Milkshake

by Matt Hammond

  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 th
e 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.

  Chapter 16

  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 ha
ve 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.