by Matt Hammond
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.
Chapter 23
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, unexpect
ed 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 re-appeared, 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?”
Chapter 24
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 th
e 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.