Target for Terror

by Carl Hubrick

  ‘Well, Corina, your choice of bunk,’ Victoria said.

  ‘What should I call you?’ the little girl asked in her small quiet voice, ‘Victoria or Vicky? I’ve heard you called both.’

  The older girl smiled. ‘Victoria, please,’ she said. ‘Oh well, you can call me Vicky, if you like.’

  ‘Could I have the top bunk please?’ Corina asked, her eyes agog, as if she had never seen such things before. ‘If that’s all right?’

  Victoria smiled. ‘Of course. You can sleep wherever you like,’ she replied. Her smile broadened to a grin. ‘Just so long as you don’t wet the bed.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t,’ Corina answered - her tone quite serious. ‘Jason did for a while, but he doesn’t any more.’

  Victoria smiled. ‘I was only teasing,’ she explained gently.

  ‘Oh!’ Corina relaxed visibly and then her blue eyes sparkled. ‘But wouldn’t it be awful if the person on the top bunk did wet the bed?’

  All of a sudden, Victoria caught a fit of the giggles. ‘Yes it would be awful, wouldn’t it?’ she managed to burble before the giggles overcame her.

  Now Corina caught the fever. ‘Yes, it’d be like sleeping in the rain,’ she chortled, ‘only worse.’

  ‘Much, much worse,’ Victoria was able to blurt out between paroxysms of laughter.

  Her aunt poked her head through the door. ‘You two seem to be having fun. What’s the joke?’

  Victoria calmed herself long enough to say, ‘Oh, it was just a wet joke, Aunty Jo.’ Whereupon the two girls collapsed laughing onto the bottom bunk, banging their heads together, which seemed to cause even more hilarity.

  Jo Wilson gave a puzzled smile and shook her head. ‘It must be this mountain air,’ she said. ‘It’s made you both potty.’

  Victoria gave a shriek. ‘Potty!’ The two girls now broke out into fresh gales of laughter. Victoria doubled over. ‘Oh stop!’ she pleaded. ‘Stop! It hurts too much.’

  Her aunt smiled. “Well, I don’t know. Hopeless cases if you ask me. Lunch in ten minutes, girls.

  *

  Tom and Jason in the bunkroom next door heard the rumpus as they unpacked and set up their bunks with sleeping bags and blankets.

  Jason was ready to thump on the wall. ‘It’s what I’d do at home,’ he explained.

  ‘I don’t think my Mum would approve of that,’ Tom said with a smile.

  ‘Well, at least your cousin – what is her name, anyway?’

  ‘Vicky. Except Mum says we’ve got to call her Victoria.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I dunno. Some reason...’

  Jason nodded. ‘Well, at least she and Corina seem to be hitting it off okay.’

  ‘Yeah, Vicky’s okay,’ Tom said. ‘Just takes a bit of getting used to, that’s all.’

  ‘Yeah? Well Corina’s pretty good too,’ Jason said grinning. ‘Once you get used to her. I guess we’re stuck with them.’

  ‘Yeah!’ said Tom. ‘Shake on it.’

  Jason stuck out his hand. ‘Yeah, shake!’

  In an instant, Tom had caught the hand and ducked under it bringing his friend’s arm up into a hold behind his back.

  When Tom’s mother arrived, both boys were wrestling on the floor, their laughter as out of control as that of the girls’.

  ‘Lunch in ten minutes, boys,’ she said.

  Jo Wilson went back down the hall to where her husband was making sandwiches in the kitchen.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘One minute that girl’s all grown up and behaving like a young lady and we’re never to call her Vicky again because it’s far too childish and Victoria is far more adult – and the next minute she’s rolling around on the bunk behaving like a two year old. I go into the next room and the boys are just as bad.’ She shook her head. ‘I tell you, this mountain air has got a lot to answer for.’

  Her husband grinned and gave her a sudden kiss. ‘It sure has,’ he agreed.

  ‘Now don’t you start,’ she said - but she was smiling.

  * * * * *

  Rhodo was satisfied. The world of smells in the territory round the Wilsons’ house had told her the history of the past few days as clearly as footprints in the snow. There was no threat to her pack at this time - no reason to bark out an alarm. The scent trails, strong in the warm sun, criss-crossed each other – some old, some new – a puzzle of patterns, but each a key to some match in her brain – a memory. And on the air, other more distant trails came drifting in, each one building upon the tangle that spoke of the past, the present and – of those scents coming her way – something of the future too. But for now, each one added to the calm that Rhodo felt. No danger here. Her pack was safe.

  *

  The Rhodesian Ridgeback knew her responsibilities, for she was a hound, a hunting dog whose ancestors had lived with humankind over the centuries - hunted with them and guarded their homes. Her kind had been born in Africa – a mix of the native Hottentot hunting dog and the many other breeds that had arrived with the European settlers. From that melting pot had come a courageous hound that could track and bring the tawny lion to bay. Lion Dog had been her kind’s first name, until the present name was decided upon in the early 1920s.

  Although the Rhodesian Ridgeback has become a breed in its own right, the past has not been forgotten. The Ridgeback’s most distinctive marking - the ridge of fur down the centre of its back - is a legacy from the now extinct Hottentot hunting dog.

  *

  Rhodo’s exploration had taken her well up into the bush behind the house, but now, her task for the moment done, she turned and, black nose still to the earth floor, made her way back to the pack of which she was but a junior member.

  Tom, a male pup, was closest to her in status and a preferred pack member who often spent time with her in play. Jason, another male pup, was a friend from a companion group and accepted as such, along with his younger group-mate, Corina. The latter was particularly favoured at the moment, for she had made the recent car trip less irksome by stroking the Ridgeback’s head and chest for much of the journey. Victoria, a female leaving puppyhood, was a recurring and pleasant scent memory from the past and accepted as an honorary member. Jo Wilson was the female pack leader and filler of her food bowl when Tom forgot, which happened on occasions. Rhodo had a particular preference for the female leader. She understood the special role their gender played in the well-being of the pack. The trace of Jo Wilson’s scent was everywhere – on each and every item in the house.

  But it was to Les Wilson, the big male, defender of the pack, that Rhodo offered her total and unconditional obedience. He seemed largely superfluous in function, but every pack must have a leader whose bark is law – and he was it. Perhaps in time of danger the alpha male might show his mettle.

  *

  The smell of humans was strong and fresh about the house and Rhodo wagged her tail adding her scent to the others of the pack. As the Ridgeback came round the corner of the building, she picked up the sound of voices and the added aroma of lunch on the verandah. It was not a carnivore’s lunch, but Rhodo was not averse to some extra pickings from the omnivores’ leftovers.

  The big dog’s plan was simple. A quick round of pats from pack members and associates alike, then sit leaning up against Tom’s legs and wait for delicious tit-bits to be dropped into her mouth.

  * * * * *

  Wellington, the capital city of New Zealand, was busy. The cool sou’west change forecast for the day had not arrived and instead the tall city was shining under a hot summer sun. Throngs of brightly clothed people crowded the streets, interweaving their seemingly random paths in and out of shop and office doorways.

  In The Beehive, New Zealand’s seat of government, a building named for its shape and possibly the buzz of its politicians, the prime minister too was busy – busy listening to the middle-aged man with the thatch of brown hair who sat tall and straight in a dark grey suit, facing him across his desk.

  ‘So-o-o!’ The prime minister lean
ed back in his chair and steepled his fingers above the lapels of his grey suit jacket. ‘This is a very serious matter.’ He tapped the fingertips together. ‘A very serious matter indeed.’

  ‘It may well be, Prime Minister,’ the other agreed quietly. ‘Then again, it might not.’

  The head of government sat up, putting both hands on the desk in front of him, and looked carefully at the former public servant, now director of the Security Intelligence Service.

  ‘Is this a riddle?’ The prime minister’s tone had sharpened somewhat. ‘You said one of your agents was missing. I took it that meant he was dead! Killed!’

  The head of the SIS shook his head patiently. ‘No, Prime Minister. At present, we don’t know what has happened, or even where our operative might be. He may be perfectly all right, but we are concerned – and we are looking for him, right now. We do know that he discovered something in a routine check of new arrivals into the country at Auckland Customs. His last word was that he was proceeding to Christchurch to further his enquiries...’

  ‘Enquiries into what?’ The prime minister interrupted. ‘What was it he found?’

  The director of the SIS shrugged. ‘We don’t know. It may be nothing.’

  ‘Nothing? Good god, man. Are you telling me he went off on a hunch?’ The head of government was now plainly annoyed.

  The SIS chief stiffened visibly. ‘We don’t use that word, Prime Minister.’

  He spoke now like a schoolteacher controlling his patience with a misbehaving child. ‘It is our task to check out anything and everything that could pose a threat to the security of this nation – or its elected government. And...’ he paused briefly for effect. ‘It is my duty to keep you informed of our every action, since you are the chief elected representative of the people of this democracy.’

  The two grey suits sat stiffly facing each other for a moment, then the New Zealand head of government nodded curtly.

  ‘Yes, yes! Quite so.’ He stood up suddenly and extended his hand across the desk. As the leader of the country, he had a hundred other things to do. ‘You’ll keep me informed, of course,’ the prime minister said.

  ‘That is my duty,’ the other replied simply.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was hot on the verandah with the sun now at its zenith, even in the shade. Hot, but pleasant. Lunch over, the humans sat in silence, relaxed and replete. Rhodo lay, sphinx like, at Tom’s feet, her black nose twitching, alert to each new scent that wafted in on the mountain air.

  Tom’s mother bustled about clearing the table and stacking the used cups, plates and cutlery together on a tray ready to carry back inside. Corina offered to help with the washing-up, and Jo Wilson accepted the girl’s offer with thanks, but reminded the others that every chore would be strictly to roster once she had organised one. Les Wilson agreed a roster would be an excellent idea, but to leave his name off it, as he would be returning to town in a day or two.

  Victoria leaned back in her chair and gazed upwards. The sky was a startling blue, bright with the glare of the noonday sun. Only the occasional wisp of high cloud dotted the broad azure canopy above. The girl’s gaze took in the green hills round them and the purple summits beyond.

  Victoria waved a hand at the scene that surrounded them. ‘It makes you want to write a poem,’ she said, almost before she knew she had spoken.

  ‘A poem?’ Jason muttered in disgust. ‘That’s for school, and we’re on holiday.’

  But Tom looked up with a smile that seemed to say he understood.

  Victoria glanced over at her uncle. ‘I remember you said once the early Maori used to come through here on their way to the West Coast.’

  Her uncle nodded. ‘Yes, greenstone – pounamu - was the main attraction then, for body ornaments and weapons. And what a journey those old-time people were prepared to make for it.’ He grinned. ‘No cars in those days.’

  ‘No roads either,’ Tom added, joining the conversation.

  ‘Right Thomas!’ his father said. ‘It certainly was a long, hard journey. Actually...’ His eyes took on a faraway look for a moment. ‘I went into the Weka Pass area with a museum party once – years ago, when I was a student at the university. They were going on a dig, looking for evidence that prehistoric Maori had passed that way on their journey to the Coast. You might recall I pointed out Weka Pass when we drove through it on the way up here - lots of curves and bends in the road.

  Victoria nodded. ‘Where all those grey boulders look like prehistoric monuments.’

  ‘Hmm, yes. That’s a very good description, Victoria.’

  ‘But that was a long way back.’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ her uncle agreed, ‘but it’s the beginning of the old route through to the West Coast.’

  ‘And the greenstone?’ Victoria queried, checking.

  ‘That’s right,’ her uncle answered. ‘Anyway, the museum people I was with had discovered some old cooking-sites under overhanging rock formations and had been studying them for months. They always work very carefully, sifting every piece of dirt.

  Of course, we found rather what you’d expect – bones of small birds that had been cooked and eaten, near where those pioneer pathfinders had lit their fires.’

  He smiled. ‘Perhaps that doesn’t seem much to you now, but it really was very exciting at the time, particularly if you could reset your mind – if you could wind it back hundreds of years to the time when it all happened.’ He paused, remembering. ‘You could almost see the land as it was then – bush instead of pasture – the rivers flowing fresh and pure, without a hint of pollution. You could almost imagine a party of ancient travellers, talking over the days events, settling in for the night under those grey rock shelters to sleep in the glow of their cooking fires.’

  ‘What were the rock shelters like?’ Jason asked.

  ‘Big cavities or hollows in the stone,’ Tom’s father explained, ‘the overhanging rock forming a natural roof as a shelter from the wind and rain.’

  ‘Like a cave?’

  ‘Half a cave,’ Tom’s father conceded.

  ‘Half a cave?’ Jason was never easily satisfied. ‘How can you have half a cave?’

  ‘But even more exciting,’ Les Wilson continued, deciding to ignore Jason’s interruptions to his tale. ‘Was that they left something else to help our imaginations.’

  He looked at Victoria and then Tom. ‘What would you do if you had time to fill while you waited for your dinner to cook – or maybe after dinner, before you went to bed?’

  Victoria shrugged. ‘Talk, I suppose.’

  ‘Throw stones in the river,’ Jason offered.

  ‘Make something,’ Tom suggested.

  His father nodded. ‘Good Thomas, that’s close. Actually, they drew pictures on the stone walls of their rock shelters.’

  ‘Graffiti!’ Jason muttered.

  ‘Pictures of what they knew,’ Les Wilson continued, trying to pretend Jason didn’t exist. ‘Birds, fish, people and such like.’

  ‘Ah!’ Victoria exclaimed. ‘Like our Aborigines.’

  ‘Exactly!’ her uncle replied. ‘And like people everywhere have done for thousands of years. Perhaps one day we might find pictures of the New Zealand eagle and know better what it looked like.’

  ‘New Zealand eagle?’ Jason queried - a sudden light in his eyes.

  ‘Biggest the world has ever known,’ Les Wilson explained. ‘Died out perhaps five hundred years ago – when the moa became extinct.’

  ‘Yeah!’ Jason fired a fist at the air in front of him. ‘World’s biggest eagle!’

  ‘Why did the eagle die out with the moa?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Well, the moa was it main source of food.’

  Tom laughed. ‘Like Jason and McDonalds.’

  Jason punched his friend in the shoulder. A second later, the two boys were engulfed in the fun of trading punches.

  Les Wilson switched the conversation to Victoria. ‘At the moment, as far as I know, we only have reconstructions of t
he eagle based on archaeological studies of the bones. A drawing or two would probably help.’

  ‘What did the early Maori use to draw with?’ Victoria asked.

  ‘Ah! Good question, Victoria,’ her uncle answered. ‘Actually, the Weka Pass artists used charcoal and red stone. Now, of course, they could have picked up the charcoal at any time from their cooking fires. But I remember the museum people saying that the only place the red stone could have come from was Kaikoura, on the east coast, around a hundred kilometres away.’

  ‘Wasn’t there a big pa at Kaikoura?’ Tom asked, rubbing his shoulder. Jason, as usual, had hit the hardest, forcing Tom to give in.

  ‘Well yes, there was certainly a pa there in historical times, and I guess it must have been a popular place to live for generations before that.’

  ‘Kaikoura,’ Tom murmured. ‘To eat crayfish.’

  ‘That’s right, Thomas,’ his father agreed. ‘And there’s still plenty of crayfish there to this day, though I think the name means rather more than that. But the point I’m making is this. Those old-time artists came prepared, even down to bringing their own drawing materials.’

  ‘That’s a bit like Victoria and her poem,’ Jason said, with obvious distaste for the thought. For him, drawing, like poetry, was something else strictly reserved for school.

  ‘It must have taken them ages to get up here into the mountains,’ Tom said, his voice quiet with awe. ‘Let alone over the Lewis Pass and down the other side.’

  His father nodded. ‘Yes, you certainly have to admire New Zealand’s first pioneers. They were great adventurers.’

  For a moment, their gazes centred as one upon the mountaintops where the Lewis Pass wound its way up through the Southern Alps. They could almost imagine the ancient brown-skinned people threading their way through the bush beside the river – the Boyle River – sparkling then, five hundred years ago, as beautifully as it did now.

  * * * * *

  The four men were silent as they threaded their way single file through the mountain scrub and bush, machine pistols at the ready. Their mottled green and brown camouflage gear blended with the hillside so well, it seemed at times as if the bush itself were moving. But their silence was more than just a precaution. Years of training had made speech unnecessary. They knew what they had to do. These men were professionals. They had not come for the scenic beauty of the river, nor the mountain views. They had a job to do – a mission.