by Matt Hammond
“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.”
Chapter 20
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.”