by Matt Hammond
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.”
Chapter 5
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 b
e 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 produ
ction 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.”