Red Dragons

by K W Frost

  Ritson nodded in agreement, still puzzled by the way it had been concealed.

  ‘That being said,’ added Child, ‘I know someone who should be able to tell us more.’

  Chapter Ten

  It was clear to anyone what Gray Wardell was: a science boffin. He was head of the Science Department at the local college, where he worked alongside Simon Child. At the age of fifty-six, Gray was of medium height with an athletic body that had slightly gone to seed. His grey, wavy hair was cut short and heavy glasses dominated his face, hiding intelligent blue eyes that peered out at the world.

  Gray was a highly respected physicist who could have obtained a job in most universities around the country. However, he preferred to make inventions in his superbly outfitted workshop in the basement of his home, or if he wasn’t having much success there, he would try his luck out on his boat, fishing.

  After a quick call to confirm that he was at home, Child drove to Gray’s beachside house in Snells Beach. On the outside, Gray’s home looked like most of the others in the area, with a superb view of the water out to Kawau Island and Takatu peninsula, and all the islands in between. Only when one ventured inside, could the differences be seen, with the entire bottom storey filled with scientific gadgets, most of which worked with varying degrees of success. A confirmed bachelor, Gray was the only person at home when he met Child at his front door.

  ‘Come in, Simon, it’s good to see you,’ said Gray, warmly. Even with the differences in ages these two got on well with each other. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ said Child, stepping into the house.

  Ten minutes later, the two men sat down on the veranda looking out over the water. Child wasted no more time and pulled the computer board from his rucksack for Gray to inspect.

  ‘What do you make of that?’ Child asked, passing the board to Gray.

  Gray took the board and began to inspect it in detail, turning it over several times in the process.

  ‘Okay, Simon, you’ve got me. What do you use it for?’ Gray responded, looking puzzled.

  ‘I was hoping that you could tell me that,’ Child replied with a grin.

  ‘Well, where did it come from? What else was with it? Were there any instructions? What about the packaging?’

  The rapid-fire questions, for which Child had no answer, came quickly from Gray. Child looked resigned.

  ‘Look, I just don’t know, Gray. All I can tell you is that it recently came into my hands, I’m pretty sure it’s from overseas and it’s very valuable to someone.’

  ‘Well, that doesn’t narrow the gap much.’

  ‘Run some tests on it then, or do whatever you guys do to find out how these things work,’ growled Child.

  ‘It’s not as easy as all that to source that information,’ explained Gray. ‘Firstly, we don’t know what power supply is needed to run it. It’s obviously part of a bigger network and we have no idea what this could be. Lastly, there are parts and connections here that are foreign to me — this could prove to be impossible.’

  ‘You haven’t given up already, have you?’ asked Child.

  ‘No, no…’ said Gray, pausing before repeating himself. ‘No… but this will take time and I simply can’t guarantee an answer.’

  ‘You will try though?’

  ‘I’ve just about finished that ultrasonic shark repeller I was telling you about. I was going to try to finish that today, but you have me interested now… I guess I can finish the repeller some other time. You’ll want an answer as soon as possible, right?’

  The mystery of the unknown had captured Gray’s imagination.

  ‘Thanks Grey,’ Child said, standing up to leave. ‘Keep it somewhere safe, and if people come looking for it, tell them nothing, I don’t think anyone will come, but be careful, okay.’

  Gray promised that he would, and then as he turned to go downstairs to his workshop, he said to himself yes, you are a very strange piece indeed.

  Child spent the next three hours on the phone, ringing everyone who might be able to help identify the fishing boat, but no one seemed to know anything. He spent half an hour talking with Senior Sergeant Lou Chappell, the local regions top officer from Warkworth, going over the whole episode, but again he didn’t seem to be able to help. He was able to promise to pass on the information to the drug squad in Auckland though.

  Child chose not to mention the computer board as he wanted to find out what it did first, and apart from coming in the same container, the two things weren’t obviously related.

  Child told Chappell that he would keep asking around, and would appreciate it, if the police found any further information, that they would contact him. Chappell assured him that they would do so.

  When Child rang Ritson later that day, he’d still had no luck in tracing the missing boat. Ritson hadn’t had any success either. Police records, boat registration, even fishing license holders had no reference to the Santa Rose.

  Ritson was about to give up when Child decided that there must be a different way to find out who owned that boat, as it certainly wasn’t a figment of the imagination.

  Child had a simple idea.

  ‘Steve, want did you think the name of the fishing boat was?’

  ‘Santa Rose — how come?’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘Well… not entirely, but Sam also thought it called that.’

  ‘Yes, but you weren’t sure. What about something similar?’

  Child paused as his mind flicked through all the possible names.

  ‘What about Centre Rose?’

  ‘Of course,’ Ritson said, the enthusiasm back in his voice. ‘There could be other similar names as well… I’ll get on to it now.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Albert Whittingham was at his home in St Heliers. The house was situated on a hill overlooking the beach and out towards Rangitoto Island. He sat on the side of his twenty-metre pool as his 12-year-old daughter practised swimming lengths. Her strokes were easy and graceful as she carved her way through the water, the result of the coaching she had received.

  On the table to Whittingham’s right sat a chilled orange juice and a towel. The flower gardens were carefully pruned and cared for by a professional gardener and as usual the beds were a blaze of fiery colours that were Whittingham’s wife’s favourite.

  Whittingham’s wife, Abbie, was out playing her usual afternoon game of golf and was also expected home shortly. A tall, shapely woman who looked a decade younger than her forty-two years, Abbie had married well, and did her wifely duty by running the home. She was also on several charitable committees, and donated a day each week to helping the elderly.

  The Whittingham family’s second child, Andrew, was due home at 6pm from the exclusive Kings College for boys, where he was in his fourth year. Andrew was an excellent student and already in the second eleven cricket team. His father knew that it was important that the right contacts be established even at a young age.

  Whittingham had reason to be content with his life. However, he was a workaholic and rare were the times that he didn’t go back to the office in the evenings, or work late from home.

  Today, however, he was waiting for a call and decided to get out of the office where his anxiety might have been noticed.

  The soft beeping of the cellphone broke the idyllic quiet in the garden.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered directly, his voice betraying none of the tension that he felt.

  ‘We have recovered the package,’ said a deep voice down the line. ‘Where would you like the delivery taken, and when?’

  Whittingham breathed an internal sigh of relief.

  ‘The usual arrangements will take too long on this occasion,’ he replied, his voice remaining clipped. ‘I need to access the container urgently. Where are you holding it?’

  ‘In my garage at home, under lock and key,’ the deep voice answered.

  ‘Do you think that’s wise?’

  ‘Can you think of a safer place?
Besides, sometimes the simplest solution is the best one.’

  ‘Yes… well, all right. Meet me at the old Winstone warehouse at 9pm. Third door down will be open. Drive in but stay in the vehicle until you see me personally.’

  Whittingham was back in control now, but he still had doubts.

  ‘Did the recovery go well? Were there any problems?’ he asked.

  ‘Possibly… but just let me explain,’ the deep voice added quickly. ‘My team did not recover the container from the sea. We took possession on land. Two men who performed a rescue here yesterday must have seen the container. You probably heard about them on the news… anyway, they recovered the container and although we recovered it quickly enough, the two men did access the goods inside.’

  ‘So, they know what was inside,’ Whittingham couldn’t hide the tension in his voice this time. A lot of his plans would be destroyed if all the contents were not recovered.

  ‘Was anything taken?’ Whittingham demanded, his patience ebbing.

  ‘No, we got everything back. We even brought the plastic container back, as you requested.’

  ‘Good, good… then the only problem is the two men. Can they identify you?’

  ‘Of course not. They never saw my men and have no idea who was responsible for recovering the goods. However, they’ll no doubt ask a lot of questions and find something out. One man in particular could be troublesome.’

  ‘Perhaps we’ll have to discourage them,’ said Whittingham.

  He paused in thought as several ideas crossed his mind, and then chose the obvious one. Sometimes the easiest solution is also the best solution.

  ‘Leave it to me, give me the name and description of the main concern and I’ll have it dealt with,’ said Whittingham, coldly.

  A quarter of an hour and three phone calls later, Whittingham leant back in his deckchair, a contented smile on his face. Things were back on track and his scheme was still going to be on schedule.

  His mood lifted, he turned to compliment his daughter on her swimming style as she climbed out of the pool, tired from completing thirty laps.

  An hour later Abbie arrived home. Whittingham told her that he had to pop back to the office after dinner. All she said was, ‘Don’t be too late.’

  Chapter Twelve

  The old Winstone warehouse was down by the waterfront, where the air tasted fresh and salty. Back when the port was one of Auckland’s biggest employers, this warehouse had been a centre of industry handling a variety of goods, including cement and bulk manufacturing exports. Now it was unused and in a state of disrepair.

  Albert Whittingham had bought it five years ago for a low price, with the intention of demolishing it when the time was right. In its place, he would construct the downtown shopping mall he had already designed some years earlier. In the meantime, it was a convenient meeting place for when he didn’t want to be disturbed or seen.

  Whittingham drove his Lincoln Continental slowly down the alleyway between the warehouses. At the third door down, he got out and opened the big sliding door.

  A couple of minutes later he was back in his car, sitting in the dark, thirty feet from the warehouse and facing the door. He was ten minutes early but expected his visitor to be on time. Harry Connick Junior playing Jazz floated from the car’s stereo. On the passenger seat sat a plain paper bag containing thirty thousand dollars in cash. This money would be exchanged for the goods.

  Suddenly, lights of the approaching vehicle illuminated the doorway, and the car swung in as the driver turned sharply to get through the door. He drove straight in and stopped ten feet from the entrance, flicking off his lights, plunging the warehouse into darkness again.

  Whittingham let ten seconds pass before he turned his lights on full. A white Toyota Hilux with the distinctive blue lettering reading POLICE on its side sat in the full glare of his headlamps. The driver slowly got out and stood calmly facing the glaring lights.

  Whittingham dipped his lights as he recognised the other major player in his smuggling ring, Senior Sergeant Lou Chappell.

  Chappell recognised Whittingham and turned to the back of the Hilux with its full cab cover. Opening the back door, he effortlessly lifted the yellow container out and placed it on the ground.

  Whittingham smiled when he saw the container.

  ‘Well done, Lou, well done… we’ll make a small fortune from this,’ said Whittingham.

  Although he was a snob, one of Whittingham’s gifts was relating to and charming people of all types. He got on remarkably well with Chappell.

  Whittingham crouched down to inspect the container, frowning as he saw the roughly opened top.

  ‘I hope it’s all here,’ he said as his eyes scanned the container.

  ‘All thirty bags are accounted for,’ said Chappell, his deep voice echoing softly around the room.

  ‘This is our biggest haul yet, so I don’t want any mistakes later down the line. Is there going to be any official inquiry?’

  ‘I’ve taken care of it personally,’ Chappell smiled. ‘The handling and logging request on the computer network says it has been sent. It’ll be Auckland’s fault when they fail to act on the information received… just a pity that they received a blank request form.’

  Whittingham didn’t look convinced.

  ‘Don’t worry it will look like someone accidentally pushed the wrong button and sent it. It happens all the time. It will be forgotten in an hour. Now come on, Albert, I’ll give you a hand to get it to your car.’

  Chappell lifted the container effortlessly and carried it around to the back of Whittingham’s car while Whittingham retrieved the plain paper bag. After Chappell placed the container down, Whittingham opened the boot, allowing the light to glow softly in the darkness. He then handed the bag to Chappell.

  ‘Count it, Lou, I want you to trust me.’

  ‘I do trust you, Albert. Count the bags so you know you can trust me.’

  As Chappell counted the money in the soft glow of car’s interior lights, Whittingham quickly placed the bags into his empty spare wheel compartment. The spare wheel and a big bunch of roses had been pushed to the back of the boot already.

  The space filled as the bags were quickly counted in, Whittingham almost absent-mindedly counting as he placed them. What he really wanted was at the bottom of the container.

  When the container was empty, he felt around for the lip of the hidden compartment and pulled. The plastic square lifted and revealed an empty compartment below.

  Whittingham stood stunned, his hand feeling around frantically in the hidden compartment.

  ‘It’s not here,’ he said, his voice rising. ‘It’s not here!’

  Chappell looked confused.

  ‘What’s not there? I personally counted all the bags and they’re all there.’

  ‘No! Not the bags. The computer board — it’s not in there here!’

  Whittingham could feel panic rising in his chest now.

  ‘What computer board?’ Chappell’s questioning look brought Whittingham back from his growing despair. Chappell knew nothing about the extra package.

  He thought frantically, knowing that he required Chappell’s help.

  ‘Look, Lou, the cocaine was only one part of the shipment. I also needed to bring in a piece of technology that currently isn’t available here, so I had it placed in the bottom of the container in a hidden compartment. Now while it’s valuable to me, it would be of no use to anyone else,’ Whittingham said, regaining some composure.

  Chappell’s initial doubts receded as Whittingham explained the situation.

  ‘You want me to find the computer board?’

  ‘Yes, I need it back urgently,’ Whittingham replied sharply. ‘If I don’t have the components back within three days then it won’t be of use to me anymore. I’ll pay you an extra fifty thousand if you get it back to me in time.’

  Chappell looked at Whittingham, a speculative look crossing his face. Whittingham had made a mistake by offering to
o much money, and Chappell leaned in towards him.

  ‘I’ll get it back, Albert, but I’ll be putting myself at risk. When I do return it, you had better cut me in on the deal.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Leigh Hotel was similar to many country pubs. It had the usual bar at one end, near the entrance, with bar stools lined up. Poky machines greeted you as you entered. Tables and other stools were spread about near the bar, with two pool tables further away. A garden bar could be used at the right, while at the end of the room the large windows let all the patrons look at the panoramic view of the sea. Looking out, you could see Maori Island and Little Barrier. On a clear day, visibility stretched to Great Barrier Island and the Coromandel Peninsula, and the view was spectacular.

  Fishing trophies hung from the pub’s walls, mostly shark jaws and teeth, with names and dates, some dating back thirty years or more. A photo of the original pub before it burnt down was placed in the centre of one wall. The lingering smell of cigarette smoke and stale beer-soaked carpet gave the place some real character.

  It was almost 8pm when Child walked into the Leigh Hotel, and the usual crowd of customers was there, just as he was hoping for. It was a mixture of farmers and farmworkers, retired folks, local business people, holidaymakers and fishermen. It was these people that Child had really come in to see.

  He patiently received many congratulations, handshakes and offers of drinks, as his efforts in the sea rescue on Goat Island were still big news. Gradually, people went back to their games of pool or darts, and the conversation returned to the normal chatter about upcoming rugby matches or how much the latest bad weather had cost people.

  Child circulated the groups, chatting to everyone but honed in on the local business owners, holidaymakers and fishermen. It wasn’t hard to get the conversation around to the rescue, as everyone wanted to know what it had been like. Child managed to steer the conversation towards other boats out in the storm, but most people thought that anyone out in weather like that was mad. Nobody could remember who owned or operated the boat called the Santa Rose or similar, although a few of the fishermen thought they had seen it on and off over the past year. The boat didn’t seem to fish locally and it shied away from contact. Some people thought that the mystery boat had operated out of the Bay of Plenty, but they weren’t sure.