - escort them to the upper deck, then to the back of the aircraft and into the galley area. There must be minimal contact with passengers and other flight crew. A small maintenance panel adjacent to the galley allowed the VIP passenger access into the rear bulkhead of the upper deck and then into a small, self-contained module secreted behind.
The small compartment was illuminated by the dim red haze of a single emergency light. He was inside a Jumbo Trunk, the nickname for this tiny self-contained cabin.
There was a Jumbo Trunk located in at least one 747 in each of the fleets operated by the majority of the airlines of the western world. He had spent half a day during his KMP training in a hangar at Auckland International, familiarising himself with the layout and facilities of the Trunk.
He instinctively put out his hand and pulled on the auxiliary power switch. A small generator in the belly of the aircraft jolted into life, and the red glow flashed into a stark white light as three small fluorescent tubes spluttered into life. More electrical devices powered up - the timer on the wall-mounted microwave oven began to flash green, the coffee machine heated up, and a gentle hiss indicated the water heater in the tiny shower cubicle at the far end of the small cabin had started up.
A gentle zephyr of fresh air was the only indication the independent pressurization system had also been activated. Connections to the main electrical systems of the aircraft were for safety reasons only. Transmissions from the cockpit to the passengers were relayed into the Trunk as was the signal illuminating the seatbelt sign.
The Jumbo Trunk had been designed into the 747-400 at the request of the American Government who funded the construction and installation. Whenever an airline from a country friendly to the United States expressed an interest in purchasing its first 747-400, the manufacturer had to apply for an export licence. This would prompt the Government to contact the authorities in the purchasing country about the possibility of a 'free' upgrade of one plane, with the addition of this special secure compartment.
The majority of foreign governments understood the potential benefits of being able to transport people around the world covertly using commercial aircraft. Some had subsequently adapted the trunks to little more than onboard cells for bringing back escaped criminals who previously had considered themselves safe overseas.
The Americans were also adapting this use of the trunk, enabling them to move al-Qa'eda suspects across international borders, and via United States international entry points, to a new facility at Guantanamo Bay, without the knowledge of, or risk to, the flying public, safely seated only a few metres away .
Air New Zealand had one Jumbo Trunk in its fleet. The Americans thought it prudent to have one installed on an aircraft that regularly flew the Hong Kong-Auckland-Los Angeles route.
As the plane bumped across the apron, Brent made himself comfortable for take-off in the business-class leather seat located in the back right corner of the trunk. Fastening his seatbelt, he tuned into the large flat panel screen on the bulkhead in front of him. This was the other piece of electrical equipment patched into the main services of the plane - the onboard entertainment system.
Ensconced in this small sound-proofed windowless box at the back of the aircraft, Brent could only sense the aircraft's readiness for take-off by its motion across the ground and the almost imperceptible drone from the four Rolls Royce RB211 engines. Another slight jolt, then, even through the sound-proofing, the engines' rumble began to vibrate through the fuselage. He felt the rapid forward motion pushing him back into his seat. There was a loose metallic rattling as the coffee machine, designed to stand motionless in a domestic kitchen, hurtled across the ground at 250 kilometres an hour towards London's orbital motorway.
His seat inclined gently back as the plane rose into the summer night sky. By the time it had finished a spiralling ascent to cruising altitude, he was already snoring.
Turbulence over Northern Canada, according to the bulkhead screen, woke him six hours later. Unclasping the seatbelt, he leant forward, pushing a small bi-fold door. A light came on, revealing a tiny lightweight plastic cubicle - his personal toilet and shower unit. This would be useful in about eighteen hour's time on the final approach to Auckland. In the meantime, he made a strong coffee, attempted some stretching exercises, and stood to watch a movie.
As the flight neared Los Angeles, he tuned the arm rest console to the same frequency used in the cockpit, another feature not available to the public, and listened as the pilot guided the plane into LAX.
Brent had to sit tight for the three hour stopover, enjoying the temporary lack of motion as he sat still in his box. He had to also minimise his own movement during this time as the ground crew moved around the aircraft and baggage handlers entered the hold, moving and adjusting the cargo. He knew at some point a Federal Agent would step on board with a sniffer dog. He knew the Trunk was sealed, his odour vented down and forward into the main passenger area, away from the spaniel's sensitive nose.
A fresh crew came on board and the new purser was briefed on the special cargo at the back of the plane. Soon NZ200 was in the sky once more, heading south-west, cruising above the Pacific Ocean at nine hundred kilometres an hour.
Brent showered and put on the uniform he had discarded shortly after sealing himself into the Trunk, before fastening his seatbelt once more for the descent into Auckland International.
As the plane reached the gate, he listened as the engine note wound down to silence. The captain instructed the cabin crew to disarm the doors. This was his cue to return through the hatch which the purser had already unlocked..
Cabin crew who knew something was going on were always amazed at how these people seemed to emerge apparently refreshed and unruffled from their enforced stowage somewhere deep inside the aircraft. They had no idea of the facilities and comparative comfort in which these VIPs travelled.
As Brent made his way along the deserted aisle, down the stairway from first class, and through the door, the other passengers were already in Arrivals waiting for their luggage.
He pushed open the thin plastic door to the left of the aircraft exit door. The rush of cool, kerosene-laden air invigorated him. At the base of the ladder, a yellow airport Landrover waited to speed him across to the far side of the main runway. Away from public gaze, an army helicopter was waiting to transport him south on the forty minute flight to Waiouru Army Base.
Commander Dalton greeted him with a salute and as warm a hongi as his superior rank would allow. "Kia Ora, welcome home, Piri. Bad news about Captain Tehane, I'm afraid. We're working on getting the body back to his family as quickly as possible. You'll want to attend his Tangi, I take it?"
This was the confirmation he had been expecting, but dreading to hear, for over twenty-four hours.
Brent took a deep breath and turned to survey the horizon. An Army Iroquois helicopter floated low over the grass, its distinctive deep, thumping, rhythmical pulse kept time with his own heart beat, wrapping itself around his thoughts. These old workhorses had been flying for nearly forty years, becoming a symbol of his profession the world over. But to Brent at that moment, it symbolized his own duty - the defence of his country and his people.
He felt a lump blocking his throat as he recalled the name again -- Iroquois, a confederacy of Native American Indians formed five hundred years before the white man had set foot on the American continent. The ancestor's of Brent's own Iwi had probably arrived in New Zealand around the same time.
Staring through moist eyes at this marvel of twentieth century invention named after an eleventh century Indian alliance, he sensed in the beating of the rotor blades the spirits of his ancestors calling him.
When Maaka Tehane was returned to his marae, he would be with friends and family once more, the evil and brutality that had taken his life replaced with love and kindness. His superiors would pay their respects and the entire KMP, temporarily reduced to fourteen members, would be withdrawn from service for one day, to perform a ceremonial haka at his graveside. The most fitting way for these tough, strictly disciplined soldiers to mark their respect and grief would be in one spine-tingling, blood curdling display of reverence for their ancestors, their traditions, and their fallen comrade.
Brent sniffed, turning back to Commander Dalton who was already ten metres ahead, striding towards his office. "The body is due back the day after tomorrow, London is arranging everything. It'll be flown up north and his family will be there to meet him. Because of the covert nature of this operation, we've had to come up with a cover story. He was on a training exercise in the Canterbury high country, A Unimog slid on ice and rolled down a ravine. We've got stock photos for the press. Unfortunately such an horrific crash is the only way we can explain his injuries to his family. As you know, the Tangi requires an open coffin."
Both men knew it was against Maori tradition for a body to be left alone. Brent decided to meet the coffin, accompany it to the marae, and pass the Tupapaku to the family. But that was thirty-six hours away.
In the intervening time, he would look over the files of the case he and Maaka had been assigned to. In London, their role had simply been surveillance and reporting. Now back home, and with his partner dead, Brent was determined to finish the work they had both started.
Brent read notes and computer files, learning about the impending threat to national security. The New Zealand Government had possibly uncovered a plot to destabilise the economy using something called migration manipulation theory. He googled the phrase and found himself reading:
Economic Invasion - how to create and influence a migrant influx and thereby manipulate the economy of a nation.
Was this why Maaka had died?
The source of the manipulation theory appeared to be the United States. Why would a friendly nation want to influence New Zealand immigration? His hands cupped over his mouth as he sat inhaling his own warm breath, staring at the computer screen. Surely America was too embroiled in the war on terrorism to even contemplate action towards such a small peaceful country that had done absolutely nothing to provoke such a move?
He flicked through the photos taken by intercepting the film company's camera images. The most recent showed a man being carried apparently semi-conscious from a rest room. Maaka had acted on the basis of these images and lost his life as a result. Another file caught his eye: 'Singapore Transcript'. It was timed only hours earlier. He clicked it open. The contents shocked him.
The target, David Turner, had been drugged and a credit card placed on him. This had been witnessed by a KMP agent - Maaka. Turner had then been allowed to continue his journey to Auckland, via Singapore where he had been monitored throughout his stay. As he was about to depart, the NZSIS had staged a robbery, ensuring he was left with just the credit card which had been planted in London. They spoke to him at the airport, pretending to be British agents, making him aware of what had occurred. Turner was told one of the people planting the card had died, but not that it had been a New Zealand agent.
This was all about smuggling money. But there were still no clues in the file as to the reason behind it all.
As he read, Brent realised no-one had looked at all this information for days. Operatives had continued to send messages, pictures and general information into the same computer case file. But there was nothing to suggest an intelligence officer had actually collated any of it. If he wanted to get closer to the truth, he would have to go through it all himself.
He took a break, got two chocolate bars and a black coffee from the vending machine in the corridor, had a good long stretch, and sat back down, trying to convince himself he was not still on London time and that it felt like one-thirty in the morning.
An hour later, four words had been scribbled - Associated Bank of Monaco. This was the financial institution offering credit cards to the targeted immigrants. It was owned by a private American investment bank, the kind of organisation never usually in the business of issuing credit cards to the general public. Brent went looking online for some of the bank's investments. There were hundreds of them.
Opening a spreadsheet, Brent copied the details of each company, together with the names of their directors and major shareholders. He cross-referenced the names to see if there was any common link.
The result was startling.
The Associated Bank of Monaco had a majority interest in South Star Leisure, a casino empire operating in the US and Far East. Cowood Industries invested in dairy and forestry in New Zealand. There was also something called Kutete Enterprises. These three businesses also had the same three shareholders: the bank, someone called Taylor Morgan, and a name familiar to him - Patrick O'Sullivan, leader of the Ecological Political Assembly of New Zealand.
Brent was on his fourth coffee. Kutete was a Maori word. He decided to find out what Kutete Enterprises actually did.
The website said Kutete Lodge and Winery was situated just outside Nelson. Gentle north-facing alluvial slopes had been producing fine wines, mainly for export, since the late nineties. Taylor Morgan, a Californian entrepreneur, had made his fortune in the Silicon Valley boom of the early nineties and had gone on to establish Kutete Lodge as a profitable hobby, in addition to his greater source of income, a chain of successful casinos.
Brent scanned the Net for stories about Morgan. It was rumoured that deep inside his multi-million dollar home, a bank of television screens remotely monitored all the gambling tables in his casinos. He could sit back, a glass of his own world-class Pinot at his side, and watch as his wealth was being created before his eyes around the world. That was the rumour.
Brent was yet to uncover a far darker truth.
Morgan began his career as a scientist working for the Californian Center for International Dairy Research. He had been part of a team conducting research into a formula the American Government had acquired from Irish paramilitaries in the mid seventies.
The research had come to nothing and been abandoned. However, when the technology was resurrected some years later, because of his earlier experience he was the natural choice to head the team leading the next stage of development; initial exploratory production of a milk-based bio-fuel in New Zealand.
From a professional point of view, Morgan was excited by the prospect of living and working in New Zealand, a country with a long and proud history of dairy farming, as well as a source of technical innovation and expertise over many years. He had read research papers and corresponded with Kiwi academics who had worked on projects within his own sphere of knowledge. He was looking forward to having at least some of them on his team.
He was therefore surprised and hugely disappointed to be told at a meeting with the Director General of the American Dairy Research Institute that any work he undertook in New Zealand was to be done under conditions of absolute secrecy. He was joining a project that was already in place. It was being conducted without the knowledge of the local authorities and he was merely lending his assistance to ensure a successful outcome for the people of the United States.
In return for surrendering his altruism, fifty million dollars would be deposited into his bank account. He would also be given a stake in a chain of casinos set up some years earlier by a company created by his own Government.
Taylor Morgan left the meeting feeling sick. He considered his work to be of international importance; helping develop sustainable food sources for developing countries. He thought about his not overly generous chief scientist's salary and two teenage daughters. Both wanted to attend prestigious universities in the next five years. Clearly, financially at least, there was no case to argue.
His application, and the subsequent granting of his New Zealand residency, was on the basis of his supposed wealth, business and educational acumen, and entrepreneurial spirit.
The reality was American Government dollars had entirely funded his relocation, purchased the land for the vineyard and paid for its construction, as well as that of the luxury lodge accommodation and his private penthouse.
Kutete Lodge was not all it appeared to be. It was true that within five years it was producing great wine; that was after all its apparent purpose. Meanwhile the fermentation tanks and state of the art production facility was also being used to distil the first small batches of the new bio-fuel that would eventually be produced on a massive scale in the new refineries already being planned.
Every Tuesday, in the early hours, a small, unmarked Cowood tanker would arrive at Kutete, having travelled by ferry from Waiheke, in the north, and discharge its precious cargo of modified liquid whey. The whey would be fermented using a specially developed yeast variant, passed through the distillation process concealed within the legitimate apparatus of the winery and then stored in a holding tank. On Thursday, another tanker would arrive with a fresh supply of whey, and the modified ethanol, that had taken just twenty-four hours to produce, was taken away to power Cowood's small fleet of cars and trucks.
The scientists at Kutete had to increase the whey to an ethanol ratio. The industry standard was 51% conversion. The modified bovine caseinate had so far increased that to 89%. The target, by adjusting the level of caseinate produced by the herds on Waiheke and perfecting the fermentation process, was to get a 98% conversion rate. Only 2% of the whey would remain as waste. This could be re-distilled into a lower grade fuel.
The ultimate goal of 100% milk to usable fuel conversion was estimated to be no more than five years away.
The secrecy surrounding the true nature of Kutete Lodge was vital for the eventual acceptance by the New Zealand Government of Cowood's true intentions. In order to maintain the façade, Kutete was consequently promoted as a premium winery and luxury lodge destination.
The truth was, however, no paying guests had ever actually stayed there. The well appointed rooms and facilities were solely for the benefit of the American Government scientists seconded to work there for four months at a time, and who had travelled across the Pacific incognito as tourists. There was no complication with work visas. They were still employed by, and continued to work for, their existing employer.
When the time came for the change-over of staff, new or returning scientists would arrive at Nelson Airport, having flown in on tourist visas, and a local helicopter company would fly the rich Americans out across the bay to the Lodge, collect departing 'guests' and return to the airport. They would not return for another twelve months, allowing them to re-enter the country on tourist visas once again.
Public bookings at Kutete Lodge were non-existent. Despite the expenditure of thousands of dollars on marketing both within New Zealand and overseas, no-one had ever actually paid to stay there. Rich Kiwis envied those who had apparently been lucky enough to secure some time at the exclusive retreat, as rooms always seemed to be fully booked months in advance whenever they enquired.
Immediate neighbours and the local population just presumed the high cost of staying at the lodge was only affordable to the steady stream of affluent Americans who were always choppered in and seemed to be the only occupants of the complex, according to the delivery drivers who made regular visits with food, laundry or mail.
Taylor Morgan took his dual roles seriously. His scientific background meant he understood the chemical processes involved in wine making. He felt confident enough to enter Kutete wines in a number of prestigious competitions.
As head of the Kutete Research Facility, his intimate knowledge of the whey fermentation process that he had essentially developed from the original formula, gave him the authority and status he had secretly craved working in California..
This heady combination of status, responsibility, authority, wealth and lifestyle, which he now revelled in, began to have a negative effect on a man who had for so long been constrained by the sterile environment of the International Dairy Research Center. His new life made him an arrogant and self-centred man. Those who worked under him for four months at a time barely got to know him. The few who got the measure of him within a few days and took a dislike to him, consoled themselves with the knowledge they were being very well paid to do an easy job in fabulous surroundings and would soon be going home, not permitted to return for another twelve months.
The sun dipped over the army base. Brent was confident he had pieced together what was happening. He was already appalled at the anticipated consequences, and eager to let his Commander know what he had found out so far. He didn't have to wait long. Dalton walked past the office on his way home for the day and was surprised to see the distinctive broad shoulders of Brent Piri hunched over a desk. "You still here, Piri?"
Brent spun round in his chair, revealing the empty coffee cups and chocolate wrappings. "Just doing a bit of research, sir. Gotta minute?" Despite overwhelming tiredness compounded by the jetlag, he was eager to explain how he had spent the afternoon pulling together all the threads. He believed he had accomplished what no-one had yet been able to.
He explained how America was manipulating the emigrant population, selecting certain people and using credit cards supplied by the Associated Bank of Monaco to unwittingly bring vast sums of money in. There were two other companies involved - Cowood Industries and Kutete Enterprises - the common factor in both being Taylor Morgan, an American research scientist. As far as Brent could see, Morgan was the link in all this. He had also found newspaper websites articles mentioning Taylor Morgan and Patrick O'Sullivan. Both men had a shared interest in bio-fuel research.
Brent had not drawn any conclusions, partly due to the fact his deductive processes had all but shut down. It was important that this David Turner from the UK should be followed. The card he now carried was the key to finding out what was really going on here.
Commander Dalton understood there was a personal interest in this for Brent. He was also probably the best person solve this. A member of the KMT could infiltrate Cowood or Kutete, gaining valuable intelligence. Brent had his own ideas. "What we really need to happen, sir, is for someone to keep tabs on this English guy when he arrives. Either he'll lead us to the big fish or they'll come looking for him."
Brent was right. Not only had he proved himself to be a superb soldier and leader in the KMP, he was also an excellent strategist and planner. Brent was the best chance he had to get a result here, to try and salvage something from the tragic loss of Captain Tehane. As Brent had been sifting through the evidence, he had also been formulating a plan. "Sir, I need two other guys. Let me have Phillips and Omaki for a few days and I'll have this one cracked."
Dalton didn't doubt Brent's ability, but they were working within an extremely tight time-frame and certain procedures still had to be followed. "You've got thirty-six hours until you need to escort Captain Tehane's body back up north. That should give you time to start tracking Turner when he arrives into Auckland in the morning. Now go and get some sleep. That's an order."
He was home for the first time in four months. The day after tomorrow he would have to escort his friend and partner's body back into the arms of his grieving Whanau. In the midst of all that family sorrow, he must summon up the strength to overcome his own sense of loss and guilt at having lost a brother on active duty. First he needed to get a good night's rest. Commander Dalton had said the helicopter was scheduled to make the flight from Waioru back to Auckland International at eight o'clock sharp. It needed to touch down fifteen minutes before the flight arrived in from Singapore. If Brent was interested in the trip, he should be ready by seven forty-five.
The sun came up as Brent jogged across the airstrip, escorted by Lieutenant Bridges from the British Royal Air Force. Although an accomplished pilot Brent, had not yet experienced the NH90 helicopter currently being evaluated by the New Zealand military.
Brent strapped himself in and prepared for the flight. They listened in as the captain of SQ281 began his final approach over the Tasman Sea two hundred and forty miles away.
Taking the controls under the guidance of Lieutenant Bridges, Brent brought the helicopter in to land on the southern perimeter of Auckland International Airport. By the time SQ281 was disembarking, he was already waiting in the Arrivals lounge. Headphones attached to a modified MP3 player in his pocket confirmed David Turner's wife had just been fined for illegally importing a banana.
Brent followed them, joining the queue for the shuttle bus into Central Auckland. Adjusting his sunglasses and baseball cap before slipping both hands into the pockets of his jacket, Brent casually nodded along to the rhythm playing through his headphones.
The headphone wire connected to a sensory keypad built into the MP3 player. Adjusting the sunglasses connected them to the headphones. He visualised a keypad floating in front of his face. By moving his head up and down, or from side to side, he could hit imaginary keys with the end of his nose. Surveillance officers were able to send text messages while looking like some hip-hop dude moving his head in time to the beats thumping around inside it. They nicknamed it the Wonderbox, after Stevie Wonder
Brent was getting a constant feed of information through the headphones from the Operations Centre back on Waiouru Airbase. He needed to know the name of their hotel.
As they boarded the shuttle bus, Brent continued formulating his plan, requesting information and more resources, but they were impossible in the limited time frame, or not feasible. His terse nodded responses flashed onto the computer screen - 'Just do it", or "find a way", or "ask Dalton.'
The bus stopped outside the Cedar Stars Motel. As the Turners took their luggage from the trailer behind the bus, Brent walked up the street before making sure they entered the hotel. He crossed the road to a café from where he could watch the motel entrance. He sat drinking coffee, reading the paper, nodding to his music and sending messages.
He asked Dalton to contact the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries and request the use of one of their specially equipped surveillance camper vans used for staking out isolated beaches.
He had also established direct contact with the three other KMP officers permanently stationed in the Auckland area and had persuaded Dalton to temporarily move them from their current assignments in order to assist him.
Captain Hone Phillips, the longest serving and most experienced KMP officer, was re-assigned from watching a gang illegally producing and selling methamphetamine. Lieutenant Cassius Omaki withdrew from tailing a political asylum seeker believed to have links with Middle Eastern terrorists. The sole female member, Lieutenant Moana Kapua, went home sick from the office of the protest group she had successfully infiltrated that campaigned against coal mining in the North Island.
After nearly five hours, there was a call on Brent's phone. Finally, it was Commander Dalton. "Bloody hell, Piri, you'd better have a bloody good plan up your sleeve. I've just had to convince the Minister to pull two surveillance projects and I've just come off the phone from the Police Commissioner screaming at me that we've jeopardised his entire South Auckland crystal meth operation."
"You do mean his anti crystal meth operation, don't you, sir?"
The Commander wasn't in the mood for humour. "Don't be a bloody smart arse, Piri. I'm calling in a lot of favours here I was hoping to keep for a rainy day. You'd better know what you're doing. Both our arses are on the line here, don't you forget that. Kapua will be in position in the next half hour. The surveillance bus will be ready in the morning. Omaki and Phillips will be back on base soon. I'll get them up to speed with what's happening."
Brent had not taken his gaze from the doorway of the motel across the street. There was a glint as the glass panel door opened. It was David Turner. He strode purposefully up the street, moving between the late afternoon pedestrians, momentarily disappearing from view as he weaved through the steady stream of oncoming commuters. "Sorry, sir, need to go. The target's on the move. I'll be in touch."
He was out of the café, walking stride for stride level with Turner, on the opposite side of the street. Suddenly Turner glanced across straight at him. Brent quickly looked away, hoping the intention to window shop would not be met by a solid wall. He found himself staring intently at the women's spring fashions in a department store window and trying to find an area of dark clothing that would reflect what was going on behind him. A pair of black trousers reflected enough of an image for him to be able to make out Turner's shape already halfway across the street and walking straight towards him. Brent didn't move; a six foot Maori guy with his eyes firmly fixed on a shop mannequin dressed in tiny black shorts and bikini top. Turner passed so close Brent heard his footsteps as he walked into the shop.
He breathed out, moved across the shop doorway, and looked in. Turner made his way to the electrical department just inside. He watched as he bought two mobile phones, using cash. The transaction completed, Brent crossed the street and stood in the doorway of a furniture shop, his position obscured by the constant flow of people walking past.
Turner came out and continued up the street. This time, Brent allowed him to get ahead before following from a safe distance, on the other side.
The man who came into the car rental office matched the description Moana had been given. An English accent confirmed his identity. She glanced over his shoulder and saw through the blind the familiar figure of Brent Piri on the opposite side of the street, looking towards her.
Fifteen minutes earlier she had entered the office with a police sergeant and persuaded the manager one of his hire cars had been used in an armed robbery, and he had to accompany the police officer to give a statement. Moana said she would stay behind checking all the vehicles' documentation. She would still be there when he was brought back.
The confused manager was driven away, protesting his ignorance. Moana disconnected the existing credit card swipe machine and connected the one supplied by the Tech Department. She logged into the NZSIS intranet and began downloading the software to run the swipe machine alongside the rental company's own software. Hopefully it would capture the details on the card if she could persuade Turner to use it.
She watched anxiously as the loading bar on the screen crept slowly towards one hundred per cent. The door opened and in walked Turner. The download was still at only eighty per cent. The car they wanted him to take was still being fitted with a tracking device and not yet in the yard at the front of the office. She would have to try and stall him. "Hi, how can I help you?"
David asked about hiring a station wagon for a one-way trip to Wellington. The download was now on ninety-five per cent. Moana pretended to search for a suitable car. Finally the message Installation successful flashed on the screen.
"What about one of those?" he enquired, pointing to the three cars already on the lot. Moana knew none of them had been 'prepared' by the Department. The car with the tracking device would not get into the city for at least another half an hour. She made an excuse. All three cars were due out in the next few days but a suitable station wagon was due back in shortly.
Her objective was to get an imprint of the credit card. David took out his wallet, pulling a wad of banknotes from it. It was clear he had no intention of using the card for this particular transaction. She hoped the hardware now connected to the computer in front of her would quell any doubts Turner had about using the card.
"You can save your cash if you like and use a credit card for the bond. I can just swipe it through the old fashioned zip-zap here. It just puts an imprint of the card on paper. When you return the car in Wellington, the office there just lets us know and we tear up the slip. Not a problem."
Moana carefully positioned the card handed to her onto the metal plate of the swipe machine, and then placed the paper docket over the top. She held the machine steady with her left hand and gripped the roller mechanism with her right hand.
David did not see her press a small red button on the roller with her left thumb before she slowly pushed it across the paper and credit card, checking as she went that the red button continued to glow. The details on the card were being successfully captured and transmitted back to the team sitting expectantly in Commander Dalton's office.
She smiled and handed back his card and copy of the docket. "If you can bring your passport back about six, for I.D., we'll have your car valeted and all good to go."
As soon as he left, Moana disconnected the machine and deleted the software from the rental company's computer. She was about to leave when the door opened and in walked Brent;
"Hey Mo, how's it going?"
"I'm good, Brent, yourself? I didn't expect to see you here. Aren't you going to make sure he makes it back to the motel?"
"Nah, he'll be right. Anyway, do we have a copy of that card now? The Tech boys will be able to do their stuff. I'm gonna wait here for the car to arrive - should in about five minutes. You can go if you like."
Brent closed the shutters on the office door, turned the sign on the window to CLOSED and moved behind the counter to the computer. He quickly located the email address of the office and texted it back to Waiouru. An email with an attachment arrived. It was the first page of a report he had seen earlier in the day whilst surfing the net, looking for clues. He printed it off, deleted all reference to it and the email, and then folded the printed sheet neatly into one of the rental company's brochure wallets before adding some other items he had brought with him.
A blue Subaru station wagon had pulled up outside and was being neatly reversed into a space at the end of the line of three already there. The driver got out, shut the door, walked off down the street and was immediately lost in the crowd. Brent's phone beeped and he read the message;
Keys are in it. Beacon in place. All yours.
He returned the sign to OPEN and went out to the car. Opening the passenger door, he placed the brochure wallet in the glove compartment, then pulled on the hose hanging on the wall behind him, turned on the tap, lightly sprayed a film of water over the entire bodywork and walked back into the office.
When David Turner walked back in just before six o'clock, he had no idea the man behind the counter was a New Zealand agent who had followed him across the world, unravelled a plot against his own country and was now protecting him from agents of the most powerful country in the world.
"Mr Turner?" Brent gestured to the keys on the counter. "She's all ready for you. There are maps in the glove box. Just replace any fuel you use. Have a safe trip." He watched as Turner drove off back towards the motel.
He texted Moana, She was in position, parked on a motorbike just down the street from the Cedar Stars and ready to tail the blue Subaru once the Turners made their next move.
David and Katherine drove south, unaware they were being pursued. Moana kept enough distance to avoid her headlight appearing in the rear view mirror of their car.
At three in the morning, exhausted and cold, and with the bike's fuel tank running on reserve, she finally pulled over and made a call confirming the targets were continuing south on State Highway One and that she was abandoning the pursuit. Brett already knew they were heading for Wellington. Moana's job had been to watch for other interested parties rather than follow the pair all the way to the capital.
She had seen the blue Ford driving between her and the Turners within fifteen minutes of leaving Central Auckland and called in its registration plate for checking. It was a hire car, rented to Wayne Jameson. A check with Immigration showed Jameson was an American citizen, A cross reference with the tax department confirmed he was on the payroll of Cowood Industries, undoubtedly a US agent and together, with his unidentified passenger, likely to be in pursuit of the card in David Turner's pocket.
Brent stood solemnly, hands clasped, as the plywood crate descended slowly from the hold of the plane onto the flat deck truck which would take it to the NH90 waiting to fly northwards.
The tines of the forklift withdrew and Brent draped the national flag over the simple wooden box. It had been identical to all the other wooden crates secured in the hold of the plane. The flag suddenly distinguished it, unmistakeably, as Maaka's coffin. Brent stepped back, bowing his head. "Welcome home, Brother."
Brent knew according to custom, the tupapaku of the deceased shouldn't be left alone at any stage. The nature of Maaka Tehane's untimely death and the fact that it occurred on the other side of the world, made this difficult.
His family were informed he'd died down south in a vehicle accident. It was vital to get his body back home as quickly as possible. Delay in releasing it to the family would not only raise suspicion but also be deeply disrespectful to their beliefs. Brent consoled himself with the thought that on his final return to New Zealand, Maaka had been under the guardianship of both the national airline and the four hundred people seated above him, many of whom were also returning home.
\*
The mournful cries from Maaka's female relatives were broken by a shriek as his youngest nephew pointed excitedly upwards. The faint speck of a helicopter had appeared in the sky to the south of the Marae. "Look, Uncle Mak's coming!"
Immediately the women moved as one down the steps of the meeting house, across the manicured lawn and out through the ornate carved archway marking the entrance.
Once the down-draft had subsided, Brent beckoned them forward. Gently lifting the coffin, the procession slowly made its way back up the slope to the marae. They began to call out a plaintive Karanga, summoning others onto the marae. Brent followed at a respectful distance, aware that for now at least his part in this extended funeral ceremony had been played. The mournful lament of the pall bearers was answered as other family members gathered on the steps awaiting their brother's final return.
Brent looked on, tears welling at these reminders of his cultural heritage. He was an officer in a classified unit of the New Zealand military, delivering the body of his fallen comrade back to his family in a multi-million dollar state of the art helicopter. Yet, as soon as he had stepped on to the lush grass beneath his feet, it was as if he had stepped back five hundred years; back into the comfort of the rituals and protocols of his forbears.
The last few days; the surveillance of David Turner, the imminent risk to national security, none of that mattered at this moment. This time belonged to Maaka Tahene and his whanau,. Brent understood that. As he followed through the archway, he felt as if he too had come home.
Maaka's body was inside the meeting house. The formalities of his welcome had been completed. Brent couldn't help counting fifty-five people excluding small children and recognised Maaka's Uncle Peter. The pair greeted each other warmly with a hongi. "Kia Ora, how are you, Brent?"
"I'm good, Peter, yourself?"
"Same. We're happy it was you who brought Mack home to us. Tell me, are you staying for the next couple of days? I'd like for you to say a few words at some point."
Brent expected to be asked, had even hoped that he would be invited to speak during the funeral. The fact that a close family member had made the request was a signal that he was not being held responsible for Maaka's death, or at least the version the family had been given.
Behind him, beyond the marae, beyond the realm of his own culture, there was a large grey helicopter waiting to fly him south once more to continue something he'd promised Maaka he would finish. "I need to get back to work, Peter, but I promise I'll try and make it back in a few days' time. I'd be honoured say something then."
He mixed brief greetings with goodbyes and excuses of work. He would be back.
The powerful engines screamed at full power. The helicopter rose up slightly, the wheels dangling momentarily in mid-air. Then, confident it could support its own weight, the machine moved swiftly up, banked left and headed south once more. The small crowd gathered to watch and protect their fearless youngsters, instinctively turned away as dust and loose grass blew over their heads and back towards the marae. By the time they felt safe to turn back, Brent was half a kilometre away.
The helicopter headed out to sea. Commander Dalton had given Brent permission to use the chopper for the duration of the mission on the understanding he didn't advertise its presence any more than was absolutely necessary. It was, after all, only on loan from the manufacturer and, officially at least, only in New Zealand for evaluation. It wasn't supposed to be on active service. If American Intelligence picked up on the fact it was flying regular missions, they might pay closer attention to it.
\*
Three hundred kilometres above the Cook Strait, a sensor on a KH13 surveillance satellite passing overhead had already picked up the distinctive heat signature of the NH90 idling on the perimeter of Auckland International Airport, a commercial, not a military, facility. Its high resolution digital camera had also recorded the distinctive image of a New Zealand flag on the back of a nearby truck. The flag was missing its edges.
The National Reconnaissance Office quickly interpreted the image. Within ten minutes, the CIA had hacked into Auckland Airport's CCTV system to get a better look at the helicopter from the ground. They concluded the aircraft was being used to transport a member of the New Zealand military, hence the image of the flag draped over a coffin. A cursory internet search found the story of the vehicle crash in the Canterbury high country a few days earlier.
By the time the KH13 satellite had encircled the earth, the helicopter was in the air, flying low fifteen kilometres out over the Tasman Sea. It seemed to be practising an evasive, anti detection manoeuvre, following the coastline of one of the least populated countries in the world. The duty officer at the NRO watched intently as the feed from the satellite showed the helicopter darting left to right as it made its way south.
The American and Chinese intelligence services regularly positioned their surveillance satellites over New Zealand and Australia to test and calibrate their electro-optical digital imaging systems. The clarity of the atmosphere over this part of the globe throughout the year allowed engineers to achieve stunningly sharp images.
New Zealand didn't possess the technology to detect the spies stationed hundreds of kilometres above.
Neither superpower protested to the other. The outer atmosphere above a country's designated airspace isn't within its territorial borders. Protesting too loudly would have aroused China's suspicions. America's true reason for focusing its celestial gaze on the Islands below remained secret.
New Zealand had no idea it was being watched with the same intense fascination a small boy gazes at a crane fly moments before he starts to pull its legs off one by one.
Twenty-two minutes flying time from Waioru, Brent radioed ahead for Phillips and Omaki to be ready and waiting to board. They climbed in, the door slid shut, and the helicopter was airborne once more. "Can we track the Subaru? We need to get about fifty ks ahead of them and then try and find a logging operation."
Lieutenant Bridges banked due east, locking onto the signal from the car. Brent gave instructions. "Hone, I need you to eliminate this blue Ford that's been tailing the target. My idea is maybe for you to create some kind of road accident using whatever we can find down there. You up for it?"
"Hell yeah, Bro'!"
"Good, then I need you to bring them back to Waioru where we can debrief them. Have you got the cards?"
Moana had swiped David Turner's credit card through the machine at the car rental office. The details on the magnetic strip had been sent to the Ops Room where technicians had deciphered the information and recreated it onto two copies, one of which Hone was now waving about in the back of the helicopter.
Lieutenant Bridges interrupted. "Excuse me, Captain. Just thought you'd like to know we're being tracked."
"How? Who the hell knows we're up here?"
'Actually, sir, it looks like we are not up here, but down there."
"What do you mean, down there?"
"I switched on the tracking software and set it to trace the security device attached to the car. It's the first time it's been used on this aircraft, so it carried out an initial security scan. There are no other aircraft in the air within a seventy kilometre radius. The signature looks like its coming from a satellite directly overhead. I can run another check if you like, but I'd say in this part of the world it's pretty accurate. The external skin is absorbing the faint trace of a laser tag from a US military satellite approximately three hundred kilometres above us."
The three KMP officers sat in silence for a moment. "It's OK, they can't actually hear you. The onboard comms are shielded."
Up until that point, they'd simply been involved in the airborne pursuit of two cars, across open country. Now there could be international implications for what they were about to undertake.
"Lieutenant, I need you to patch me through to Commander Dalton at Waioru."
"Not a problem, sir. Just trying the connection for you now. By the way, ETA three minutes to the target. I'll stand off two kilometres north, below the horizon. We'll still be able to track them but they can't see us. The Commander's on the line now, sir."
"Something's come up. Bridges has activated some of the new equipment on board and we're being tracked by an American military satellite. As far as I'm concerned that's confirmation of US Government involvement in all this. I need your formal authorisation to eliminate any perceived threat to national security, sir."
"You have my authorisation, Piri. I'll get on to the Prime Minister's office right away. There's going to be diplomatic fallout that'll need dealing with in the next few hours."
The helicopter flew parallel to the road, skimming the vast swathe of pine forest. Bridges signalled the location of a logging camp, and flew over it checking for any sign of activity before moving out and hovering just above the main highway. Dropping momentarily to ground level, Hone leapt out and ran to the side of the road.
"Has he got any money?" shouted Brent
"Yep, we're both carrying a thousand dollars cash for, you know, any expenses."
"Good, that'll get him the loan of a decent truck."
The helicopter lifted above the trees, rapidly gaining altitude. Brent could see a small town in the distance. He didn't want to risk the unique aircraft being spotted near such a populated area, and instructed Bridges to land. There was no point just flying around burning up fuel for the sake of it.
Hone made his way through the dense forest to a clearing where pine logs were being loaded onto the back of a truck and trailer unit. From the safety of the trees he counted five men in total, absorbed in their work and oblivious to his presence. The truck driver sat reading his newspaper. Behind him pre-cut tree trunks were being loaded up. This scene was familiar to Hone; his father and uncles were all loggers.
He moved quickly around the perimeter of the clearing until he was upwind, beside an old ute. As he expected, it was unlocked, the inside a mess of screwed-up paperwork, old newspapers and discarded food wrappings. The men were too engrossed in their work to notice as he carefully pulled open the passenger door, piled as much of the rubbish as he could onto the passenger seat then, taking a knife from his belt, slashed at the seat, exposing the foam padding beneath.
He had anticipated using his own lighter, but in the foot well, amongst the paper, he noticed a box of matches.
He lit one.
Keeping watch through the driver's-side window on the activity beyond, he held it against the contents of the passenger seat until, still focusing through the window, his eyes began to sting, misting over as thickening black smoke filled the interior of the vehicle. Winding down the window just enough for the smoke to be able to escape, he closed the car door, moved back twenty metres and continued circling the perimeter, towards the labourers. He could already smell the smoke in his own nostrils.
Three minutes later, and still they worked on. The car interior was now completely obscured by thick black plumes of acrid smoke generated by burning foam-filled seats. Hone hoped they might have noticed his diversion by now. He was getting concerned it would start burning out of control. Suddenly, there was a flash, followed by a muted thud. A dark mushroom cloud billowed out from the space left by the exploding windscreen, unfolding upwards through the trees.
Two loggers ran to grab extinguishers. The pair already in the cabs of their trucks leapt out, extinguishers already in hand. The owner of the flaming truck ran towards it, yelling at it as if it had caught fire on purpose.
The door of the logging truck was open. Hone sprinted the short distance across the open ground, jumped in, started the engine, wrenched it into gear, and headed for the gap in the trees in front of him. The group now tentatively encircling the blazing ute glanced up as the truck gathered speed down the forest track.
"Thieving bastards!"
They wanted to extinguish the fire and outrun the stolen logging truck. One threw down his extinguisher, ran back to his own vehicle, turned the key and pushed the pedal hard to the floor. A pall of choking grey smoke belched from the exhaust as he put it in gear and attempted to accelerate. The rear wheels slipped on the forest litter beneath them. The front wheels slithered wildly. It was like driving on ice, snaking from side to side at slow speed, completely out of the control as the driver maintained pressure on the throttle in the hope that acceleration alone would somehow carry him out from amongst the trees.
The rudderless car was finally brought to a sickeningly abrupt halt by a large tree stump. Even as it loomed into sight, the driver, in his rage, still refused to accept he no longer had control and maintained a relentless course until the stump stopped any further passage.
Confused, angry and shocked, he leapt out, furious with his own sudden apparent inability to control his own vehicle. He inspected the damage, cursing at the ripped left tyre, and the right one. Stepping back, he noticed the rear tyres were also hanging in shreds from their rims. The thief had made sure he wouldn't be followed by slashing the tyres on all the remaining vehicles before setting fire to the final one, creating a diversion allowing him to steal the logging truck.
Hone accelerated down the forest track, towards the main highway, deliberately snaking from one side of the narrow mud track to the other, dislodging unsecured logs that rolled haphazardly across the path behind, blocking it to any pursuers.
He reached the road, turned left and headed north. In the rear view mirror of the truck, he could clearly read the large sign beside the gate he had just driven through.
This forest is managed by Cowood Industries
Private property
Keep Out
The helicopter was in the air again. From his vantage point in the co-pilot's seat, Brent could see the grey streak of tar seal cutting a straight line through the seemingly endless forest on either side of it. They flew higher so he could observe all three vehicles - the Turners in their Subaru and the blue Ford, both heading north, and the larger, longer logging truck, some distance behind, heading in the same direction. The two cars pulled over. Brent spoke into the mouthpiece on his helmet urgently. "Hone, they are about 2k ahead of you. They've pulled over. Just hang back for a second."
Hone slowly brought the truck to a standstill. Brent watched intently. He could just make out figures moving around the cars below him. He was taking a risk. There was a possibility he was about to witness the murder of his target. Both cars made a U turn in the road and headed south once more. "Stand, by captain. They've altered course. They're on their way south again. You'll need to time this just right."
Brent watched the two cars. He had to find some way of increasing the distance between them so Hone could get a clear run at the Ford. "Hone, I need to make sure the Brits are far enough away when you hit. I'm gonna try something."
He took his mobile phone from his pocket, keyed accelerate hard and sent the message. Hovering like a bird of prey above its victim, Brent watched as far below he could just make out the Subaru beginning to pull ahead, increasing the distance from the car behind. Headphones muffled the sound, the artificial silence lending a sense of unreality to the scene unfolding beneath him. The logging truck slewed across both sides of the road. In a silent collision, clouds of dust and smoke softened the disintegration of the blue Ford. He shouted into the radio. "Captain, do you copy?"
There was a moment of silence, then a crackle of static. "Far out, boss. There's a hell of a mess down here, man. We nailed those bastards good, eh? Better go and sort out these Brits now, boss. They're on their way over here. Catch up with you later, eh?"
The chopper taxied back to the hangar. By the time Brent had jumped down from the cockpit, the blades still whooshing slowly above his head, Commander Dalton was waiting for him. "Good job, Captain Piri. I've had the Minister on the phone already. He took a call from the American Ambassador claiming we had taken hostile military action against US citizens. Apparently there was an Army helicopter in the vicinity of a road traffic accident north of Tokoroa less than thirty minutes ago."
"That's bollocks, sir. The only reason they have any idea we were there at all is because they had a bloody spy satellite scanning us. What was that doing there? Did he ask the Ambassador that?"
"We didn't need to ask Brent. Satellite surveillance is the only possible way anyone could have known about the presence of the NH90. The Ambassador was also reminded we currently have the aircraft strictly for evaluation purposes only. International law doesn't permit its use on any kind of active service and the pilot is not even a member of our armed forces."
"You're right, sir. By the way, that machine handles bloody brilliantly. When do we get our first one delivered?"
Dalton ignored him. "We have categorically denied any involvement in these tragic deaths that appear to have been caused by a logging truck crossing the centre line, correct?"
'Yes, sir."
"Where the hell did you manage to find one of those?"
'Well sir, I have a very resourceful team."
The Commander's office had been transformed into an Operations Centre. Brent explained Hone was bringing the Turners back to the base where they would be under military protection.
The Commander noted Brent's surprise at the level of activity. "I sent a copy of your findings to the PM's office. He's very worried by this unprecedented threat to national security. In fact, he's seriously considering declaring a state of national emergency on the basis of a credible threat to our biosecurity. Because of the nature of the threat, and its source, we can't release any details to the media or public, but if we declare an emergency, we can then legitimately activate all the powers that it gives us."
Brent stood silently taking in the enormity of what was being considered. The Prime Minister was now seriously considering declaring a national emergency. Was the situation really so grave? Had he thoroughly analysed the situation, correctly interpreted what he had discovered? Surely the Prime Minister would have had his own analysts check out Brent's findings.
Dalton interrupted his thoughts. "The PM wants you to continue with your team in the field, for now at least. It's important we find out as much as we can about the extent of the preparation for the production of this fuel, and the sooner the better. We need faces and locations before we decide on our next move."
A telephone rang. "It's the Minister for Civil Defence, for Captain Piri."
Brent stepped forward, took the receiver and stood to attention.
'Captain? Richard Bartlett here, how are you? Look, I just needed to touch base with you. The PM wishes to express his gratitude for your work so far and to convey his personal condolences for the loss of Captain Tehane in London. We have a uniquely grave situation here, Captain. The security of our small nation is at risk from a previously unexpected source. As you may know, we are considering declaring a State of Emergency, allowing us to use the powers available under that Act."
Commander Dalton could tell from Brent's glazed expression he was being treated to a politician's speech. He rolled his eyes at Brent, handed him a sheet of paper, and made a slicing motion across his throat. Brent took the cue and interrupted the Minister. "Thanks for the support, sir. Look I need to get back to the operation. The Commander has just handed me an important update."
He replaced the handset and read the report.
The previous afternoon had been spent trying to cross-reference Cowood Industries' assets to actual locations. He'd stopped looking when he'd found the link to the Kutete wine operation. Someone in the Prime Minister's own team had taken another look and identified a further link. They discovered there were a number of Cowood-owned farms all located on Waiheke Island. For such a small place, Cowood had an unusually high ownership ratio. These farms had all been acquired within the last two years. This needed further investigation.
Brent looked up from reading the document. "We need to get onto the island and take a closer look at these farms, take blood samples from the cattle and test them. But we also need to do it in a way that doesn't raise Cowood's suspicions."
"I'll pass your suggestion back to the PM's office. They can evaluate the options."
Brent's mobile phone rang. It was Hone. "It's me, boss. The Brits want to go to Waiheke Island. Dave says he has an old school mate there. What do you reckon?"
Brent thought for a moment. Having the Turners on the island at the same time Government officials could be there investigating the cattle made him uneasy. As he was about to reply, he heard shouting coming from the phone. Something wasn't right. "Captain, Hone, is everything OK?"
"They've gone. They've taken the bloody car and driven off"
"How did you let that happen?"
"I've got out to get better reception on the phone and bloody Dave has got into the driver's seat and hooned off down the hill."
"D'you think they'll head to Waiheke?"
"Not sure, boss. They've headed north. Just send someone to pick me up before those bloody loggers catch up with me."
Brent was thinking of a way to get on to the island to test the milking herds. Then he remembered, in London, reading about the outbreak of foot and mouth disease that had occurred the year before. It led to the widespread slaughter of animals, disruption to sporting events, and even the postponement of the General Election. He knew his own country was mercifully free of the disease. Any potential outbreak was likely to be treated very seriously by both the Government and public alike. It could decimate the entire economy. He had his solution.
"There's going to be the threat of an outbreak of foot and mouth on Waiheke."
The Commander frowned.
"We need vets on the island taking blood samples, right? So we invent a story. The Government has been sent an anonymous threat that the foot and mouth virus has been released on the island. This'll give us a credible reason to declare the state of emergency."
"And you reckon it could work?"
"No reason why not. Despite our investigations, we'll find no evidence of the virus. The source of the threat will never be made public and the whole story will blow over and be forgotten in a few weeks."
Commander Dalton narrowed his eyes, thinking for a moment. "I'll contact Wellington with the idea. If they decide to go ahead, they'll need to brief the Ministry of Ag. The operation will have to be completely ready to go before releasing any kind of media statement."
An hour later, Brent read the draft of the proposed media release, to be released at 11am the following day:
The Ministry of Agriculture and Forestry Director of Biosecurity said today that MAF and Police were responding to a claimed deliberate release of foot and mouth virus on Waiheke Island.
He said the claim, advised by letter to the Prime Minister's Office this morning, was probably a hoax but was being taken very seriously.
The Ministry of Agriculture and Forestry has activated its disease management response systems this morning after the letter was received.
As part of this precautionary response a controlled area notice has been issued which restricts the movement of livestock and risk material on and from the island whilst the investigation proceeds.
A controlled area notice has been issued under the provisions of the Biosecurity Act in order to restrict the movement of risk material. Risk materials include live animals, hay, equipment used with animals, untreated products from animals, milk, cheese, meat and wool.
The Director said the notice took effect this morning. He stressed the importance of securing the full co-operation of everyone in the area in dealing with the situation.
He emphasized that there was no risk to public safety or public health. Foot and mouth disease only affects ruminant animals such as sheep, cattle and pigs.
The Police Assistant Commissioner said anyone with any information that might assist enquiries was encouraged to contact their nearest police station immediately.
Senior Ministers and officials have been briefed and a police enquiry into the origin of the letter has been launched.
"While this matter is probably a hoax we must take all necessary steps to safeguard New Zealand's interests and public welfare,' the Director said.
Brent grinned. "Good stuff. I like the reference to the fact it's probably a hoax. Prepares everyone for the expectation we won't actually find anything."
He selected a vacant desk, keyed in a website address he had been handed by one of the tech officers, and was on the official Government National Emergency intranet. The Civil Defence Emergency Management Act meant he now had delegated authority and wide-ranging powers to:
"Devise, promote and carry out, or cause to be carried out, research and investigations into matters relating to civil defence emergency management."
This simple sentence granted him access to any information held on any Government-controlled computer system.
He keyed 'Waiheke Island dairy farms' into the search box. Over 5,000 links appeared. Filtering the search by adding 'Cowood Industries', a much shorter list appeared. He checked farm names against the Land Information New Zealand online database and confirmed Cowood had purchased fifteen farms on the island in the past two years. The next step would be trying to prove the dairy herds on the island were being experimented on before the Ministry vets even had the opportunity to take blood samples.
He accessed the National Law Enforcement computer system and noted all the vehicles registered to Cowood, before finding a file of all the images recorded by the permanent speed cameras situated near the ferry terminal on the island.
The public believed the cameras were only used to photograph speeding vehicles. In fact they were calibrated to photograph every car that passed them, in both directions.
The evidence was clear. A 2002 Toyota Landcruiser registered to Cowood had visited the island at least twice a month, with visits gradually becoming more frequent in the past two months. He had the vehicle. Now he needed to know who the driver was.
Brent's fingers worked quickly across the keyboard, cross-checking the Landcruiser against pictures taken by other cameras across the Greater Auckland area, until he found the image he was looking for.
He copied the picture and enlarged the driver's head. A white male, mid thirties, was all he could be confident of at this stage. Loading the facial recognition software being used at Heathrow, Brent dragged the blurry facial image into the centre of the screen, before navigating to the LTNZ internal database and setting it to scroll through the licence photographs of the 227,000 males between the ages of 29 and 39.
Brent left the program running, hoping by the time he returned fifteen minutes later, it would have successfully identified the face, and it didn't belong to a foreign national who had never applied for a New Zealand driving licence.
\*
The screen was blank. Sleep mode. Cautiously, he pushed the mouse, flashing it into life. There were now two photographs, the grainy blurred image of the car driver and the licence photo of Tony Robinson.
Now he had a name, the rest would be relatively easy. A passport records check revealed Robinson had spent time in the United States. He was a veterinarian. Tax details confirmed his employer as the Dairytree Vets' Practice. Brent was familiar with this cynically cosier name Cowood used for its loss-making consumer products division.
Cowood was sending its own vet over to the island on a regular basis to look after the cattle it owned. Now he wanted to check whether Robinson had a contact on the island. Someone who might be aware of his frequent visits, or even unwittingly assisting him.
He typed 'Veterinary Council of New Zealand' into the computer and compared the names against the electoral role on Waiheke Island. One entry caught his eye immediately: Edwyn Collington BVMS Bristol 1987. This guy was a British-trained vet.
Brent had a hunch.
He tracked back through David Turner's residency application to locate the name of his Secondary School. Collington was the same age as Turner, had attended the same school and possibly even been in the same class. The coincidences did not stop there.
The Waiheke phone book showed Collington's address was the Mushroom Café which he co-owned with his wife, the former Anika O'Sullivan, who had been the wife of Patrick O'Sullivan before separating from him in a very public fashion several years before.
Brent had collected more information in this last hour than he could have hoped for. The next phase of his investigation required even higher security clearance.
The interception of emails had been routinely available to the intelligence service for many years, but since there was virtually no subversive, radical or terrorist activity, its use was largely confined to scanning sensitive messages sent from foreign embassies to their Governments, and back, or the occasional hijacking of embarrassing information sent by members of Parliament.
Brent would have to obtain the written authorisation of the Minister for Civil Defence before he could start snooping through Edwyn Collington's inbox. He explained to the Commander he needed the assistance of the tech guys located deep under the Beehive.
Permission was quickly granted. All he could do was wait while others hacked into Collington's phone account and copies of every email were extracted from the phone company's records. Once all the information had been uploaded to the secure server in the Ops Room, an algorithm set to work locating key words.
Brent was looking for any evidence Edwyn Collington was somehow involved in either the promotion or the prevention of Cowood's activities. Not enough was known about him to judge where his sympathies lay. Trawling through ten years worth of emails would hopefully bring his true intent to light. In the meantime, a wire tap was put on the phone line of the Mushroom Café.
The Civil Defence Emergency Management Group moved swiftly to activate the Domestic and External Security CoOrdination Plan. Working on the presumption that the biosecurity threat was genuine, responsibility for coordinating the MAF response was delegated to the Exotic Disease Response Centre.
A small team of vets from Massey University's Institute of Veterinary and Biomedical Sciences was assembled. The Field Operations Response Team -- FORT - included five vets who had travelled to the UK two years before, to offer assistance and expertise during their outbreak of the foot and mouth virus.
The Ministry had not yet carried out its annual exotic disease simulation exercise to test their response to the incursion of diseases like foot and mouth. The FORT team were keen to get onto the island.
The information was withheld from the team that the threat was entirely fictitious. As far as they were concerned, this was no exercise.
The Civil Defence Minister persuaded the FORT team that, due to the physical isolation of Waiheke from the rest of New Zealand's livestock, and the likelihood that this was merely a hoax letter, there would be no point in arriving en masse just before nightfall. They would be better to fly over in the morning, by which time the Emergency Management Group would have had time to compose a suitable press release.
Brent spent a restless night trying to decide if the Government was taking the right action. The KMP surveillance exercise was snowballing into an international crisis with no end in sight and no obvious solution.
He had assisted in identifying the problem, but control of the solution had been passed to more than one committee. He had no issue with the Civil Defence Emergency Management group, but throughout the preceding day he felt his influence being gradually eroded away.
By 3.00am he convinced himself he was being sidelined. He needed to walk back into the office with a radical plan of action.
But before he had a chance, at 6.00am his phone rang.
Managing the response to a national emergency was a twenty-four hour operation. The NZCIS had a Black Room through which all telecommunications generated in, or entering, New Zealand were passed. A small team had worked throughout the night and had finished compiling a file of emails.
The concept of a 'Cabinet Noir' or Black Room dated back to the reign of Louis XIII. It was the office where letters sent by suspicious individuals were opened and read by public officials before being forwarded to their destination.
The practice was adopted during the First World War when the New Zealand Government employed the tactic as a means of censoring mail in order to protect and maintain the morale at home, shielding it from graphic and depressing correspondence sent from the front line thousands of miles away in Europe.
Black Rooms, although officially denied, existed around the world, small secure facilities, often housed in the unassuming offices of an existing telecommunications company, allowing access to all internet and phone traffic that passed through the room.
New Zealand had ironically acquired its own Black Room in the mid-nineties when the main telecommunication company was owned, by an American corporation. The American Government had openly offered the facility as a means of establishing a discrete listening post in the Southern Pacific in the early days of the internet. The use of email and mobile phones was expected to grow. The intention had been to install a Black Room early, so it would be deeply embedded within the original system architecture and forgotten about.
The New Zealand Government rarely used the facility but had, on request from friendly Governments, monitored the activity of terrorists and radicals who believed routing emails, texts or phone conversations via a small insignificant country kept them safe from interception.
Today the information that passed through the Black Room would be used against the very country that had encouraged its installation.
But the Americans were not so naïve as to have handed over complete control of the Black Room to the NZCIS. They had been thorough enough during the construction and commissioning phase to ensure a high frequency transmitter was hidden within the mass of switchgear in the Room.
The Duty Officer called Brent, letting him know there were a number of significant emails awaiting his arrival. Brent leapt out of bed, showered, and walked across the parade ground to the Ops Room.
He arrived just as the Duty Officer finished briefing his daytime counterpart. Both looked up as Brent stepped from the cool morning air into the warm office. Although neither of them were military personnel, they instinctively straightened as he entered the room. "Morning, guys. Sounds like you had a busy night. What have you got then?"
"I'll start with the most recent, sir. Collington received an email at twelve thirty-eight yesterday afternoon via a contact website from a travel agency in Tokoroa. The message seems to have come from this Turner guy you are interested in. It says he wants to meet up with Collington on Waiheke."
"That'll explain his eagerness to dump Hone. Do we have any info on how they reached the Island?"
"We have CCTV of them getting off a bus at the harbour and we also have Collington emailing three people late last night to say the Turners are staying overnight with him. You might want to pour yourself a coffee and grab a Danish, sir. There's a lot of stuff to read."
Over fifteen thousand emails had been retrieved from Collington's email address on the phone company's server. Once the algorithm had filtered out the spam, three hundred messages were left containing words or key phrases of interest.
Brent sipped strong coffee and began scrolling, message by message. After a minute he realised he was going about this completely the wrong way and clicked to re-sort the messages. Now he could read, starting with the oldest first. This would build up a better picture in his mind of the sequence of events.
The first message which caught his eye was one sent not by Collington, but by his wife, and copied to members of the Ecological Political Assembly of New Zealand. It noted the first visit of Tony, the Cowood vet, to the Island. The existence of such an email surprised Brent, given that once Anika had separated from Patrick O'Sullivan, she had, at least publicly, severed all ties with the party.
At the time she had gone on record describing it as an inward-looking, corrupt, self-seeking and egotistical organisation, more interested in fulfilling its own agenda than promoting the interests of the ordinary Kiwi family. This email, and others, confirmed to Brent that she was not only in regular contact with senior members of the party but actively contributing to policy making. It was political dynamite.
Brent ignored this revelation and instead concentrated on piecing together the roles of both Edward Collington, and now it seemed Anika Collington, over the last eighteen months.
The emails revealed that soon after he began to visit the Island, Ed and Anika had managed to extract from Tony Robinson the true purpose of his regular visits to Waiheke. As Anika let her former political allies know, it appeared her former husband, the Chairman of Dairy Tree and head of EPANZ, was now intent on developing milk into bio-fuel as a commercial proposition.
Then Brent read an email that made the hairs on his arms stand on end - not for the content, since it only requested Anika to make a phone call to a specified number - it was the name of the sender, Commander Dalton.
Brent checked over his shoulder, noted the time and date of the email, and closed it again. He plugged a headset into the port on the front of the PC. Then, locating the file containing the outward phone calls made from the Mushroom Café, he found one matching the date of the email.
He pressed Play.
"Good afternoon. Roger Dalton's office. How may I help you?"
"This is Anika Collington. I've been given this number to call to speak to someone about Patrick O'Sullivan, my ex-husband?"
"Thank you for calling, Anika. This is a private number at the Environment Ministry. I understand you've been in contact with some of your former colleagues in the Ecological Party and that you may have some misgivings about the work your ex-husband may be involved in? I'd like to discuss this with you in more detail, I believe you own the Mushroom Café on Waiheke. Will you be around on Thursday?"
"Yes, why?"
"Because I need to speak with you in person about this. Shall we say eleven?"
"That's ok with me."
Why had the Commander not made Brent aware of his contact with this woman earlier? Brent jumped; the headset had masked the approach from behind. A hand was on his shoulder. It was Dalton. There was no point in trying to conceal the evidence. If he had wanted to, Dalton could have easily destroyed the recording himself.
"So, found anything interesting yet?"
"I'm not sure, sir. You tell me. I've just been listening to conversation between you and Collington's wife requesting a meeting with her."
Brent looked for a glimmer, a twitch, a forced smile, a shrug, anything.
Commander Dalton didn't miss a beat. 'She's working for us, Brent, both of them are. We were able to manipulate the absolute contempt she now has for her ex to our own ends. Anika and Ed have been keeping us informed about the Cowood situation on Waiheke for some time now."
"But I thought the line was the Government barely knows what's going on?"
"That's absolutely correct. No one in the Cabinet office, and that includes the PM, has a clue about the seriousness of the position here. We intend keeping it that way, to protect the integrity of the mission, until we are in a position to inform the PM of a satisfactory conclusion."
"But he's head of the Security Service. Surely he has a right to be kept informed."
"Correct, to a point, Captain, but you of all people must realise by now that this is a matter of huge significance, not only for this country, but internationally. The role of the NZCIS and, within that, the KMP, is to manage and deal with this crisis. The PM has complete faith in our ability to do whatever is required to deal with this. Any communication, even within the Cabinet, risks exposing our intentions to the Americans."
Brent didn't understand. Despite his own position in the KMP; a secret organisation within the security service, he'd always believed his Government to be amongst the most open in the world. How could private communications within the Cabinet expose the counter measures that were now under way to the enemy? Shit! For the first time he'd consciously thought of the USA as the enemy.
"We've good reason to suspect there may be a spy within the Cabinet, Brent. There's mounting evidence that information is being passed to the Americans. Information which is only circulated at the highest level seems to have had a habit of turning up on the other side of the Pacific."
"For instance?"
"Well, the latest example was yesterday with the logging truck 'accident'. As we had some significant input into the incident, we made sure there was a complete news blackout until we had a press release ready for the Police Commissioner to deliver. Then I get the American Ambassador on the phone within the hour with an intimate knowledge of events. Far more stuff than he could have got even from the spy satellite. Someone had been passing him information."
Brent was astonished firstly by the revelation that the Collingtons were apparent informers and now Dalton's candid admission that the Government leaked like a sieve at the highest level.
He turned back to the screen, unsure whether it was worth continuing to sift through another year's worth of emails and phone calls after what he'd just been told. "Commander, after the logging truck incident, what exactly was the chain of events from the time I spoke to you on the radio from the helicopter to you passing on the approved press release to Police Headquarters?"
The Commander thought for a moment before replying. "Well, I called the PM's Private Secretary as soon as I finished speaking with you. He then passed the information onto the PM who would've probably emailed the rest of the Cabinet, or at least contacted their respective secretaries. The draft of the press release was faxed to me for checking and proofing about forty-five minutes later. Early on, the PM's Office will have also contacted the Police Commissioner's office to request the media blackout. I called the PM straight back to confirm the draft was OK and then it would have been ... "
Brent interrupted him, "Faxed to the office of the Commissioner of Police in Wellington at 17.08pm."
"How the hell .... ?"
Brent had a copy of the communications log from the fax machine in the Prime Minister's Office on the screen in front of him.
"Where the heck did you get that?"
"During the night, the Ops guys managed to get this computer remotely logged into the feed from our Black Room. I can read any email, or listen to any phone call, made into, out of, or around the country, and call up records going back to 1995 if I need to. But there's more. If you look at each record, line by line, it shows technical stuff, time and date, IP address or phone number, call duration, that kind of thing. But what is interesting is this column here...." Brent ran his finger down the screen. "This set of numbers indicates if and when the communication was last accessed externally. Let me show you."
Brent's fingers moved quickly across the keyboard as he explained what he was doing. "I'm bringing up the records of all calls made from the Prime Minister's personal extension number in the past month and, if you look at the column which shows these records being accessed it should show - yes, I thought so - you can see here that every ninety minutes the calls are being accessed. Now, if we enter your personal email address, you can see that the records have been accessed at the same time, at ninety minute intervals. Just for comparison, if I type in my mother's phone number, I can see it looks like she called my auntie in Rotorua yesterday afternoon, but no indication that call has ever been externally accessed."
"That's good work, Brent, but all it does it confirm my suspicion. It doesn't point the finger in any particular direction, does it?"
"Actually, sir, it does. Let me show you."
Brent loaded the Massey University Satellite Tracking and Electronic Recognition program - MUSTER. "If you look at the orbit of this particular US spy satellite, you can see it passes overhead every ninety minutes. Each time it does, it collects data. They've infiltrated the Black Room. That's the source of the leak. As the satellite tracks eastward, and the Western seaboard of the USA appears over the horizon, the information is downloaded to the NSA's own Black Room in San Francisco.
"So how can we stop it?"
"Well, sir, the Black Room was sealed in 1996. Only authorised personnel are allowed to enter. The only way in is by entering a PIN number into a keypad. I haven't been able to find a record of this code anywhere."
Dalton was familiar with the concept of the Black Room and had even been privy to some of the information it had yielded in the past. Now he felt frustration at his own ignorance of what transpired to be not only a critical asset to the country, but also a highly dangerous Trojan horse. "So where is this Black Room exactly?"
"According to the records, it's situated beneath the City Council offices in Nelson. When the building was constructed in 1982, there were classified plans for a bunker beneath the seven storey structure. Since it was built to withstand flood, fire and earthquake, this bunker was eventually adapted to house the main telephone exchange for the South Island. The Americans decided this would be the most secure site for a Black Room, so offered to build one concealed in the main exchange. Today, the only indication of the real significance of the bunker is an anonymous steel door next to the Post Office on the ground floor of the building."
"So are you saying the way to stem the leak of information is to switch off the Black Room?"
"Not completely, no. We just need to locate the equipment inside which is transmitting to the satellite when it passes overhead, and disconnect it."
"So how do we get in if no-one, except presumably the Americans, know this PIN number?"
"We work it out, sir."
"But it could be any combination of any string of numbers. How the hell are we even going to begin to crack a code like that?"
Brent returned to scrolling through the records which had passed through the Black Room, noting which ones were regularly sent to the satellite as it passed unseen overhead.
Some of these records had an additional column of information. It took him half an hour to realise what these were. He dialled the phone numbers in turn. Each time there was no reply. Then it dawned on him. The unobtainable phone numbers, the extra column of digits, these were EFTPOS terminals.
Each time it passed overhead, the satellite uploaded the details of every electronic purchase made in New Zealand in the previous ninety minutes. In this way they knew precisely how much was being spent, where, on what, and by whom. This was damning evidence of the extent of the American Government's covert operation in New Zealand, whether it was linked to the activities of Cowood Industries or not.
It was time to use the Black Room to their own advantage. Brent found evidence of supposedly secure emails sent by the NSA, that, by a bizarre twist, had been routed via the Black Room, to the American Embassy in Wellington. The search criteria he entered were simple:
Search 0,1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9
As he hit Enter, the results box started to fill with emails. The title of each one was the same: Pass Code Update.
It was a deceptively simple process. The Black Room collected the details of every EFTPOS transaction and sent them up to the passing satellite. In San Francisco, the sum of the value of all the transactions was instantly calculated and the number transmitted by automatic email via the American Embassy in Wellington to the keypad at the entrance to the bunker. The PIN remained valid for ninety minutes, after which the process was repeated. The chance of the number repeating was infinitesimal. The most recent email had only been sent in the last fifteen minutes.
A call to the Finance Ministry confirmed that neither the banking system nor the Government had any process in place which allowed them to independently access or calculate the same information so quickly. "Of course, the problem we have is once we intercept the incoming email giving us the new pass code for the next ninety minutes, we then have less than an hour to access the Black Room, locate the transmitter and disable it. If we manage it, the Americans will have a systems failure to deal with. But if we fail, the next upload will expose our intercept of their last pass code message."
Brent's second coffee had kicked in and he paced the floor.
"We need to get Turner off the island and move him down south. I'll get one of the guys to make contact with the Collingtons so they can prepare to move him. In the meantime, I'll go to Nelson and disable the Black Room transmitter. We'll need to set something up so once I'm there and the email has been intercepted, you have some way of getting the pass code to me without alerting the Yanks if we fail."
Dalton frowned. "So I need to get this code to you without using a phone call, text, or email, but within minutes of receiving it myself? That's not possible. There is no way such information could be sent so quickly and also securely. We can only intercept the communications sent through the Black Room using two ultra-fire walled computers; this one and the one in the emergency room in the basement of the Beehive. A radio transmission would easily be intercepted and even a written version, flown from here to Nelson, and then driven at high speed into the town centre, is a long shot and, to be honest, not a scenario I'd be prepared to attempt untested."
Brent was confident he had a solution. The Commander thought his plan wouldn't work. It would be a challenge but was also the most likely way they could achieve their goal without arousing the suspicion of the American Government, and the NSA in particular. "There is, sir, an additional factor we have to consider. Finding the source of the leaks and shutting down outside access to the Black Room is just an added bonus in this whole exercise. Our prime objective is still to remove the threat of contamination of the dairy herds.
The Americans own fifty per cent of Cowood, but others, including O'Sullivan, own the rest. Without him on board, and on their side, their plans begin to falter. If he's no longer in the picture, then without his drive and influence, there's no way that Cowood will be able to proceed with their plans."
"So, what exactly are you suggesting here, Piri?"
"What I am suggesting, sir, is elimination."
Dalton's eyes widened as his mind raced through the protocol for authorising such a move.
"Assassination? The PM would never sanction it!"
"The PM doesn't have to, sir, because there'll never be a shred of evidence such a thing occurred. All I am suggesting is that you, as my commanding officer, acknowledge what we both know about Patrick O'Sullivan. His involvement in both the Ecological Party and his shareholding in Cowood pose a threat to the security of this country."
Dalton nodded reluctantly. "I can see where you are going with this, Captain. Based on the evidence we've uncovered so far, it's clear this man should never be allowed to get anywhere near the leadership of this country."
'Thank you, sir. That's all I need to hear and as far as we need to discuss the matter. Now, if you'll excuse me, there's one other detail I need to confirm before we get the other guys in place."
Brent turned back to the computer. Dalton took this as his cue to exit. Brent smiled to himself. As far as he was concerned, the hardest part of the mission had just been accomplished. He had persuaded Dalton to accept his plan unconditionally. Now he was back in control.
The Americans were closely monitoring all their telecommunications. Brent made sure Dalton's call to Ed Collington, requesting David Turner's removal from the island, made no mention of the involvement of the Secret Service. As far as Collington was concerned, the men he and Turner were linking up with were other members of the so-called resistance, a fictitious group the Commander fabricated as a means of gaining both Ed and Anika Collington's sympathy, and willing participation as unwitting collaborators.
With David Turner safely off Waiheke Island and the television news the night before confirming the incident at the Dairytree Cheese factory, Brent boarded an RNZAF Iroquois and flew south across the Cook Strait, coming in low over the Marlborough Sounds and landing in an isolated paddock.
The truck had left half an hour previously but, as Brent jumped from the chopper and ran towards the abandoned house, he knew one of the recent occupants had left him an important package in the cattle trough next to the gate. He peered into the murky sludge before plunging his hand into the icy water and fishing out a small clear container sealed tight against the water, with tape, and containing all the modified gamma casein whey he would need.
Placing the small container carefully into his pocket, he ran back to the waiting helicopter which rose once again into the clear late morning sky, heading west towards Nelson and landing at the commercial airport twenty minutes later.
Brent retrieved the key to the bus from inside the wheel arch, climbed in, started the engine and headed into the city. Hone hadn't been entirely truthful in saying it had failed to start once arriving in the South Island. In fact he had handed it over to another operative who had then driven it directly to Nelson. Meanwhile, Hone was dropped at the end of the track leading to the safe house where he and the others had spent the previous night.
Brent was manoeuvring the heavy vehicle through the afternoon traffic when a message came through. It was Commander Dalton. "We've just got word from the two agents who are managing the British vet guy. Apparently Turner has given them the slip. They reckon he'll be heading into town to try and find O'Sullivan."
"OK tell them to let him go. I should be able to find him in the next few hours. In the meantime, proceed with the plan as agreed. Let Collington think they are all involved in getting rid of O'Sullivan but try and keep him away from the hotel for the time-being."
David pulled into the petrol station, filled the bike up and strode towards the sliding doors. He stopped and the doors slid closed again. It was too late. David's hand was already pulling the wallet from his pocket, his mind racing with the knowledge that the only means he had to pay for petrol was the solitary credit card.
Within seconds of entering the PIN, his location and purchase would be identified. The bike's tank had been filled and he had only bought ten dollars worth of fuel. That was less than a quarter of a car's worth. It wouldn't take long for somebody to question the quantity. Sooner or later someone would work out David had bought a tank's worth of fuel, but not for a car.
The card was in his hand and there was no way he could avoid paying. The forecourt had video surveillance and, in such a small town, he'd probably be caught within fifteen minutes.
"Pump number?"
David glanced through the window towards the bike. "Ten." He scanned the display in front of the cashier, eyeing the chocolate bars. How many would it take to add up to a car's worth of fuel, he wondered as he grabbed a handful.
"That'll be fifteen dollars."
He examined the shelves behind the cashier, looking at the maps, thinking a decent thirty dollar one could prove useful. It would also increase his spend, disguising the true cost of the fuel in the overall purchase. "I'll take a South Island map as well, please," he said, handing over the credit card. The cashier punched in the amount, swiped the card and gestured towards the key pad. David had committed the number to memory and tapped it in. A moment later, the display silently replied; accepted. He walked out, straddled the bike, repositioned his helmet and drove out onto the road, heading towards the city centre.
As Rocks Road curved away from the sea towards the town, David's eyes followed it down an avenue of trees and into the distance. A large white building stood out against the green hillside, a tall, stark, incongruous slab of a landmark amongst such verdant surroundings.
The sign on the roof was clearly legible - Horatio Plaza Hotel. He kept the position in his head as the streets followed a tortuous route towards it - Hardy Street, Collingwood Street, Trafalgar Street, The Nelson theme was resolute and, he thought, increasingly unimaginative,. The hotel came into view once again, this time just one block away.
David parked the bike and removed his helmet. Then he saw it, and his chest immediately began to thump. Parked across from the hotel was the bus he had travelled in from Auckland with Ed and Hone. He'd last seen it parked on the quayside in Wellington. Hone said it'd broken down in Picton but here it was parked opposite the hotel. Any sense of freedom at having escaped from the house evaporated.
The glass-panelled doors swished apart and the reason for the current location of the bus became clear. On a large sign in the lobby below the hotel name and date were the words:
Welcomes the EPANZ National Conference
David recalled the plan and the bizarre method to poison the EPANZ leader.
"Good evening, sir. May I help you." The receptionist's greeting was the first genuinely warm, welcoming smile he had received for some time.
"Can I get a room for the night, please?" He'd ridden past a dozen motels and hotels on the way to this place. Until he had spotted the bus moments earlier, he thought it would be the last place they'd look for him. He was also desperately trying to think of a way to prevent Patrick O'Sullivan's death, or at least to warn him.
A scenario flashed through his head. Excuse me Mr O'Sullivan, you don't know me from Adam, but if you take another sip of that cappuccino, you'll die. It sounded a bit too surreal. David was starting to question whether Katherine had been right all along and he was over-reacting.
"Sir? Single or double?"
"Sorry, a single room, please."
"Thank you. 515 is available and it's got a bit of a sea view. You're lucky to get a single with the big conference here at the moment."
David looked at her intently. She was probably only eighteen or nineteen and, from her complexion, ample figure and thick mane of barely-tamed auburn hair, he decided she was a country girl who'd come to the city in search of her first proper job. She was obviously proud her hotel was hosting such an important event and felt David should be equally impressed. He smiled back, deciding in that instant that he was fully justified in exploiting her inexperience and naivety.
"So, is the guy in charge of EPANZ staying here as well?"
"Mr O'Sullivan? Yes he is, sir. Same floor as you in fact."
"Really?"
"Yes, three rooms down from yours, so don't you go riding that motorbike around your room at all hours." She laughed, pointing to the crash helmet he'd placed on the counter. David realised how much he was missing Katherine.
So O'Sullivan would either be in 521, or, in the other direction, 509. David thought this information might be valuable to him. If it was going to be this easy to glean information about an intended assassination target, then hopefully he would be able to work out how to save his life.
"Do you have a credit card, sir?" She needed to swipe a card in case he skipped the room without paying for the mini bar.
"Er, actually I don't," he answered, knowing that within seconds of it being swiped his presence in the hotel would be known.
"In that case, sir, if you don't mind, I'll get the porter to remove the mini-bar. If you require any refreshment, just call."
David sat on the bed browsing the room service menu. There was no way he would risk walking into town for something to eat or even venture into the hotel restaurant. He needed a drink. The mini-bar had already been removed by the time he'd reached the room. He would have to go to one of the hotel bars where at least he could also order some food.
Carefully pulling the room door until it clicked shut, there was the echo of another door also being closed. To his right, someone was walking towards the lift. He followed, noting the room number. It was 521. He called out the only name that came to mind. "Mr O'Sullivan?"
The figure turned. This didn't mean it was him. No-one else was in the corridor. He could just been reacting to the voice behind him. But he stopped, allowing David time to catch up. "Patrick O'Sullivan?"
"Yes." He frowned, expecting to recognise the person now calling his name.
Now what should he do - blurt the entire story right here in the hotel corridor? Warn him his life was in imminent danger? David had fully intended, up to that moment, to remain anonymous, to observe O'Sullivan at a discrete distance and to watch for any signs he was in immediate danger, either from Ed or from something he might eat or drink.
Suddenly he was confronted with the reason his life had been turned upside down for the past few days. O'Sullivan took David's hesitation in his stride. As potentially the next Prime Minister, he was used to being confronted by supporters and well wishers suddenly awe struck in his presence.
David spoke. "Hi, er, I just wanted to say how much I admire what you are trying to do for this country." David could feel his throat drying. He'd been in New Zealand less than a week and was now standing in front of the man who, he'd recently found out, could be responsible for the impending destruction of the entire country's economy. I've just told him how much I admire what he's doing!
"Thanks, er ... ?"
"Dave Turner"
"You're English, Dave? How long have you lived in New Zealand?"
This was getting worse by the second. "Just a week. I'm looking around the Nelson area for somewhere to live at the moment, just booked in here for a few days. Using it as a sort of base."
O'Sullivan stared at him. "And you're familiar with my policies?'
David detected the note of scepticism. He tried to sound relaxed. "Well, when we were researching a country to emigrate to, we looked at all aspects, and we liked the fact New Zealand has this clean, green image, and an active environmental lobby. People such as you, sir."
"Good on you, Dave. Make sure you sign onto the electoral roll once you're settled in, so we can count on your vote in next year's election." They were in the lift and exchanging small talk. "If you're around the hotel in the next few days, we have a few public debates and forums you might be interested in."
The doors opened and they stepped out, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm just heading into town for a meeting. Good to meet you, Dave."
He was gone. The leader of a major political party, possibly the next leader of the country, just walked out of the hotel and into the early evening unaccompanied, no security or personal assistants. What a great country, David thought. God, it's going to be so easy for someone to kill him.
Patrick O'Sullivan walked out into the cool evening air. A small hidden camera transmitted his image to a computer in the bus parked across the street. The screen brightened, and with the familiar 'ding' of an incoming email, an oversized copy of Patrick O'Sullivan's passport photograph illuminated the darkened cabin of the bus.
Brent opened one eye. Recognising the image on the screen, he pulled on a sweater and baseball cap, left the bus, and crossed the road, noting O'Sullivan already heading towards the centre of town.
He kept well back, strolling and pausing to peer into shop windows. He'd already spent an hour familiarising himself with the layout of the town centre and could visualise the entire length of Trafalgar Street, from the Cinema and Post Office at one end, to the Cathedral steps at the other. Brent knew the location of every bar and restaurant in the street.
O'Sullivan crossed the road and turned the corner.
Three weeks earlier Brent had been honing his close quarter urban tracking skills amongst the mass of shoppers and sightseers on a humid summer's afternoon on London's Oxford Street. This time, his prey was the only other person on the street.
He turned the corner, eyes instantly darting up the street, left then right, until they met a silhouetted figure now turning into one of the bars halfway down. He crossed onto the opposite side and made his way towards the bar, passed it, crossed over and approached it from the other end of the street.
O'Sullivan was already seated with two other men, his back to the bar, talking about a press conference that had been held earlier.
The barista ostentatiously steamed a jug of milk. Carefully, he poured the frothy mixture into each of the three cups before lifting them onto the counter in front of Brent, acknowledging him for the first time. "Won't be a minute, mate. Just finish this order and I'll be with you," he said, as he sprinkled cinnamon on one and chocolate on the other two. As he walked around the bar to collect the drinks, Brent felt for the phial in his pocket. By the time the barman was next to him, Brent already had two of the drinks in his hands. He handed them over;
"Here, let me help you." Brent thrust the drinks at him, almost forcing him backwards. Brent had hoped for ten seconds but hadn't counted on the barman backing away, still facing him, before reversing himself into a chair and finally to O'Sullivan's table where he served the men on a first-come, first-served basis, so O'Sullivan last, as Brent had hoped.
As soon as his back was turned, Brent popped the top of the phial and emptied a small quantity of the contents into the third remaining coffee. The white powder instantly dissolved through the milky froth into the hot drink beneath. As the barman returned for the third cup, Brent was already out the door.
By the time he was back in the bus, Patrick O'Sullivan had already sipped his first three milligrams of gamma casein. A fatal dose was around fifty milligrams. No one could be sure as to the exact amount needed since no data had ever been published on the quantity needed to cause a deliberate fatality in humans. Brent had been told O'Sullivan would need to drink at least another sixteen coffees in the next five days; about three a day. How was he going to get the stuff into every single coffee O'Sullivan drank for the next week?
\*
David sat in the hotel bar, sipping beer, waiting for his food. A short distance away, Patrick O'Sullivan had already started to die.
His entire perception of the man had been coloured by the impressions of others. Now he had seen him in the flesh, stood next to him, even spoken to him, he found it hard to believe that such an apparently genial, vigorous man deserved to die. David already knew the manner of his death and that it was expected to be soon. He made his way down to the hotel lobby, waiting for O'Sullivan's return. If he had any sense at all he would listen to what David had to say and then make up his own mind.
There was a flash as the entrance doors parted, catching the glare from the chandeliers above. David walked purposefully towards him, unnoticed by O'Sullivan who continued towards the lift. David was still five paces behind. The door of the lift opened, O'Sullivan stepped in and pressed the button for the fifth floor.
David quickened his pace. He felt like a stalker. Now he had the opportunity to say what he had spent the last hour planning in his own mind. He clenched his fists and took a deep breath as the doors closed behind him.
They stood, side-by-side, gazing blankly ahead. O'Sullivan didn't even acknowledge him. Perhaps he had already forgotten their brief introduction earlier?
"Mr O'Sullivan, there's something I need to tell you." David heard his voice boom in the confined space. "Your life is in danger. Since arriving in New Zealand earlier this week, I've met people who intend to kill to stop you becoming leader of this country."
O'Sullivan turned. "It's, er...?"
"Dave, sir, we met earlier. You're in the room three doors down from me."
'Are you a journalist, Dave?"
"No sir. Remember I told you I've just emigrated here?" The lift door opened and O'Sullivan stepped out, intent on reaching his room and closing the door. David only had a few seconds left to persuade him. "I know about Cowood."
O'Sullivan rolled his eyes. "Is that what this is about? Dave, the fact that I'm on the board of Cowood Industries is common knowledge here in New Zealand. My directorship is completely compatible with my role as leader of EPANZ. Why would that endanger my life? Now, if you'll excuse me, I've had a long day and I'm up early in the morning for a radio interview."
David had to think quickly. He at least expected time to explain the whole scenario. O'Sullivan already had the key in the door of his room. "I know about Waiheke Island and the real reason for the foot and mouth story." The door to O'Sullivan's room was open. He paused. "Does this convince you?" David fumbled in his pocket for the credit card and held it up close to O'Sullivan's face.
He looked back at him blankly. "Are you trying to bribe me or blackmail me here, Dave, because you've completely lost me?"
"This is an Associated Bank of Monaco credit card and, from what I've learnt in the past few days, it's more exclusive than a black American Express card." David emphasised the next sentence. "You could buy a whole country with one of these."
O'Sullivan pushed the door fully open and gestured to David to enter ahead of him. The card had apparently worked. Finally, O'Sullivan was prepared to listen. David entered and waited for O'Sullivan to click the door completely shut behind him before continuing, relieved he was finally about to get it off his chest.
Instead, O'Sullivan spoke first. "Look. Dave, I've been hearing rumours for a few months now about supposed innocent couriers being used to bring large sums of money into the country with the intention of destabilising our economy, even that my name and my political and business interests were being used as some kind of bizarre justification for their actions when these supposed couriers realised or found out exactly what they were carrying."
David was confused. This was the first opportunity Patrick O'Sullivan had to explain his role in all this and it wasn't what he'd expected to hear. But why should David disbelieve him? After all, the people who'd given him another version were an old school friend he hadn't seen or had contact with for the past twenty years, and his mates who seemed to be little more than small time local crooks, certainly kidnappers, if nothing else. What if it was O'Sullivan who was telling the truth? David almost wanted to trust him.
"This is the first time anyone has shown me any concrete evidence of these rumours. Thanks for bringing this to my attention tonight. Dave, I really appreciate it, believe me. Now, by coming forward with this information you've probably put yourself in danger. Somewhere out there, probably not too far away, these people are very keen to get their card back."
David remembered the bus that was already parked at the front of the hotel when he arrived.
"We need to get you out of here tonight, my friend. First thing tomorrow we can go to the police and get this all sorted out." O'Sullivan had already keyed in a number and his mobile phone was to his ear;
"It's me. Look, sorry to call so late, I need you to send a car to the hotel. About thirty minutes? Good. I'll call you back with the details. Tell the driver to meet me round the back."
David was no longer sure what was happening. Had O'Sullivan just called the police, some special government security number or his own private protection? He hustled David towards the door. "Go back to your room, Dave. Put the chain on the door, pack your bag and don't answer the phone. When I knock in about twenty minutes, be ready with your stuff."
Patrick O'Sullivan grew up on the West Coast of Ireland. His family owned a large dairy farming operation. Pat helped his father in the milking sheds on pitch dark, cold wet winter mornings, or cut hay in the summer holidays in bright daylight at ten o'clock in the evening.
His father, a large, ruddy-faced man, inherited the family farm and had ambitions to expand it. Within five years of taking it over, he'd either bought out his neighbours or was leasing substantial amounts of grazing pasture from them.
In the early seventies, this expanding empire caught the eye of the Irish paramilitaries as they looked at diversifying into activities giving them a legitimate income to make overseas arms purchases. At this point in the troubled history of Ireland, the Republican movement was going through a period of in-fighting as different factions split from the old IRA. Battle lines were being drawn.
Paddy O'Sullivan Senior resisted all attempts to allow arms dumps to be secreted on his land, or outlying barns to be used for small arms practise or explosives training.
There was another reason he was keen to keep strangers from having free rein on his property. He'd been a keen and productive home brewer for many years, well known locally as a reliable and discrete source of poteen; Irish moonshine, illegal since 1760 but nonetheless, widely produced and enjoyed throughout the Republic. Paddy produced a potent and agreeable brew for his small group of regular customers. He was always coming up with new variations of ingredients which could be mixed and distilled to produce drinks that one day he hoped to produce legally and in commercial quantities.
One night, Paddy decided to experiment by adding small amounts of cream to the base poteen spirit. He dripped small globules of cream into glass test tubes of clear, neat spirit, lined up along his work bench. The cream, being heavier than the spirit, inevitably sank like cold white wax.
He picked one up, shook it hard, mixing the two opposing liquids, then gulped down the contents. The sensation was not unpleasant, the cream creating an unexpected smooth sensation in his mouth which was quickly overtaken by the poteen burning through.
He ran to the house and burst through the door, already the worse for being the willing victim of that night's experiments. "Try this, Mary!" he shouted to Mrs O'Sullivan, sitting in the lounge, reading. She wasn't a regular drinker, and Paddy was shrewd enough not to waste the stuff on her, but she was always willing when offered a sample, although careful never to appear too keen.
"Get away with ya now, Paddy O'Sullivan, Don't come into my house at this time of night stinking of booze and waving your illegal brew in my face!"
"But, Mary, this time I think I might have just cracked it. Take a wee sip of this." He handed her one of the three glass phials he'd managed to keep from spilling in the dark making his way from the barn to the kitchen door. She eyed it suspiciously. Already the cream and alcohol, which he'd shaken together in the barn only moments earlier, were beginning to separate out again. She took another close look at it and sipped, taking only some of the spirit from the top. As usual. she winced and opened her mouth wide, breathing heavily, allowing the cooling air to calm her burning throat. "Fiery as usual," she rasped.
"Shake the tube woman, mix the cream and the spirit, and take another sip."
She looked at him, eyes wide, as if he'd just asked her to imbibe neat acid. The clock above the fire place chimed nine thirty. She would down the rest of the tube in one go, then head straight upstairs to bed. Hopefully, the full effects of a second mouthful wouldn't wreak its full vengeance until her head was safely on her pillow.
Young Patrick, woken by the commotion downstairs, crept onto the landing and watched his parents knocking back home-made hooch. His mother frowned. Maybe Paddy was right, perhaps he did have something here. "It's a bit, well, a bit raw Patrick, a bit too harsh for my taste, but the cream certainly gives it an unusual texture on the palate. Let me try just one more."
Paddy was taken aback. Usually Mary abused him for wasting time on his useless pursuit of the perfect home brew. He handed her the last phial and she headed into the kitchen. Intrigued, he followed, half expecting her to throw it down the sink. "It needs something to sweeten it up a bit." She opened the sugar jar, took a pinch and dropped it into the phial, shook it and then took a sip. "Try that, now," she said, handing the phial back to her husband who stood, dumbfounded to be offered a shot of his own moonshine by his wife.
He sipped. "Smoother, much smoother. I think we might be onto something here, Mary. What else have you there in the pantry we could try?"
"Not tonight, Paddy O'Sullivan," she said, firmly closing the door and pouring the remaining contents of the phial down the sink. Paddy knew when to call it a night. It was triumph enough he'd persuaded Mary to try his latest concoction, and it was a small miracle that she'd opened up her pantry and actually offered ingredients from within it. He'd try again in a day or so.
Young Patrick, hearing the creak as the pantry door closed and the sound of his parents moving towards the bottom of the stairs, crept quickly back to his room, silently pulled the door behind him, and climbed back into bed.
Now, in the solitude of his hotel room, this memory returned as clearly as if it had happened only yesterday. A short time afterwards, he was in bed, aware more than usual of the silence in the house. His mother either read the paper or listened to the radio in the evening. On this occasion, there were neither the familiar voices, music and laughter, nor the rustle and noisy shaking as she turned the pages of the newspaper, attempting to unravel the mess his father made of it at lunchtime.
Curious, he crept once again to the top of the stairs that led down directly into the main living area of the old farmhouse. Only a table lamp lit the room, too dim to read by, he thought. Step by creaking step, he made his way downstairs. If his mother suddenly appeared through the kitchen door beneath him, he could say he was after a drink of water, brazenly keep going, get his drink and go straight back to bed.
Silence. The house appeared to be empty. It was usual for his father to be working late into the evening on one of his projects out in the barn, but for his mother to not be doing something around the house was unusual, disconcerting for a ten year old used to the security and certainty of routine family life.
He heard a familiar and welcome sound. His breathing which had been shallow and hesitant returned to its usual rhythm. It was the sound of his parents laughing together somewhere outside.
He felt compelled to check everything was all right. Patrick made his way, barefoot and increasingly cold, across the yard. Depending on what he saw, he'd retreat, embarrassed but reassured, back to his room. If he was caught then he'd heard noises, was frightened and had come looking for them.
Patrick decided it would be better to peer through the small window first and in that way decide if he should make an innocent entrance. The naked brilliance of an uncovered bulb cast a stark clinical light around the inside of the barn. Patrick could see his parents and someone else standing by the workbench against the far wall. They were drinking from small glasses, talking and laughing. Why were they socialising in the barn? Surely the house was warmer and more comfortable at this late hour?
Patrick heard a bang. Half-blinded by the brightness he had just been staring intently into, he could just make out in the gloom the shape of Tess, the family dog, running out through the open front door and across the yard towards him. He tried to silently shoo her away, but she misunderstood his waving and barked a loud greeting back. Paddy cursed. "Who let the bloody dog out at this hour?"
Patrick ran through the barn door, following the panting Tess. "It was me, Da," he puffed, pretending to have just chased the dog all the way from the house. "She was scratching at the door to be let out and woke me up. She just ran, so I ran after her and ... " Tess looked up at him as if she believed every word of it.
His parents accepted the explanation. Their focus at that moment was on their guest; a smartly dressed man who Patrick now recalled, over thirty years later, wore a tie, a long black overcoat and immaculately polished black brogues, caked on the soles in farmyard soil. He looked out of place standing there in the barn but otherwise seemed at ease. The empty glass in his hand was probably the explanation for his relaxed demeanour;
"Mr Templeton, this is my son, Patrick. Say hello to Mr Templeton, Patrick."
Patrick smiled awkwardly. He knew Mr Templeton was the reason he hadn't received a clip round the ear. In fact, if it hadn't been for Mr Templeton and his parents' laughter, he wouldn't have been standing in the barn in his pyjamas in the first place. "Now then, Pat, Mr Templeton here has come all the way from Dublin to try a wee drop or three of my latest home brew."
His father stood aside revealing his workbench conspicuously covered by one of his mother's best white linen tablecloths. Set on the cloth were a number of small whisky glasses and a decanter of liquid. Patrick smiled as he recalled its colour - cat sick brown his mother would have called it. "This, my son, is going to make us rich. Mr Templeton here is from one of the big distilleries and he's made me an offer on the rights to make this stuff on a commercial basis."
"What is it?" Patrick asked innocently.
"This my boy, is a mixture of the finest Irish poteen, the best cream in County Cork and a few secret ingredients which I shall divulge in full to Mr Templeton on satisfactory conclusion of our negotiations. Now back to bed with you before you catch your death."
"Can I try some?"
Paddy took a perceptible step back in mock horror, more for the benefit of his wife and their guest. He was secretly quite proud his ten year old son was showing such a keen interest in alcoholic beverages. Young Patrick had no idea what it was.
"Sure you can, son."
Patrick took the freshly filled glass from his father, barely half a mouthful even for a small boy. He held it up briefly to inspect it, as he had seen his father do in the past, and knocked it back in one go.
In hindsight, the vaporous aroma should have warned him a split second before his tongue caught first the smoothness of chocolate and cream, instantly followed by the spirit, burning all the way down his throat and into his stomach. He wretched and, holding the glass out for his father, ran out the barn, across the yard, through the door and into the kitchen where he clasped his lips around the cool metal of the cold water tap and gulped until the heat in his mouth receded and the awful taste had gone.
He blocked that evening from his mind until a few months later when one Saturday afternoon a brand new Range Rover pulled up outside the house. Patrick came running out to greet the stranger.
He'd never seen such a big car. He'd never seen a new car. It was pristine, except for the tyres already encased in mud from the mile long drive up the track from the road. It reminded him of Mr Templeton; immaculate except for the shoes. Then there was the colour. His dad called it tan. But it was the same cat sick colour of the drink he had sold the rights to in order to purchase the new vehicle.
Patrick had long forgotten this, until he met up with a group of student friends one Friday evening fifteen years later at a bar in the centre of Dunedin where he was in the first year of his chemical engineering degree at Otago University. Patrick had been fancying one of them, a beautiful young Maori student, for some time. As the evening wore on, growing louder and more alcohol-fuelled, he finally plucked up the courage to strike up a conversation with her:
"Buy me a drink and I'll tell you my life story." Anika had purred as she swivelled her bar stool and ordered the same again. Patrick never registered what the barman was pouring, so entranced was he by the deep black shine of her hair as it cascaded down her back. She spun back round to face him: "Cheers, Bro'."
As she raised her glass towards him, Patrick's keen nose caught the unmistakeable scent of childhood that night in the barn as he'd raised a glass of his father's concoction to his own lips. He instinctively pulled back, recoiling from the memory, and focussed on the contents of her glass. The familiar cat sick brown colour, the aroma, was unique. Surely it couldn't be?
"Could I .... do you mind if I just .... ?" He gently prised the small glass from Anika's hand, brought it to his own lips and took the smallest of sips. His palate, now more developed than when he was ten, transmitted the signals to his brain in an instant - smooth, creamy, a hint of chocolate, then the pleasantly warm burn as the liquid slid downwards.
For a moment he was lost in the memory, trying to come to terms with the implications of what his father had achieved. Why had he never told him? Or perhaps he had told him as a ten year old that afternoon, sitting on his father's lap, behind the wheel of the Range Rover, as Dad proudly pointed out its finer features in the same way the salesman had shown him.
It was unmistakeable. It was the drink his father had invented twenty years before.
The basic recipe had been sold to a distillery which had been taken over by the biggest and most famous brewery in Ireland. In silence, Patrick scanned the shelf behind the bar, looking where the barman had placed the bottle. There it was.
He'd seen full page advertisements in glossy magazines, watched television commercials at Christmas for this drink. It was one of the most famous, most recognised drinks brands in the world, and his dad had invented it in his barn. It was an unlikely chat up line. Instead, he handed the glass back to Anika. "Sorry about that, I just had to have a sip. I tried it once, years ago and I just wanted to see if it was still as bad as I remembered it."
The rights to the drink not only paid for a new family car. Patrick remembered a new kitchen for his mother and a holiday in Spain. As he attempted to strike up a meaningful conversation with the woman he had already decided would one day become the next Mrs O'Sullivan, he realised the royalties also paid for the state of the art research laboratory his father had insisted on constructing, in place of his ramshackle barn.
Patrick struggled to hear what Anika was saying through the confusion of six pints of stout and the sudden recall of old memories being put into context for the first time.
Paddy was now free to indulge in a small project he had been dabbling in, on and off, for a number of years. He believed milk from the domestic cow contained within its chemical structure a potential source of fuel, not just for the human body but also for machines. Now, in 1974, with the world price of crude oil poised to rise dramatically, Paddy had the opportunity and financial freedom to fully investigate his theory.
He had a laboratory constructed and could afford to employ a small team of expert and enthusiastic staff. Paddy handed over all the notes and schematics compiled from the previous fifteen years of night-time barn research.
He'd got to the point of identifying the correct temperature which would allow the raw whey to react with yeast and split the lactose into its two sugar components - galactose and glucose. He'd successfully fermented these sugars and developed a basic process for removing the yeast and distilling the remaining liquid into a crude ethanol. But the work had been time-consuming, taking hundreds of litres of whey and weeks at a time to produce the tiniest quantity of ethanol.
Paddy's newly-formed team was able to speed up the process. With full time application to the task, they were soon routinely producing up to a litre of ethanol a day, a huge leap compared to his amateur efforts so far.
Soon the work of the laboratory was having an effect on the profitability of Paddy's farm. As the lab demanded greater quantities of the herd's yield, so smaller quantities of raw milk were being collected at the farm gate. Word soon got round that Paddy O'Sullivan was in trouble, either his herd was sick, or something had happened to drastically reduce their milk production.Paddy paid little attention to local gossip, particularly as he was now powering four tractors and most of his farm on his own, home-produced fuel. Within two years he'd have a patented process, sell to the highest bidder, and make even more money than his drink discovery had.
But his apparent lack of concern at his reduced milk sales, together with the increase in activity around the mysterious sheds that had sprung up on his property, once again attracted the interest of local paramilitary leaders. Paddy O'Sullivan was definitely up to something.
He'd managed to keep the sale of his drink formula secret, due in part to the fact that it had been purchased by a company in Dublin, so there was no local knowledge of the transaction. Paddy attributed his new found wealth to an inheritance.
But when the local bank manager noticed one afternoon that a loan application he was processing for one of Paddy's employees listed his employer as O'Sullivan Agrochemicals Ltd, he got straight on the phone.
Paddy had been careful to place his legal and financial affairs in the hands of solicitors a hundred miles way, in Cork, and hadn't expected his secret to slip out in such an innocent and unforeseen way. The local IRA assumed he was in the pay of a rival faction and was using the cover of a legitimate agrochemical business as some kind of bomb making factory.
The assumption was made and they worked backwards from it. All the signs were there - mysterious strangers posing as farm hands, increased deliveries to the farm of all sorts of large containers and drums of chemicals (much of it either yeast or whey being shipped in from other farms), and the unexplained drop in milk yield that Paddy refused to either confirm or deny.
One Sunday morning in late September 1974, a group of men watched as Paddy drove his Range Rover through the farm entrance, taking the family to church in the village five miles away. They'd watched for the two previous Sundays and reckoned they had no more than ninety minutes.
There was no point in making it look accidental. The purpose of the exercise was to destroy two concrete buildings behind the old barn on Paddy O'Sullivan's property, together with their contents. If he was making explosives, they'd make it look as if the contents of the buildings had ignited. The old barn would protect the house from any blast. This wasn't malicious. It was simply to stop weapons production, not harm Paddy, his family, or personal property.
The white Transit van sped down the drive towards the farm, pulling up behind the deserted labs. The driver stayed in his seat with the engine running. Five others grabbed cans of kerosene and jumped into the mud of the farmyard.
As Patrick looked back, he found it hard to believe how easy it had been to destroy his father's dream. There was no security. The raiders had simply kicked the doors in on both buildings, smashed all the laboratory equipment and then emptied the kerosene cans over the entire room.
The commander placed a man at the doorway of each lab. On his signal, each lobbed a hand grenade and made a frantic run for it back towards the van.
Two dull thuds stopped them in their tracks. Hardly the spectacular, destructive explosion they'd been hoping for. The only indication the grenades had done their job were gentle wisps of smoke wafting from cracks in broken window panes.
The men who'd thrown the grenades stood, half crouching, looking at each other. Had the grenades gone off at all? Their expressions needed no words, each asking the other if they should perhaps go back and check. Instinct and training told them not to. Suddenly, from the lab closest to the van, then moments later from the other, came two huge explosions. The kerosene had ignited, setting off a chain reaction. The two men, still without a word, ran towards the van. The commander was revving the engine furiously, impatient to leave the scene. A huge cloud of black smoke was already billowing high into the sky, indicating to Paddy's neighbours something catastrophic had happened on his land. Of course, all his neighbours were seated in the same pews as Paddy. When they emerged into the cool autumn air an hour later, the pall of smoke had gone.
Paddy knew something was wrong. Approaching the farm gate, he noticed a fresh set of muddy tyre marks leading from his track, out onto the road, heading south. Someone had been on his property whilst the family had been attending Mass. The farm buildings were set in a slight valley and couldn't be seen directly from the road.
As they drove over the brow, Paddy's worst fears were realised. He could see through the remaining smoke that his laboratories had been destroyed. He knew too that it'd been an arson attack. Nothing flammable was kept in either building, at least anything that could've caused devastation on the scale he could now clearly see as he pulled the car to a stop a safe distance from the wreckage.
Patrick remembered the acrid stench, the mess of rubble, concrete, steel and wood, and his father just walking straight into the midst of it all, completely oblivious to the still-smouldering framework of the buildings as he picked up random pieces, trying to salvage something from the ruins.
As the white van headed south, the driver turned to his front seat passenger indicating the contents of his lap - four large ring binders. "Old Paddy wasn't making bombs back there, but whatever is in those might make us a few quid. We'll let the boss take a look at them."
Paddy knew exactly where the research files and test results had been stored; a shelf on the back wall. The blast damage appeared to be worse around the doorways. The shelves, although now on the floor, were in one piece and largely unscathed. So why had the files gone up in flames? Why were the metal bindings not amongst the charred mess around his feet? It dawned on him that he'd been the target of deliberate sabotage. His paperwork seemed to have been carefully removed and the building set ablaze in an attempt to destroy the evidence. Paddy's supposition was only partially correct but his reaction would inadvertently change the course of history.
Paddy's files were handed to the Provo's high command which had no clue as to the significance of their contents. It was only when they were passed over to sympathisers in the United States that their true potential was recognised.
Through a number of intermediaries, the information eventually found its way into the hands of the American Government. Their payment was ultimately used to purchase weapons to further the Irish Republican cause.
Paddy was no fool. Unknown even to his own employees, he kept a small Xerox machine in one of the old barns. Every Friday night he'd take a copy of whatever had been consigned to the ring binders in the preceding five days. On Monday morning he'd post a plain envelope containing the copied documents to his lawyer in Dublin for safe-keeping.
The sealed brown envelope was still sitting on top of the copier where he'd left it on Friday night. He left Mary to explain to the staff on Monday morning why their workplace was now just a pile of smoking rubble, and drove to Dublin before catching the next plane to London. From there he bought a ticket to Los Angeles and onto Auckland.
It was another fifteen years before Patrick learned the full story of why his father had suddenly disappeared for a month in the autumn of 1974; the day after the new buildings mysteriously burned down.
Patrick O'Sullivan graduated with a First in Chemical Engineering from Otago University, having been encouraged by his parents to pursue the dream of exploring the country his father had mysteriously visited years previously. The day after the graduation ceremony, as he was preparing to ship his belongings back to Ireland before travelling back himself, he received a letter from his father's lawyers in Dublin.
The last time he'd received such official looking mail had been two years before. His father had died and he'd returned home for the funeral. Returning to Dunedin, and university life, the painful memory of his father's passing returned each time he received a letter from Dublin.
More details of his father's will and his inheritance of the farm. The familiar writing on the envelope and the Irish stamp brought the memories of that time flooding back once more. Patrick was curious why Messrs O'Halloran were writing to him again after nearly two years.
Dear Mr O'Sullivan
Please accept our warmest congratulations on the successful conclusion of your studies. In accordance with your father's last will and testament, we are now obliged to inform you that as a result of the acquisition of your degree, you are hereby entitled to claim a forty-nine per cent share in the business known as Dairytree Limited.
The necessary paperwork (enclosed) has been prepared in order for you to claim your stake in accordance with New Zealand law. Should you have any further questions please do not hesitate to contact us at the above address.
Still holding the letter, Patrick walked over and opened the fridge. His expectation was confirmed. There on the shelf, Dairytree butter and Dairytree milk. He sat down, shaking his head in disbelief. How had his father managed to secretly acquire a forty-nine per cent stake in New Zealand's largest dairy producer?
He had to wait until ten o'clock that night before he could find out. Nervously he dialled the telephone number for O'Halloran Lawyers and asked to be put through to the senior partner, Edward O'Halloran.
"Patrick, congratulations, my boy! Your father would've been so very proud of you and I'm sure he would also have been particularly keen for you to carry on his work down there in New Zealand. Now, I expect you're a little confused by the letter and all the papers I sent down to you, so let me enlighten you on a few of the details. Back in 1974, your father believed he was on the way to developing a process to produce fuel from cow's milk. For various reasons he wasn't in a position to continue the work here in Ireland, so he sold the rights to develop the process to what is now the Dairytree Company of New Zealand. He knew that dairy farming is a big part of that country's economy and that Dairytree were, and indeed still are, one of the major players. As part of the deal he negotiated a stake in the business, so he could still benefit from any development and commercial success of his original idea. That stake has been held in trust all these years, gradually acquiring more and more of the company. It now passes directly to you and, with your recently acquired knowledge and expertise, it was your father's fervent wish that you use this to go on and fully develop the process which, up until now, Dairytree have failed to develop to its fullest potential."
Patrick had read some of the preliminary papers Dairytree published about their research into bio-ethanol production from whey as part of his own studies. He could never have dreamt that it was actually his father's original experiments in the concrete bunkers on the farm all those years ago. From what he had read and already understood about the process, he was being handed something that was on the brink of a major breakthrough.
Patrick smiled as he remembered the warm glow of excitement he'd felt on first realising the possibilities that his father's bequest had brought him.
His mobile phone rang and he was startled back to reality, and the present. "It's me. The car is about two minutes away. Bring our guest down to meet it in the loading bay."
David sat staring at a blank television screen. No doubt Ed was looking for him but he felt safer with O'Sullivan, a respected businessman and politician. He must have security around him, although David had yet to see any evidence of it.
He slipped the bike keys into the helmet, placed it on a chair and tucked the chair under the table in front of the window. There was no point carrying a motorbike helmet around with him. If anything happened, it wouldn't take a genius to work out they belonged to the unclaimed bike still parked out the front of the hotel. Stickers on the fairings clearly showed it was on hire from Lightning Bikes.
He'd left a sufficient trail to follow, if required. There was a tap on the door. "Time to go, Dave. Got everything?"
"Yep," he lied, hoping O'Sullivan was convinced enough not to check the room.
"Good. Follow me." O'Sullivan was a slim, fit man, and led David swiftly down four flights of stairs and through a series of corridors until they were at the rear loading bay of the hotel. His imminent death from an apparent heart attack would surely raise some questions.
The security shutter slowly clanked open. A large 4x4 had already reversed into the brightly lit loading bay, shining black paintwork reflecting the surrounding lights. "Get in the back. He'll take you somewhere safe for the night. I've contacted the police. They'll be in touch first thing in the morning."
The black car rolled out into the night. Patrick punched a number into his phone. "It's me again. He's on his way. Make sure you put him somewhere secure until we decide what to do with him. I need to make some enquiries first. Check his background, find out who he's been speaking to. He seems to know a lot more than any of the others. We need to make sure he hasn't been planted. He thinks I'm protecting him, so let's just keep it that way for now. His name is Dave Turner, by the way."
Brent watched from the bus. A motion sensitive camera he'd placed inside the loading bay picked up O'Sullivan's image and relayed it to the computer on the bus. The live video feed clearly showed the profile of Turner standing next to him. This was bad. It meant that either Turner had deliberately made contact with O'Sullivan, or O'Sullivan had sought him out.
Brent hurdled small shrubs, desperate to get in position before the shutter fully opened. He pulled up sharply when he saw the black car already waiting. Someone got into the back and the car moved off. He keyed the registration plate into his phone and pressed send .The incoming text lit up Brent's face as he read it.
TOYOTA HI LUX BLACK 2001
REGISTERED TO COWOOD INDUSTRIES LTD.
He ran back to the bus, started the engine and drove to the end of the street. It was late and the city centre was deserted. Two hundred metres up the road, a vehicle stopped on a red traffic light. The black Toyota was heading out of town. The light turned green and the Toyota pulled away. The driver would stick to the speed limit for fear of attracting attention from any traffic cops.
The same lights stopped the bus. Brent accelerated the lumbering vehicle slowly away, keeping in sight the quarter lights of the Toyota. The trick was to follow at a discrete distance, not doing anything that might attract attention in a five tonne diesel bus at ten-thirty at night.
Blacked out windows made it impossible for David to see. The driver took the phone from his ear, and looked through the rear view mirror.
"Mr Turner, isn't it? I'm taking you out of town for the night, Mr Turner. There's a lodge about twenty minutes away. You'll be safe and very comfortable there. Mr O'Sullivan will be in touch first thing in the morning. Now, hold tight, we've got a tail." David felt the 4x4 accelerate hard as the street outside suddenly appeared even darker. They were on a fast, unlit road.
Brent reached the roundabout thirty seconds later. The car had sped away into the night. There was no chance the bus would be able to catch it. Five minutes down the main highway was the next small town and a few tiny villages before the road wound through sparsely populated rugged open country, interspersed with mountainous terrain and deep river valleys, until it reached Christchurch four hundred kilometres to the south.
He knew exactly where they were heading. Pulling hard on the steering wheel, the bus leaned over and headed back.
\*
In his hotel room, Patrick O'Sullivan knew he'd be in for a long night. This sudden appearance of a courier was unexpected, unnerving and even though he felt he'd dealt successfully with the situation, he couldn't be sure until he'd spoken to the others.
He despised the constant subterfuge and intrigue. He'd inherited his share of Dairytree as a young, passionate environmentalist. Anika introduced him to the university branch of the fledgling EPANZ movement. Together they'd planned how they would make New Zealand a better, more environmentally conscious nation, and create a greener tomorrow for the children they one day planned to have.
The inheritance came at a convenient time for Patrick who had no real idea what the future held for him. Suddenly he was confronted with making decisions about his life he'd hoped to put off for a few more years yet.
Dairytree executives had little choice but to invite him to join the Board and, soon, at the age of twenty-five, he was taking an active daily role in the Research and Development of one of the country's largest exporters.
Patrick was completely immersed in his Dairytree activities and his ecological crusade. As far as he was concerned, there was no conflict of interest. One passion complemented the other.
He married Anika. With his wife's vision and his own youthful entrepreneurial spirit, the pair became local media darlings and politically-active celebrities. Many believed Patrick was destined for high office.
As Chairman of Dairytree, he steered the company through a delicate period of re-structuring in the early nineties that saw it emerge stronger and in a position to embark on its greatest challenge - an all-out export drive to the United States.
This fateful decision brought Dairytree onto the radar of the American Food and Drug Administration's science board, and its chairman Charles Malling.
The board consisted of senior scientists with exceptionally accomplished backgrounds in evolving areas of new scientific research. This distinguished group met on 30 September 1997 at the Washington Plaza Hotel. Senator Elmerstein had already held his two hour meeting with Malling. The Chair of the Science Board was clear what was required of him
On the agenda was an update from the Biofuels Forum, to be presented by Dr Taylor Morgan from the California Center for International Dairy Research.
Dr Morgan spoke about the progress being made in the field of gamma casein fusion. A race existed between his own team and one backed by a New Zealand dairy company The goal was to make the breakthrough required to ensure a 51% whey to ethanol conversion ratio.
He was completely unaware his team were using the exact same data Paddy O'Sullivan had succeeded in generating twenty-three years earlier. Dairytree were working from Paddy's photocopies and the Americans had the original, stolen documentation.
After Taylor Morgan had finished his presentation and left the meeting, Charles Malling dismissed the stenographer before he spoke.
"Ladies and gentlemen, what you've just heard from Dr Morgan represents the future of energy for this country. Because the raw material is essentially a food source, the jurisdiction and control of this energy must fall, at least for the time being, under the auspices of this committee. I believe that it is our duty to both preserve and advance this work for the benefit of the people of the United States. I therefore propose that we instigate the formation of an umbrella organisation whose sole purpose will be to forward those aims. I am confident that the decisions we make around this table today will have the unquestioning support of our highest authority."
By the time the stenographer was recalled forty-five minutes later, all twenty-one members of the board were unanimous. Cowood Industries had been created.
Cowood would be granted sole worldwide rights to the production of a completely new form of fuel. The true genesis of the company was unrecorded, un-minuted, untraceable.
\*
Brent brought the bus to a halt outside the hotel. The laptop on the seat behind emitted an unfamiliar sound. He stopped manoeuvring the large vehicle and listened. He remembered. It was the warning the tech guys had programmed in to alert him Patrick O'Sullivan had picked up the phone in his hotel room and was about to make a call.
He listened intently, the front of the bus still protruding out on to the street, hoping a clear line of sight would enable him to hear both sides of the conversation. "Good evening, Mr O'Sullivan. This is the concierge. How may I help you?"
"Hi, is it too late to get a cappuccino?"
"Of course not, sir, I'll send someone up right away." The clarity of the voices coming from the computer behind him was unnerving but the words spurred Brent into action.
With a flick of the wrists, and a glance in his side mirror, the bus was parked. Jumping down from the driver's seat, he ran across the road and, pulling his wallet from his jacket, strode purposefully through the door and up to the reception desk. The night porter looked up from his newspaper at a Security Intelligence Service identity pass.
"How's it going, mate? I'm with Mr O'Sullivan's personal security detail and I need your pass key." Without any sign of a question in his face or in his voice, the porter unclipped the pass from his belt and handed it to Brent.
"Fifth floor, room 521," the porter offered helpfully.
"Thanks, mate, I know." Brent lied.
Looking impressively like a security professional, he slowly scanned the lobby, looking for the lift. He turned back to the porter once again. "And Mr Turner. Is he still in room ... ?"
"519, just down the corridor from your boss."
"Cheers, Bro'. "
Brent knew that, despite his status, both political and industrial, Patrick O'Sullivan rarely travelled with any kind of entourage, let alone security staff. He was a well known and popular figure, an image he'd carefully cultivated over the years and one that, in the recent past, he'd been given additional coaching for.
Strangers smiled or greeted him warmly. In the past year even farmers had taken to giving him the odd friendly slap on the back and a firm handshake. There was no need to surround himself with burly men in dark suits and even darker glasses.; it was against the ethos of openness and accessibility he wanted to encourage as leader of the Ecological party of New Zealand.
The lift doors opened. Brent stepped into the deserted corridor and waited. A few moments later there was the faint sound of another lift door opening. A member of the kitchen staff emerged from the service elevator carrying a small tray of coffee and liquor chocolates. Brent waited for the young girl, wary of startling her and causing an accident. As she got closer, he moved towards her, smiling.
"Hi, how ya doing? Look, I'm meant to be guarding the guy in 521. He asked me to take his coffee in for him." Brent flashed his pass once more as he gently teased the tray from her palm. "So, if I could just take this - thanks, you have a good evening." He smiled again, as she blushed, turned and disappeared back around the corner.
Brent balanced the tray in his left hand, his right moving inside his jacket pocket. He flipped the lid of the plastic phial with his thumb, poured half the remaining contents over the coffee, closed the lid and replaced the phial.
Outside room 521, he checked the distance to 519, the position of the swipe mechanism on the door, and rotated the card in his sweating right hand so the black strip was ready to swipe.
Placing the tray on the floor, he took a deep breath and knocked hard on the door. "Room service!" As the last syllable passed his lips, he leapt to his left, swiped the card, opened the door and stepped through into the deserted room. Half closing the door, he stood and listened as O'Sullivan's door opened. The tray was silently lifted and the door clicked shut again.
Brent reached for the light switch he'd seen just before the door had shut out the residual light from the hallway. A fluorescent tube flickered into life in the bathroom, illuminating the rest of the room. The porter said this was David Turner's room.
He moved towards the table looking for any sign Turner may have perhaps scribbled a message on the notepaper that lay on the table beneath the window. There was something on the chair, large and dark. He picked up the motorbike helmet, revealing the keys on the seat beneath. He remembered the motorcycle that had been parked outside the hotel since late afternoon. Brent picked up the keys, went back to the door, and slowly opened it. The corridor was deserted. He ran back to the lobby and handed the pass key back to the night porter. Brent saw him looking at the bike helmet.
On the shift handover, the porter had been told the motorbike parked out front belonged to the guest in 519 who'd been told it was ok to leave it there overnight. Now this security guy, who had asked about the same guest, had reappeared apparently carrying this guest's crash helmet.
Brent sensed his suspicion. "I needed to get the guy in 519 to move his bike. It's a security hazard parked out there like that. He's already in bed, so he asked me to move it for him." Brent dangled the key between his fingers, re-enforcing the explanation. The porter hadn't asked for any. The moment felt a little awkward. Further details were needed, Brent decided, to allay any remaining suspicion.
"So, anyway, I said I'd move it to the underground car park and, to save disturbing him again, I'll drop the key back to him in the morning." Brent was having difficulty reading the guy's expression. He couldn't decide between ongoing suspicion and genuine indifference. He left it there, said goodnight, went back outside, fastened up his jacket, pulled on the helmet and rode off, retracing the route he'd taken in the bus a short while before.
This time, at the roundabout, he turned onto the state highway. There was no chance of catching the black car but the motorbike would at least allow him to arrive at his destination undetected.
\*
Patrick sipped his cappuccino and sucked on the soft dark chocolate, savouring the warm silky texture in his mouth, mulling over what had occurred tonight. He'd dealt with Turner in a calm manner. Once the card had been recovered, the courier would die somewhere out in the bush, like so many others had already. But he was still concerned that Turner had somehow been able to link the card to him. Why, having done that, did he feel the need the warn him?
The glow of guilt flushed over his face, a rare feeling nowadays. He allowed his mind to open up to the possibility those who opposed his political ambitions and economic aspirations were even now actively working against him. There was surely only one group who sought to oppose what he was trying to achieve for New Zealand. The comfortable Old Boys' Club of conservative-thinking politicians had become unnerved, almost to the point of paranoia, by the way in which EPANZ had apparently managed to reach out to a significant proportion of the voting public in recent months. Polls were showing their popularity rating soaring across the board. Affluent business executives in Auckland were being promised fuel bills for their gas-guzzling urban tractors would drop by eighty per cent within two years of EPANZ getting into power, dairy farmers on the Canterbury Plains assured their land would be purchased from them at hugely inflated prices, then leased back at a peppercorn rent in order for them to continue to produce the milk that would literally fuel the nation's economy.
But, as he sat alone in his hotel room, Patrick struggled to deny the immorality of what he intended to accomplish. He remembered the first time he'd met Dr Taylor Morgan, who'd introduced himself as an admirer of Dairytree's innovative product research, at a Los Angeles trade fair back in the spring of 1998.
Morgan spoke at length about his own investigation into the whey based ethanol theory, and Patrick soon realised how similar their professional paths had been up to that point. The American was leaving his faculty and had financial backing to set up a commercial research facility called the Cowood Institute that had been granted a licence by the American FDA to research producing whey-based bio-fuel in commercial quantities.
Over the next year, the pair kept in touch on a professional level by email. A formal memorandum of understanding was signed between the two organisations, allowing them to share information and data. Dairytree had no way of knowing that the research Cowood was sharing was actually old data gleaned over many years. Morgan already knew that to produce large quantities of the milk, and therefore the whey, it was necessary for thousands of calves to be carrying the mutated gamma casein gene.
When the Americans realised the risk in introducing this gene into the national dairy herd, they halted development. With the formal link with Dairytree established, however, they drip fed their knowledge to the point where the Kiwis caught up, believing they had made the breakthrough themselves.
Directors from other Agencies were uneasy about the way in which this uncontrolled, unregulated, and largely unmonitored project was evolving. The FDA had somehow become the leading protagonist and they, in turn, were placing their faith, and hundreds of thousands of tax dollars, squarely at the feet of Taylor Morgan.
The relationship with Dairytree grew and Morgan began travelling to New Zealand on a regular basis, meeting with the research team and spending time relaxing at Patrick and Anika's lakeside lodge in Queenstown.
Anika was uninterested in the business side of her husband's life. She had introduced him to green politics whilst they were both still at university and had supported him during his rapid rise to leader of the party. She'd successfully used her female intuition to protect her husband from unsavoury influences, ensuring he had a faithful and trustworthy team around him.
In Taylor Morgan she smelled a rat the first time she met him. The way in which he had cultivated the relationship with Patrick was clearly calculated. She could sense a hidden agenda but nothing she could pinpoint, yet.
When Patrick came back from a business trip to the States and announced a tie-up between the two companies, she felt vindicated, and even more suspicious. Hoping this wasn't merely yet another box ticked on Morgan's list, Patrick just smiled and reassured her he had everything under control.
What he did not have under control were the production costs of the main Dairytree operation. He was spending too much of his time concentrating on research, determined to prove his father's theories. The link with Cowood was, apart from everything else, a financial necessity in order to keep the rest of the business afloat.
Anika was still not convinced. She feared Patrick was being exploited, manipulated, and her desire to protect him grew stronger. She hired a private investigator with the intention of exposing Taylor Morgan as the threat she believed him to be. But the American Government was bankrolling Morgan. They needed to protect their investment.
It took less than an hour for agents working on behalf of Cowood to detect the clumsy surveillance by the Kiwi gumshoe doing his best to keep track of Morgan driving around the outskirts of Los Angeles.
By the second hour, the incompetent detective was himself being followed and filmed. His car now carried a GPS tracking tag and a small camera had been installed in his rented apartment.
Phone and email interception quickly confirmed that he was reporting directly to Anika O'Sullivan, trying to prove some malevolent intent on Morgan's part. Cowood's Investment Management Program swung into action. Exposure of Morgan, and more importantly of his superiors, particularly by a second rate amateur private dick, had to be averted.
Stacey Martin was introduced to Patrick as a graduate recruit to the Cowood Research team, keen to travel and work for Dairytree in a proposed employee exchange program. Patrick offered to take her to dinner, to discuss her ambitions and what Dairytree, and New Zealand could offer her.
As the evening wore on, Patrick relaxed in the young woman's company. He began to look forward to having Stacey working for him soon. By the end of the second bottle of wine, the pair was laughing and joking, and Patrick couldn't fail to notice the signals she was clearly sending out.
By the end of the evening, with both clearly under the influence of the wine, Patrick offered to share a cab. When Stacey invited him up for coffee, for the first time since he had met Anika, the combination of alcohol, being thousands of miles from home, and a beautiful young woman proved the ultimate temptation.
The tiny camera in the bedroom light fitting captured the images the private detective, who'd been clicking his shutter through the restaurant drapes, couldn't.
The Kiwi investigator's email account had been hacked. He pressed send and the blurry images he'd captured in the restaurant flashed across the Pacific. He had no idea the email was instantaneously intercepted, re-routed, and in addition to his own photos, others were added; pictures that made Anika feel physically sick as she clicked each one in turn, as if leafing through a pornographic flick cartoon book.
There could be no question; Patrick had betrayed her ultimate trust. It wasn't the evidence she'd been expecting. She'd wanted to show to Patrick he should cut all links with Taylor Morgan and Cowood. She never imagined the evidence the private detective uncovered would be against her own husband.
Patrick, in his drunken euphoria, never considered he'd been set up, that Stacey's interest in him was purely for the financial reward she would receive. In fact, it was a double set up. The private detective Anika had hired had no reason to suspect the liaison was anything other than genuine and had no idea of the additional images added to his otherwise innocuous email.
For the next three days, Patrick kept calling two people, both to no avail: Stacey to tell her he had been stupid, to apologise and to offer a position at Dairytree; Anika to let her know he was nearly finished in LA, would be home soon and, as always, that he loved her.
His calls were intercepted. He believed he was leaving messages on both women's answering machines. The messages he left for Stacey were digitally edited, creating the impression he was ardently pursuing her. These files were sent, via the private detective's email account, to Anika. Not only was the knife thrust in deep, Cowood ensured it was also blunt, rusted and being slowly twisted.
Patrick returned home a few days later, pulled onto the drive and immediately saw something was wrong. As the garage door slowly lifted, he recognised the expensive contents of his wardrobe slashed to ribbons and discarded on the garage floor.
Inside, his beloved red E Type Jaguar was parked at a strange angle. One of the front tyres was flat. The vinyl roof had also been slashed. He began to panic. Was Anika in the house? Was she alright? Had she called the police? Was this why she hadn't answered any of his calls in the last few days?
There was something on the car - a large sheet of paper. His heart pounded in his chest, every vein in his body thumping as if ready to explode as he took in the image taped to the hood of his Jaguar. It was clearly him, staring up from a bed that was suddenly all too familiar. At an angle, across his middle, and face down, was the naked upper half of, unmistakeably, Stacey. Scrawled across the remaining paintwork on the hood, in white spray paint, in Anika's shaky handwriting were the words:
SOME THINGS ARE JUST TOO HARD TO SWALLOW
The evidence was plainly undeniable.
It came to light in the following weeks that the pictures had been taken as part of an investigation Anika herself had initiated. The respect and trust of his wife evaporated. Any chance of reconciliation quickly disappeared. Patrick resigned himself to the fact that his was now a journey to be taken alone. It was clear Anika would follow her own path.
His one regret was that he never had the chance for one last embrace, to kiss her softly for the final time and to say goodbye properly. They were taken from one another's lives as surely as if one of them had suddenly died.
Even now, after all this time, the memory of that afternoon and its immediate aftermath still gave him a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He spooned the remaining froth from his coffee cup and slumped into the uncomfortable low-backed chair.
Brent sat impatiently revving the engine, waiting for the lights, looking left to right at the deserted road in all directions. The control a simple red light was having over his situation right now was absurd. He kicked the clutch and rode off.
The bike accelerated to nearly 100 kilometres per hour before Brent realised and pulled over. The engine burbled beneath him as he felt for his phone. Fingers, chilled by the high speed ride, struggled to hit the keys.
The phone vibrated in his palm. He peered through the helmet visor at the screen, its brightness illuminating his face. The message was a map, directions to Kutete Lodge.
\*
David sensed they were heading into the countryside. The faint orange glow of Nelson receded over the horizon. The car made a series of sharp turns, then a steep climb and descent. The indicator light flashed and he braced before the driver pulled sharply left. They bounced down an uneven track, around another bend, and onto the brightly lit forecourt of what appeared to be a small hotel. David looked up at the large modern building, unexpected after such a desolate drive. The door opened and he got out.
"Good evening, Mr Turner. My name is Taylor Morgan. Welcome to Kutete Lodge. Allow me to escort you to your room."
As he looked around, David felt uneasy. There was no indication this was any kind of public facility - no signage, no welcoming glow from a warmly lit reception area, not even a notice indicating there was any kind of reception area. He'd noticed a sign that said 'deliveries' as they'd driven up the illuminated part of the drive, but wasn't this a private house?
"Where am I?"
"Sorry, yes, excuse my rudeness, Mr Turner. Most of our guests usually make a reservation to stay here. You, of course, being a recent arrival to our shores won't be familiar with our reputation. Kutete Lodge is a winery and boutique resort destination. We produce some of the finest vintages in this part of the world and allow a very limited number of guests to experience the unique atmosphere we're able to offer. Please follow me."
David was grateful O'Sullivan had taken his warning seriously enough to make a call to this friend who sent a car all the way into town to collect him. They walked across the courtyard to a cottage amongst the trees. A wood fire glowed and crackled in the grate, and a large comfortable-looking bed suddenly reminded David of a long day that had yet to finish.
"This is normally used as our honeymoon suite. Please make yourself comfortable. Breakfast will be served in your room at eight o'clock."
\*
Brent rode cautiously along the road, the sound of the big motorbike carrying through the still night air, the noise reverberating through the helmet, dulling his senses.
He checked both mirrors, coasted to a halt and killed the engine, quickly removing the helmet, suddenly claustrophobic.
Trying to accustom his sight to the faint starlight that barely illuminated the surrounding countryside, he saw a bright light on the horizon, but it went out. The GPS confirmed the light had come from Kutete Lodge. He rode slowly, keeping the engine noise to a low rumble, until he came to the signpost at the Lodge entrance. He killed the engine, parked the bike amongst the trees at the side of the drive and made his way towards the dimly lit buildings up ahead.
The rhythmic pulsing of a pump in the distance became clearer as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. Suddenly there was a blinding flash. Caught in the dazzle of a spotlight, he braced, expecting confrontation, hostility, but there was none, just silence, broken only by the distant pumping. His movement had triggered the sensor on a security light.
Trees next to the path offered some protection. Plunging into blinding darkness once more, he crept through saplings and shrubs, out of range of the sensor's beam, aware of any noise as he rustled through the leaf mulch cracking twigs.
David Turner never heard the faint tinkle as Brent elbowed the thin glass, reached in, and unlocked the back door.
Brent stood for a moment, allowing the warmth to seep through his chilled clothing. Gently he pushed the door and walking slowly through. Brent felt exposed and vulnerable confined in this small living area and in such close proximity to David Turner. Shoes left haphazardly outside the bathroom door indicated his presence on the other side.
Not daring to move in case the wooden floor creaked, his gaze never left the door in front of him. On the other side, David finished shaving. Tunelessly singing, he sloshed water around the sink, cleaning off the stubble. Brent sensed the ritual nearing completion and tensed expectantly as the singing abruptly stopped. The door opened and David Turner stepped into the room. "Who the hell are you?"
Brent moved forward smiling, offering the hand of friendship, gently placing a precautionary restraining hand on David's shoulder. The slightest twitch and Brent's left hand could have pinned David to the wall in an instant. There was no need. David recognised him. "You're the car hire guy. How the fuck did you get in here?" he said, shrugging the hand from his shoulder.
"Actually my name's Brent Piri and I'm with the New Zealand Defence Force. Good to see you again, Dave. Now, we don't have much time so I'll get straight to the point here." David eyed him suspiciously. "You already know about the situation we have with this Cowood outfit, right? I need you to hand over the credit card you brought with you from the UK. It might be able to help stop what's happening here."
No one who'd known about the card had ever actually asked to see it, apart from Ed who only wanted it to prise open the door at the Dairytree factory. It was undoubtedly valuable. David knew he'd have to hand it over at some point.
He'd anticipated more drama, a weapon perhaps, a threat or at least some intimidation. Being asked politely to simply hand it over was a bit of an anticlimax, but the card wasn't his and there was no real reason to keep it.
His jacket was over the back of a chair. He felt inside for the familiar shape and held it out. "How do I know you're who you say you are? You could've just been sent across by someone to collect the card for him.
"I don't usually have to do this, Dave." Brent put his arm inside his jacket. David's breathing faltered. This is what he'd been expecting. His heart beat in a familiar uncontrollable thump. Brent's hand reappeared, holding what also looked like a credit card. "See? It's my military ID card. Happy now?"
David breathed again. "So, is that it? Is it all over now? Can we finally be left alone to get on with our lives?"
"Not quite, Dave. My Government appreciates the danger you guys have been put in and the part you've played in bringing this all to light, but we need to make sure the people concerned are dealt with. The reason O'Sullivan had you brought here is partly so you can hand over the card to this guy Morgan in the morning, partly to keep you away from O'Sullivan himself, and also to stop you going to the authorities or the media."
David was confused. Was it all going to end simply with handing the card over to some Government agent? Before he had time to ask, Brent plucked the card from his grasp and was walking towards the kitchen door. "Sorry, mate, I got in through a window in the kitchen whilst you were in the bathroom. It's probably best if I leave the same way, Just in case anyone is watching the front door. When you get up in the morning, act as if nothing has happened. If Morgan or anyone else hassles you for the card, try and stall them for as long as you can. Don't let on I've been here, obviously. Someone will be here to get you out no later than eleven. Good luck."
Brent left David confused and scared as he disappeared through the kitchen door.
A head reappeared round the door. "By the way, Dave, what's the PIN?"
An alarm clock reverberated around the bus. Brent had watched the digital display counting in the new dawn since 4.30am.
Communications had been blacked out since midnight. Too late to make sure everyone understood their role. Nothing could be changed. No last minute checks with Wellington.
He stepped down from the bus. It was 6.30, still dark, the coldest part of the night.
The staff entrance at the rear of the hotel was unlocked. He walked up the service stairwell to the fifth floor and stood in the corridor. Now all he could do was wait.
Mechanical whining from the service elevator interrupted the ambient hum of the air conditioning. As the doors opened, he was already striding towards them. "Breakfast for Mr O'Sullivan? I'll take it from here. Cheers, Bro'." Brent lifted the tray from the porter's grasp and headed for room 519.
He flicked open the container with his teeth and shook the remaining powder into the large mug of steaming coffee before banging hard on the door. "Morning. Room service!" and, walking back towards the service stairwell, he paused to check the door had clicked open. A gentle chink of crockery confirmed O'Sullivan had taken the bait.
Brent checked his watch; 6.45. The satellite was due over the horizon in seven minutes. Running to behind the bus where he'd left the motorbike, he winced as the roar of the powerful engine echoed up the side of the hotel, shattering the early morning peace.
He had four minutes to get clear of the town centre.
On Rocks Road, in the houses nestled against the cliff, people were already stirring. His wristwatch was tucked beneath his jacket cuff. Surely it must be 6.52 by now?
Then, as planned, it happened.
\*
Commander Dalton had worked through the night in the Operations Centre beneath the Parliament Building, having spent the previous day coordinating Brent's plan. This had proved difficult with the knowledge the Americans were able to closely monitor the communication coming from, or into, the Ops Room. The Commander briefed people personally before sending them out to make contact from public telephone boxes around the capital.
By nine o'clock, after a series of second hand telephone conversations, Dalton had persuaded the electricity generating companies there was an imminent threat to national security.
He was using his authority to demand all electrical power supplies be switched off across the entire country, from the Cape in the north to the Bluff in the south, between 6.52 and 8.22 the following morning.
The Prime Minister took some persuading, anticipating the media fire-storm and having to explain a complete national power failure in the middle of the morning rush hour. He was reassured essential services such as hospitals had their own back up generators. Dalton explained the timing of the power outage was critical if they were to successfully interrupt the information leak from the Black Room to the orbiting spy satellite.
Brent slowed the bike and looked around. The street lamps had just gone out. It wasn't daylight yet. Shops and office windows, normally illuminated, were in darkness. Houses that, up until a second ago had lights, now plunged back into the gloom of natural early morning light.
Traffic started to slow. People tried to tune car radios, hunting any station still broadcasting. A few had wandered onto the street, checking with neighbours why the power had suddenly been cut.
He accelerated around the slowing traffic, heading towards Monaco, a tiny peninsula projecting out into the bay at the end of the airport runway. This sea-level spit of land comprised just four streets occupied by expensive houses built to take advantage of the stunning sea and mountain views.
Brent had chosen Monaco carefully. The power company confirmed the single road onto the peninsula also carried beneath it Monaco's main power cable. Engineers assured Commander Dalton they would be able to keep this single line live throughout the ninety minute national blackout.
The pub built to take advantage of wealthy locals and curious tourists was Monaco's sole business and had the only EFTPOS machine in the country now operating.
Brent roared into the car park at 7.12am. The last thing on his mind was buying a beer. A light from an upstairs windows confirmed the pub still had power. It took several beatings on the front door before it was unbolted. A bleary-eyed landlord found himself confronted by a large Maori biker muttering something about national security. "I need to buy something."
"Sorry, mate, we're shut. Come back at ten."
"No, you don't understand. I need to process one transaction through your EFTPOS terminal. I don't actually need you to sell me anything."
"Like I said, mate, everything is off. The beer cooler's off, the coffee machine's off, now, unless you piss off as well, I'm calling the cops."
"Go ahead, but before you do, do me a favour, turn on your radio."
The landlord turned the volume and pressed the preset station buttons, confusion mounting as a haze of white noise filled the bar.
"Look, here's my authority." Brent flashed his ID card for the third time in the last twelve hours and prayed that Dalton had arranged for a phone engineer to be posted at the local exchange to keep the line needed for the EFTPOS machine open. "See? Nothing. The whole of the country is out, power and phones, everywhere except here. This one location, that single machine there on the bar, is the only one in the country able to process any transactions."
He still looked confused. "So what exactly is it you need to buy?"
"Nothing! I don't need to buy anything. I just need you to put one transaction through this terminal!"
"OK, mate, keep your hair on. Here, help yourself."
The amount had to be six figures. The easiest six figure number he could recall was his own birthday: 2,4,0,9,7,1. He swiped the credit card, thankful the balance it carried was so high, and entered the PIN. He pressed ENTER and held his breath, silently praying that the electronic pulses would somehow find their way through the mass of useless copper wiring currently sitting redundant across the entire country.
Transaction Accepted
It had just cost two hundred and forty thousand, nine hundred and seventy-one dollars to save the country.
Now he had to make his way back to the centre of town and wait for the power to be restored.
The ride back proved difficult. Despite no electricity for people to take a shower or make a hot drink, many still continued with their daily routine as best they could in the hope power would be restored by the time they got to work.
Nelson only had a few sets of traffic lights. The fact they were not working quickly caused traffic jams. Frustration mounted as people decided the traffic was too heavy and turned back; convinced there would be no work to do when they got there. The mobile phone network was down. They couldn't call into work or tune the car radio into any live broadcast that might give an indication as to the reason or likely duration of the outage.
Brent guided the bike slowly through the chaos, wary of the driving anarchy that was unfolding. People turned in the middle of the road, blocking traffic and mounted pavements, scattering pedestrians attempting to walk to work.
An hour had passed since the power went off. In thirty minutes it would be back online and he'd be able to access the Black Room.
\*
Patrick O'Sullivan was eating breakfast when the television went off and the lights went out. Checking along the corridor, all power in the hotel had apparently gone off. He moved his chair closer to the window to finish eating and read the morning paper.
He browsed the business section and sighed. Hotel food always seemed to give him indigestion. The pain in his chest grew unexpectedly sharper as he breathed. Getting to his feet to ease the discomfort only made it worse. He yelled as a stabbing pain shot through his left arm. His mind raced. When did last have a medical? Had he felt unwell recently? What had he eaten that could now be causing so much pain?
Seated on the edge of the bed, he pushed both hands hard against his chest, trying to ease the viciously sharp pain. This wasn't his stomach, this was his heart! How could he be having a heart attack?
Now he felt sick and was sweating, rapidly descending into a panicking whirl of delirium. Excruciating pain felt as if someone had put a hand down his throat and was trying to pull his heart out through his mouth. He fell backwards onto the bed, instinctively propelled by a reflex to recoil from the agonising throbbing now pounding across his chest and down his arms.
A final, single moment of clarity, revealed one thought - Anika.
If this really was his final moment, then she would ultimately forgive him. His bequest would finally prove his love for her.
\*
Brent paced impatiently along Trafalgar Street, waiting for the power to be restored. Suddenly shop signs he'd not previously noticed sparked into life. It seemed every light in every building illuminated as electrical power surged through the country once again. People stopped walking and checked their phones as messages that had been delayed were finally delivered.
The Black Room sent the data collected in the previous ninety minutes to the satellite as it passed overhead. Three minutes later, the information reached the NSA Black Room in San Francisco and the keypad PIN was updated.
Brent had to gain access through the innocuous steel blast door of the Black Room as quickly as possible and disable the transmitter, with no idea what he was actually looking for. The satellite would be back in less than 90 minutes.
He keyed in the numbers he'd used in the bar a short time before, and pressed ENTER. Slowly he pushed the door. There was a hiss as if the space beyond had been pressurised. Pushing harder against the rush of air revealed a thick perimeter frame had made an airtight seal.
A narrow bare concrete corridor dropped away in front of him. He stepped inside and the door began to close. Realising he was about to be plunged into complete darkness, he felt along the walls on either side for a light switch and pushed on the first switch that came to hand, illuminating a small flight of steps leading towards a room beyond.
It was the size of a large garage. Three parallel banks of switchgear ran from floor to ceiling with barely room to move between them. Every panel was an intricate mass of writhing multicoloured wires. Brent had no idea what he was meant to be looking for. Carefully shuffling sideways, he looked for something different amongst the endless cabling and identical electronic circuitry.
On the third attempt, at the end of the final bank, he saw something. A bundle of cables configured in a slightly different way to all the others, its main trunk routed downwards through a rough hole cut in the concrete floor. Around the cable bundle, a clamp of tightly-woven copper wiring passed into a small black plastic box. Leading out from the other end of the box was a piece of blue flex. This had been neatly routed into a piece of conduit which disappeared through a hole in the concrete ceiling. He checked his watch once more. He still had seventy minutes - plenty of time.
\*
In the unlit gloom of the hotel reception, two of O'Sullivan's Party colleagues who were due to accompany him to the local radio interview fidgeted impatiently. He'd agreed to meet at 8.15. It was now 8.20. The radio station building was only a two minute walk away and he was due on air just after the eight-thirty news bulletin.
Perhaps he had been caught in the shower when the power had gone off or slept in with no alarm call to wake him. Murray Ferguson gently tapped on Patrick's door. There was no reply. Murray tapped again. "Pat, are you in there? We're gonna be late for the interview."
The lights in the corridor came back on. Ferguson checked his phone that had just gone beeped. The text was from the man on the other side of the door.
HELP.
The duty manager was reluctant to open the door. Ferguson showed him the text message and he swiped the card without hesitation.
They found O'Sullivan face up, spread out across the bed. The duty manager moved straight to the phone. The other two attempted to revive their stricken leader.
Patrick O'Sullivan was the fit healthy leader of a leading political party, a successful businessman and a popular and well-respected national figure. His untimely death was suspicious. Ferguson phoned Taylor Morgan.
\*
Brent looked closely at the small black plastic box. It was the only one in the room, stamped with the words Atlaxtar Electrical Inc Illinois. He pulled out his mobile phone. If he made a call now he'd break the communications blackout. But if the call resulted in the Black Room being shut down, it would never reach the eyes or ears of the Americans anyway. He called Dalton. "Sir, I'm in the Black Room. I think I've found the transmitter but I can't be 100% sure. I need you to check out who Atlaxtar Electrical are and call me back."
There were 60 minutes before the next satellite pass. Dalton had all references to Atlaxtar checked. Brent considered ripping out the black box but if he destroyed the wrong piece of equipment, the previous forty minutes' worth of highly sensitive communication would still be available for upload. Brent's phone rang. It was Dalton. "Atlaxtar produce electrical transponders and microwave transmitters for the US military. They're on their approved contractors list."
Forty five minutes remained. Brent had to be absolutely sure. "Look up the Atlaxtar 105B XPDR for me. I'll hold." He squatted down on the hard concrete floor listening to the sound of muffled voices and clicking of computer keys coming down the phone from Wellington.
"It's a long range military grade device. It doesn't carry its own power source. It piggy backs onto any nearby heat source for its energy requirements."
Brent held his hand over the black box as he listened. The coil of wire generated enough heat for him to be able to feel it. "That's good enough for me. As far as I can see the wire up to the antenna on the roof is just held in place by two screws. I'll disconnect it and then get the hell out."
In the distance there was a loud click. The switch he'd pressed was on a timer that had now expired. The room was completely dark. Without windows, no light could enter the concrete box he was now sealed into.
Brent fumbled for his phone. Using the illuminated display, he unscrewed the antenna wire with his penknife. Once it was completely disconnected, he sliced through the plastic tags holding it in place around the cabling and slipped it into his pocket. Twenty minutes left. Time to spare.
\*
The paramedics lifted Patrick O'Sullivan's lifeless body and placed it onto a stretcher before wheeling him down the corridor, into the service lift, out onto the loading bay and into the waiting ambulance.
Taylor Morgan replaced the receiver. This was unexpected, momentarily sad, but not entirely unwelcome news. O'Sullivan had carried out much of the early research into the whey conversion process but it was the mass production technique Morgan was personally developing that was driving the project forward.
The loss of O'Sullivan was unfortunate in terms of his political influence but it gave Taylor Morgan the opportunity to consolidate his position within Cowood. He would look into acquiring O'Sullivan's share of the business. But first he had to deal with Turner.
\*
Brent climbed the steps to the door and pulled. It was locked. He pulled harder but the door had sealed itself shut. Faintly lit by the phone still in his hand, he saw a large yellow sign.
Extreme risk of death HALOTRON
This was a fire retarding gas used in high risk areas where it wouldn't destroy the sensitive electrical components it came into contact with. It worked by replacing the fire-feeding oxygen. The hiss he'd heard opening the door had been Halotron escaping out into the street, replaced by the air from outside.
He looked at his watch. The only way to escape was by re-entering the pass code into the keypad on the other side of the door. What would happen when the satellite next passed overhead? There was no way it could now receive information. Would there still be an automatic message sent overwriting his pass code with a new one?
Brent had sixteen minutes to get out. He punched a number into his phone. "Cass, its Brent. Where are you right now?"
"Hey, Bro', I'm sitting in the safe house in Tahuna eating my breakfast, man. The others have gone for a run on the beach."
"Cass, I'm stuck in a sealed room in the middle of Nelson. I've got ten minutes before it fills with Halotron and the lock to open it is on the other side of the door."
"Where is this room, man?"
"Do you know the post office in the centre of town? There's a steel door. I'm stuck behind that."
"I'm on my way, Bro'. Hang in there."
Cass hung up, abandoned his breakfast, ran out to the Ute, reversed out of the drive and sped down the street towards the town centre.
Brent had eight minutes left. Cass hadn't waited to be told the code to the door. Brent called him back but Cass ignored the ringing phone, intent on negotiating the traffic that had built up a result of the power cut.
Brent checked his watch. Seven minutes. Cass was stuck behind slow moving traffic along Rocks Road. Desperately Brent texted him the code. Perhaps there was another way out, one he'd not noticed before, an emergency exit or another door perhaps? Six minutes.
The line of traffic in front of Cass slowly edged forward. He checked his mirror and pulled into the oncoming lane. The approaching traffic hooted and flashed as he accelerated down the centre of the road, sending them swerving to the side.
Three minutes left. There was a loud bang followed by metallic crunching as he pulled the truck up the kerb and onto the grass verge now separating the two lanes of traffic. The clock face on the Civic Tower was now in sight as he swerved back onto the road and negotiated the roundabout. Two minutes.
Cass saw the NZ Post logo as he careered through a red light, clipping the rear bumper of a car passing in front of him. As he approached the Post Office, he saw the shiny metallic door Brent had described. He brought the 4x4 to an abrupt halt in the middle of the road and in an instant he was standing in front of the door.
Brent heard hissing as the tasteless, odourless gas began to seep into the sealed room. Instinctively he ran towards the door. Taking slow deep breaths, he tried staying conscious for as long as possible. In the darkness, he began to see flashes, stars and a warm fuzziness began to fill his head. He thought he heard Cass.
"Brent! Are you in there, mate?"
As he plunged towards the abyss of unconsciousness, with a last exhale he screamed, "Phone!"
Cass pulled out his phone and saw the text Brent had sent minutes earlier. He punched the numbers in, pressed ENTER, and pushed hard on the door. There was an outward rush of gas momentarily stinging his eyes.
Brent was slumped against the wall at the top of the steps. He inhaled deeply, slowly lifted his head and opened his eyes.
Cass grinned at him. "Happy birthday, boss."
Taylor Morgan read the text message.
Call the Office.
That was impressive. Patrick O'Sullivan's was barely cold. Turner could wait. The message was more important. In his private quarters, he unlocked the safe, and took out the satellite phone.
White noise above the Pacific swished and crackled as the connection was made, a direct link to Washington. "Morgan something's up. I need you to go into Nelson and find out what's been happening near the post office."
What! Was he some kind of errand boy?
"I'm busy."
"Fuck busy, Morgan. Don't forget who pays for you to stay busy. The project is in danger of being compromised. Now get your ass into town and take the sat-phone with you. I want a situation report when you get there, understand?"
\*
David woke from the deepest, sleep he'd enjoyed in days to the urgent crunching of car tyres sliding over gravel.
The phone in the main office chirped. Taylor Morgan's personal assistant answered. "Kutete Winery. Stacey speaking."
"Miss Martin, I've sent Morgan into town. He should be gone for at least an hour. That should give you enough time. Do you understand?"
\*
Morgan cursed and tutted as he slowed to join the tailback of traffic still lingering after the power cut. He never noticed the old grey ute as it passed him. Brent Piri instantly clocked the distinctive shiny black Toyota. "Hey, Cass, Morgan's heading into town. That's a good sign. Turner should be safe."
Stacey Martin was older and a little wiser. She'd sacrificed her innocence in the service of her country and been rewarded with a posting to New Zealand, serving as Taylor Morgan's personal assistant. Her brief was to ensure he stuck to the mission. If he overstepped the mark, jeopardised the project, or anything went wrong, he would be eliminated. This was the phone call she'd been expecting to receive one day.
She had one hour. Morgan left before dealing with David Turner. She'd have to do that as well.
Three 4,500 litre steel vats stood like a trio of discarded alien spaceships, props from a fifties sci-fi movie, quiet and stark in the New Zealand countryside. Vat number one was half full of fermenting grape juice. It would empty quicker than the others.
Stacey wrenched the handle allowing the pressure of 2,000 litres of half-fermented red grape juice to push the metal door open and flood out onto the ground around her.
\*
David had just finished getting dressed when there was a knock at the door. He opened it to be greeted, not by breakfast, but an attractive young woman. "Follow me, Mr Turner. I'm here to save your life."
David could smell wine as he walked across the wet concrete. "Mr Turner, we don't have too much time. I'm Taylor Morgan's personal assistant. Taylor has orders to kill you when he gets back. I need you to hide while I go get some help." He looked around for somewhere suitable. Up a tree? Under a bush? They kept walking. "I need you to climb up there and get inside."
The smooth steel vessel had a long metal ladder welded to the outside. "It's perfectly safe. I've drained all the juice out. It's completely empty. There's another ladder inside. Make your way to the bottom and sit tight. I'll be as quick as I can."
David had never met this woman pushing him gently towards the foot of the ladder. She reminded him of a younger Katherine, confident, determined. Was that any reason to trust her? She prodded him harder. "I can hear a car. I think Taylor's coming back. Hurry, up the ladder."
Halfway up, David stopped. The ladder continued shaking. She was climbing up behind him. "I need to seal you in. If Taylor sees the lid open, he'll suspect something. Now keep moving. Hurry!" The fresh morning breeze reminded him he hadn't eaten and the wafting wine vapour only increased his appetite.
The ladder followed the bullet-shaped contour of the vat. David was nearly horizontal, clinging to the rungs. "Reach up, turn the handle and open the lid," a voice called from beneath his feet. Wrapping one arm through the ladder, he let go with the other, pushed the lever, breaking the seal that held the steel cap in place, and flung it open, revealing the black hole it had covered. He pulled himself over the rim and dangled his legs until they caught the ladder on the inside. There were only five rungs visible before the ladder disappeared into the metallic void.
"What's the problem now?"
"Are you sure it's empty? It stinks in here."
"There's about a 3 foot drop from the ladder to the base of the vat. There'll be a faint chink of light. I've left the drainage pipe seal open."
David slowly made his way down the first few rungs. Stacey reached the lid and, without warning, daylight was shut out with a loud clang. A thick cloak of wine soaked blackness enveloped him. Disorientated, he gripped the cold wet metal ladder in momentary panic, desperately trying to focus on something. The only safe direction was down. He felt, rung by rung, as he took each careful step.
The next rung wasn't there. The woman who claimed to be saving his life said there was a 3 foot drop. Edging down further until his hands were only one rung above his feet, David looked down and saw nothing. He crouched uncomfortably on the last rung of the ladder. He laughed. A strange echoing cackle reverberated around the huge empty tin can. Why did he feel so happy? Drunk on an empty stomach maybe but on fumes alone?
Holding tightly to the penultimate rung, he let his feet drop. Now he was suspended by his hands. Pointing his toes made no difference. There was no bottom to the vat. David giggled. What a stupid situation to be in, and before breakfast. One hand dropped to the bottom rung, then the other. There it was. Both feet were on the ground. He yelled a loud metallic, "Yes!"
The climb, followed by the descent into the empty wine vat, left him breathless and tired. He stood listening for any noise outside. All he could hear were the softly tinkling bells in his head. Looking into the blackness, a million stars twinkled around him.
David slumped into a puddle of grape juice, stared into the void, smiled and closed his eyes.
\*
Brent directed Cass up the drive towards the Lodge. They passed the cottage where he'd seen David the previous evening. The front door was open. "That's not a good sign. Looks like our boy's gone walkabout, Cass, drive round the back there." A dark patch of evaporating grape juice indicated it had been released from one of the large steel tanks only a short time before. "That looks like a convenient accident to me, boss. No winery would spill that much juice intentionally."
Brent banged hard on the side of the vat. "Stay with us, Dave. Don't go to sleep. I'm getting you out."
From deep inside the tank he heard a faint, "Whoohoo."
"Is he pissed in there?"
"No. it's more serious than that, he dying but he doesn't know it. The atmosphere inside the vat is completely still. The fermentation process produces carbon dioxide. When the juice is drained away, the CO2 stays. It's sitting at the bottom with Dave and suffocating him. He's going through the euphoric stage, that's why he sounds like he's drunk. Get back in the truck and start the winch motor."
Brent grabbed the hook, clipped it to his belt and climbed to the top of the vat. Opening the lid would not be enough the save David. The CO2 was heavier than air and sat, like a deep pool, drowning anyone under it. "Cass, when I tug, you winch, ok?"
Cass gave the thumbs up
With the lid open, he could see David lying face up in a pool of liquid. Brent could feel his face beginning to flush as he descended. His fingertips tingled as he fumbled to attach the winch hook to David's belt. He tugged at the wire. David rose, face-up into the air, his arms hanging outstretched, angel-like.
Brent stared. Was he too late? Had he died? Was this his spirit rising up into the light towards heaven?
He watched, transfixed, as David rose higher and higher. He walked forward, banging his head on the outer wall of the tank.
Unable to focus clearly, he turned and headed for the centre, hoping to find the ladder.
David had reached the top and Cass turned off the winch, waiting for Brent to emerge behind him.
Brent felt tiny, trapped inside an empty red wine bottle. He couldn't see properly through the smoked glass. How did he get in here? Why was he so small? He was getting that familiar nightmare sensation-legs feeling heavy, pinned to the floor, arms hung loosely at his side refusing to lift at his mental command. In the distance was an unfamiliar voice. "Climb the bloody ladder."
Cold metal brushed his cheek, momentarily jolting his waning sensory powers. A hand reached up, then another, grasping the ladder. Training and a heightened sense of survival overcame the desperate need to sleep. Brent pulled with both hands, lifting his legs until they found the last rung on the ladder and took the unbearable weight his aching wrists threatened to let fall back into the stinking abyss.
But he was already dead.
A blinding light called him as he climbed towards it. His eyes refocussed, his strength began to return. The light became the way to cheat death, not accept it. It was his escape, the opening of the steel container he had lowered himself into only a few minutes before. Now he remembered.
Looking over the rim, David Turner replaced the image of St. Peter smiling down on him. "It's the Co2 messing with your head. You'll feel fine again in a minute. Keep climbing."
\*
Taylor Morgan drove slowly past, noting the police cordon around the post office building. He dialled the number on the satellite phone and a familiar voice immediately answered. "Tell me about the door, the steel door along from the main entrance."
Taylor looked back along the street. "Well, it's open and I can see some people with cases going in."
"I thought so. It's over, Morgan. Get back to the lodge and await my instructions."
\*
Stacey Martin answered her phone.
"He's on his way back. Is everything prepared?
"Yes, I just have to get rid of some visitors who just turned up, then everything's sweet."
\*
Cass looked at the other two leaning against the front of the truck. "If yous fellas are expecting a lift looking like you've pissed yourself, you can think again."
"Can I help you, guys?"
The woman who'd helped David hide appeared beside them, brushing wisps of hair from her eyes with one hand and carrying a phone in the other. "Oh I see you found Mr Turner. That's good. I'm Stacey, by the way, Mr Morgan's personal assistant"
Brent only had a moment to assess the situation. She works at the lodge, she knows Turner. She must know why he's here. She knows Taylor Morgan, She know why he's here too.
"Get back in and meet me by the gate," he breathed to Cass as he walked towards the woman. Placing a hand gently on her elbow, Brent turned and walked her away from the truck.
"Not sure who you are, love. The accent kind of gives you away, though. So this is what I'm thinking right now. SIS, by the way. I'm armed and not in the mood for any shit. You somehow got Turner into that death trap back there. He doesn't realise; thought you were protecting him. Right now all I'm interested in is Morgan's head on a stick, so I need you to help me get it. "
A voice faintly called, "Hello, hello?" Someone else was trapped in the tank! Surely they would be dead by now. How did he miss them when he was in there?
Stacey offered him the phone. "He wants to speak to you."
Brent put the phone to his ear as if he'd never done so before.
"Who am I speaking with, please? This is Captain Brent Piri of the New Zealand Army, who's this?"
"Aah, Piri, the man who tried to save his country with his own birthday. Ingenious. The man who staked out Heathrow Airport for a month, got his partner killed, then travelled halfway around the world in one of our jumbo trunks to save an innocent Brit."
"Who are you?"
"Piri, I'm the man trying to bring wealth, prosperity, and a future to your Godforsaken little Hobbit holes down there. You're being offered the chance to lead the future of this entire planet and all you can do is run innocent Americans off the road with a logging truck." No Southern drawl. This wasn't the President.
"Who are you?"
"I'm the man responsible for the future of six billion people. The global economy moves on my command. I have it in my power to decide who eats and who starves, who has shelter and who sleeps in the gutter, who works and who begs for a living. Who lives and who dies. Right now that tiny split-in-two country, with a navy of half a dozen boats, an army of a few thousand overweight peace keepers, and a shiny new borrowed helicopter for an air force are all that stand between my country and the determination and will of the American people. Don't take me for a schmuck, Piri. I could have a stealth bomber out of Guam and in your airspace by sundown. You could wake up tomorrow with your entire infrastructure wiped out overnight easier than wiping my ass."
Schmuck clinched it. "Senator Elmerstein, I presume. You overestimate your own importance, sir, and underestimate the New Zealand people. This country sacrificed ten per cent of its population in The First World War fighting for your freedom on the other side of the world. Ninety years later, you send your young men halfway round the world fighting for the control of oil. Or is that all just an obscene distraction to mask what's going on here? We split the atom. You developed nuclear weapons. We conquered the highest mountain in the world with two men and some rope. You took ten years and billions of dollars trying to prove a point and get to the moon first. In so many ways, we're so much better than you'll ever be. This small country punches way above its weight in the world, Senator. We can smell a bully in the school yard at ten paces and right now the bully is blinkered by his own sense of importance, drunk on power and blind to the real strength of his enemies. Your Migration Manipulation Program is no such thing. It's an uncontrollable social experiment wrapped around some crazy untested science. If my people ever find the truth of what's going on here, believe me it's easier for a bee to annoy an eagle than it is for an eagle to annoy a bee."
"Not sure where you're going with that, Captain, but I think you're right. We need to take a step back, re-evaluate, look at the long term effect of what we're trying to achieve here, use the proper channels to engage with the people of New Zealand and the wider global community."
"Shit, Senator. Basically all I'm saying here is get off my fucking land."
"Well said, soldier, but do me a favour and get off mine first. Stacey has some business to attend to. Put her back on, please."
Brent handed the phone back. "Stacey Martin?" He recalled the name from the press reports of Patrick O'Sullivan's infidelity years ago. Like many New Zealanders, he never thought she actually existed.
"Thanks, honey." She pressed a key, turning the speaker off. She'd heard it all. Stacey put the phone to her ear and turned her back on Brent. He stood awkwardly, their confrontation an international stand-off interrupted by a phone call. Brent thrust his hands into his pockets, rocked back on his heels and let out a loud impatient sigh.
"Is this going to take much longer?"
Stacey put the phone in her pocket.
"I'm done. Now, Captain Piri, I need your help."
\*
Taylor Morgan slid the black Toyota through the winding back-roads, desperate to get back, take his valuables and notes from his safe, and drive to the Sounds where he'd meet up with a US Marine unit that would spirit him away, deep under the Pacific.
Stacey ran to meet him as he lurched to a halt on the grass. "Taylor, there's a problem with vat one."
"Not now, Stacey. Something's come up. I need to grab my stuff and get out of here." She reached into her jacket pocket. For a second he hesitated before the phone on the passenger seat of the car called him back. He leant across the driver's seat to retrieve it. Brent ran to the front of the vehicle, throwing his full weight against the open driver's door. Morgan screamed, pinned by his legs. Brent pulled the door fully open before shouldering it hard against the crumpled trapped body now slumped sideways across the car seat.
After three sickeningly ferocious slams, Brent pulled the door open and let go. Morgan slid backwards onto the grass, whimpering, holding his legs. "They're broken" He looked pleadingly at Stacey. She stared at him, holding his gaze. He never saw Brent running in from his right side. Morgan had no time to brace. His head snapped back, propelled by the full impact of the former Auckland Grammar School rugby captain's boot as it caught him with brutal force under his chin.
He fell back onto the damp grass, jaw smashed, and trachea ruptured, gasping for air. With each involuntary gasp, the breath seeped through the ripped cartilage into the surrounding tissue. Morgan's eyes grew wider as his chest bellowed his lungs, desperately trying to capture some air as he wheezed. He drooled, unable to swallow the blood and saliva in his shattered mouth.
Brent stared into the terrified, swelling face of a dying man and spoke a quiet Maori prayer. Morgan thrashed his arms. Was he reaching for help or trying to retaliate? Brent remained just out if reach. He turned to see Stacey's reaction. She stood transfixed by the brutality she'd witnessed. "Give me your phone," Brent commanded. He grabbed it from her limply outstretched hand and held it in front of him.
"I can't watch this any more. I'm gonna call for an ambulance. What are you doing with the phone?"
"Too late for an ambulance. Another two minutes and he'll be dead."
Morgan writhed and gurgled, desperately trying to cough as the blood and mucus followed the air through the rip in his windpipe into his head cavity. "I'm taking some video to send your boss. Elmerstein wants him gone, right? Just making sure he knows I was here to witness it."
Morgan's breath rasped as his face began to swell, the air entering the surrounding tissue as the one element he craved destroyed him.
He fell silent, his dying breath replaced by the Stacey's sobbing off-camera as Brent turned the lens towards the horizon, panning across the distant mountain ranges.
"This is what you wanted, Elmerstein," he said before turning the camera back to Morgan's corpse. "This is what you got." Then pointing the lens at his own face. "Because you didn't expect to have to deal with this."
Brent contorted his features until his eyes bulged and the tip of his tongue touched his chin. A fearsome grimace of Maori defiance and a cry of "Ka mate! Ka mate!" lingered on the screen as he pressed send.
The NH90 helicopter headed north, Captain Brent Piri in the co-pilot's seat. Behind him sat Commander Dalton, David and Katherine Turner, with Ed and Anika Collington opposite.
It circled the marae before coming in to land as it had done three days previously. The dust settled and the rotor blades came to a halt. Maaka's father stepped forward, greeting his guests as they stepped down before leading the party to his son's tangihanga.
He led the male members of the group onto the marae, followed by Anika and Katherine. Anika explained the protocol as they slowly moved up the path to the meeting house. The notion of the women following was not intended to indicate they were inferior to the men, in fact quite the opposite. The male entrance onto the marae ahead of the females traditionally signified the male warriors' protection from any potential threat.
A small group of women stood on the steps, Maaka's grandmothers and aunties, their plaintive oratory a karanga, a traditional welcome to the group
Maaka's body had lain on the marae for three days. Today he'd finally be laid to rest. Katherine never expected her first exposure to Maori custom would be in the form of something as personal or intense as a family funeral.
Once Brent had finished responding to the karanga with a short speech in Maori, he led their group into the meeting house. As they removed their shoes before entering, Anika softly explained that such occasions were about family and friends gathering to support each other, the extended family coming together often for the first time in many years to say goodbye to the deceased and to talk with them for the last time.
The Turners were overwhelmed by the scene that greeted them. The room was large and open. Ornate carvings seemed to climb the wooden pillars, supporting a high carved roof. Katherine sensed the atmosphere to be one not of sadness but of joy. Small children were playing on the neatly manicured lawn. Inside, groups of men and women stood around laughing and talking.
This was certainly not the respectful, mournful atmosphere Katherine and David had experienced at funerals back in the UK. This was more like a happy family reunion.
Katherine thought the building looked basic, primitive even, contrasting as it did with the smart, modern clothing of the people who stood or sat on its floor. She felt guilt at her own narrow-minded misinterpretation of her surroundings. She wondered if a Maori family visiting a traditional English country church for the first time would also think it primitive.
Katherine was beginning to understand why this country had two names. It was only 'New' to the Europeans who'd been arriving for the past one hundred and seventy years. Before that, the Maoris had been living without external influence for hundreds more years.
She gazed around the room with fresh eyes. This time it looked familiar. It was a village hall. Then, in the midst of the crowd, towards the centre of the room, she saw the open coffin and the reason for being there came back to her once more.
She felt Anika touch her arm. "I won't be a moment, there's just something I need to do." She walked off into the crowd towards where Maaka's body lay.
As they parted to let her through, Katherine could see a small group of young men standing at the head of the coffin. They each listened intently as one by one they spoke to their friend, their uncle, and their brother, as if he could hear them.
She watched as Anika took a brown envelope from her handbag and placed it in a large woven flax basket which lay at Maaka's feet. When she returned, she saw the question in Katherine's eyes. "It's called a koha. It's the custom for visitors to contribute a gift to the marae to help cover food or any other costs involved with us being here."
Katherine was embarrassed. "You should have said before, I could have at least brought something."
Anika smiled. "Don't worry, that was from all of us." She turned, caught Brent's eye, and the pair made their way to where the group was taking it in turns to speak to Maaka. Intrigued, Katherine turned to her husband who was again at her side. "I think Captain Piri's about to speak. Let's go and listen."
They made their way towards the front. Captain Brent Piri, in full dress uniform, stepped forward and cleared his throat. Saving his people from an uncertain future was easy. Speaking to them at this time was not. "Mak and me, we joined the army together. We became men together, and thought we could change the world. No one expects to bury their brother, do they? In our job, even giving a little is too much. I'm sorry I wasn't there to watch your back, Bro'. It's what we train to do and I ... in the end ... I wasn't there for you and you made the ultimate sacrifice. I just want your Whanau to know that your death wasn't in vain. You died in the service of your country and one day that will be recognised. Kia Ora, Bro'."
Brent stepped back into the crowd, hoping to hide his emotion among strangers.
Maaka's father approached him. "Thanks for that, Brent. I know you can't say but that didn't sound like a speech for a man who died training in the High Country to me."
Brent looked him in the eye and no words were needed. As they walked back to the helicopter, Katherine asked Anika. "So this Koha, what exactly was it that was from all of us?"
"In his will, Patrick left me his shares in Dairytree. I suppose it was his way of apologising for, well, whatever is was that he felt guilty about. I don't want them, so the best thing I can do is to pass them onto the people who will use them to protect their legacy. As long as such a large part of that business is in the hands of Maori, my people, the country is safe. With that insurance, there is nothing Cowood can do. The Americans are going to have to find some other way of fuelling their cars."
Senator Elmerstein thought that he probably already had the answer ......
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