by Thomas Ryan
He heard noises. The Range Rover. Were the men inside climbing out, readying themselves to come after him? He scrambled to his feet. A blinding light forced him to shield his eyes. He was standing in the rover’s headlights. As he stepped back he saw movement inside the terrorists’ vehicle. They would be entangled in seatbelts. It gave him time. The only exits were up through the driver window or passenger window or through the front windscreen or the rear window. He needed a weapon. Anything would do. He spotted a piece of driftwood the length of his arm and as thick as his wrist. He reached for it. The narrow end was slim enough to hold in one hand. He hit it on the ground. At least it wasn’t rotten and felt solid enough; light but heavy enough to do damage.
The driver’s door window opened. A rifle barrel appeared, then the whole weapon. Jeff recognised it as a Kalashnikov. He looked at his piece of wood and back at the automatic rifle. Outmatched. A head popped up.
He took three strides and swung the piece of drift wood as hard as he could. The sickening thud brought a grunt and then a scream. The connection jarred his arm but he smiled at the terrorist’s cry of pain. The head disappeared back inside. The Kalashnikov teetered on the doorframe. He grabbed for it. Too slow; it fell back inside.
The night erupted with gunfire.
The Rover’s windscreen shattered. Pieces of glass flung over the light of the headlights, a shower of sparkling diamonds. Jeff had little choice. It was time to run. In a few seconds they would be out of the vehicle and a piece of wood was no match for an automatic rifle. He didn’t have time scramble up the bank onto the road. With the vehicle’s lights he would be an easy target. He ran across the stream into the brush. After fifty metres he was at the top of the small hill where he followed the well-used track down onto Shelly Beach. Running on ground shell that was not as fine as sand was still as bad as running on sand, if not worse. The spongy bed sucked at his feet, slowing his pace, the effort of movement tightening his calves, and small fragments found their way inside his shoes. After a few minutes it felt like he was wearing sandpaper.
It was a small bay with a cliff face at either end. In the dark it would be too risky climbing rocks. He ran across the sloping shore to the sound of the crashing waves. In the distance he heard sirens and the incoming security of the police but there was no turning back. The terrorists would be chasing him and they were between him and the road.
“Gareth Wilson,” Gareth said into his radio.
“Go ahead.”
“I have one man down from the Range Rover. He’s not moving. I’ve checked his pulse. He’s still alive.”
“An ambulance is on its way,” the radio operator said. “What about Jeff Bradley?”
“Gone, and no sign of any others. There have been shots fired on the beach. I have to assume Bradley is the target. I’ll leave men to guard the guy in the vehicle. The Sarge and I will go looking for Jeff.”
“Take care.”
“Should we be going out there just the two of us?” Bob asked.
“It’s nighttime,” Gareth replied. “Too many of us and we’ll end up shooting each other. It’s better this way.”
“Yeah, right. Lead the way. I’m right behind you,” Bob said.
“Now don’t get in front of me. I’m going to shoot at anything that moves and I don’t want that to be a cop.”
“Don’t worry, Gareth, I know how to play tail-end Charlie.”
Jeff stopped to catch his breath. When he had it under control he listened but heard nothing. The noise from the crashing breakers drowned out any chance he might have of picking up approaching footsteps. The moon, now high in the sky, increased visibility. Jeff could clearly see the rock face in front of him. Too sheer to climb. He had run himself into the seaside equivalent of a blind gully. It suddenly dawned on him that if the moon was silhouetting the rock face then it must be silhouetting him. He dived onto the shells and then spun round and looked back the way he had come. There was only darkness. He could see lights in the distance. Farmhouses and holiday homes.
He couldn’t go any further. Back towards the road were the hills and bush, and his pursuers. Behind him was the ocean. He cursed himself for being all kinds of stupid and not sticking with the bush. Too late now. He crawled towards to the sea until the first lapping of sea water splashed cold on his hands. He shivered. Hesitated. Too long in this water and he’d be suffering from hypothermia in no time. He looked back. In his sightline shadowy figures were closing in. He continued his crawl into the water. When he was waist deep he turned his back to the incoming waves. Unsteady on his feet. His shoes, filled with water, were sticking in the now sandy bottom. He should have removed them. He tried to kick them off but the water acted like glue.
The three shadows stopped short of the tideline. Eyes searched the darkness. At any moment they might turn and see him. Jeff crouched down his head barely above water. He saw one of them point in his direction. They must have assessed this as his only escape option. He looked behind him. The ocean was frothing up, the waves growing bigger. At any moment a freak wave might hit and wash him ashore, plonking him at their feet. He shuddered from the chill. They raised their weapons. Aimed in his direction. He had no choice. He turned, and as they fired he dove into the surf.
When Gareth and Bob heard the burst of machine gun fire they dropped.
“Sarge, are you okay?” Gareth whispered.
“Yeah. I’m okay.”
“So they are either lousy shots or they weren’t firing at us.”
“I hope you’re right. It sounds as though we might be a little out gunned.”
The sky again lit up with gunfire. The noise was deafening.
“Holy shit. Sounds like a bloody war. One thing is for sure. Jeff is still alive and is pissing them off,” Gareth said. “Let’s crawl to the top of the hill. Keep your head down.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t be standing up.”
Another burst of gunfire.
“How many bullets do they need to kill someone?” Bob asked.
“I don’t care how many shots are fired. As long as they’re shooting, Jeff is still alive.”
Gareth and Bob paused for a breather. They had crawled fifty metres. There had been no shooting for more than a minute. They crawled up the last few metres to the top. They now had a good view of the beach but saw no one. “HQ are you there?” Gareth whispered into the radio.
“Go ahead, Gareth.”
“The shooters seem to have gone. They must have cut back up into the bush. They didn’t come past me. We need road blocks and cars patrolling up and down the road.”
“Roger that, Gareth.”
“Okay. I’m moving forward to the water’s edge.” Gareth said. “Stay behind me, Sarge. If you see anything then shoot but make sure you don’t shoot me.”
Jeff watched as the two figures split. Where was the other one? They could be setting a trap. He was frozen. He needed to get out of the water. He wondered why they were not clearing off. They must have heard the sirens. He could see the flashing lights of torches from where he was; they must see them as well. Then the two figures were back together, talking. Rather loudly. They were being a little too casual. He heard the unmistakable sound of a radio receiver. Torches were now being shone towards them from the dunes. The two figures stayed still and in fact one of the men was waving. Police?
“Hello,” He called out.
“Jeff, is that you?” Gareth yelled back.
“I’m in the water.”
Gareth and Bob ran to the water’s edge. Jeff waded inshore. Bob and Gareth grabbed an arm each.
“That answers one question,” Gareth said. “Smart move running into the water.”
Jeff didn’t answer. His body shook. He rubbed his hands.
“Come on, let’s get you up on the road and warmed up. Keep an eye out, Sarge. Those guys are still out there somewhere.
”
Cunningham had been sitting in Moana’s office waiting for news. She appeared in the doorway, smiling.
“Jeff Bradley’s okay,” she said.
“Thank God.”
Moana opened the bottom drawer of her filing cabinet and pulled out a bottle of scotch. She poured two shots into the paper cups.
“To Jeff,” Cunningham said. They touched cups and sipped the whisky. “Jesus, what a relief.”
“Our Jeff Bradley is certainly an unusual man,” Moana said.
Cunningham nodded.
“What now?” she asked.
“Go home. Get some sleep. We’re heading north in the morning. We need to talk to the prisoner. He knows where Zahar Akbar is and I intend getting something out of the little shit.”
“That’s out of my jurisdiction, Inspector, it belongs to Whangarei police.”
Brian nodded. “Then come as my guest. How does that sound? It’s the weekend. Think of it as an outing.”
25.
By the time Cunningham and Moana arrived in Waipu, the village was bustling with activity.
First light brought the police helicopter into action. Roadblocks were in place from Whangarei through to the Auckland side of the Brynderwyns and the back roads through to Mangawhai Heads and Dargaville. Dog teams had joined in the search. All police officers in the region had been called back from leave. A Special Air Service unit was on its way from their base in Papakura.
But the three terrorists remained elusive.
Cunningham pulled up beside a policeman controlling traffic and asked for directions to the police station. The officer, irritated and under pressure, advised Brian in a not-so-conciliatory tone that he was holding up traffic and that he needed to move on. Cunningham flashed his badge. He brushed aside the mumbled apology and drove on, following the given directions.
“Jesus, it looks a bloody carnival.”
“There’s the station house up ahead on the right,” Moana said.
Cunningham turned into the driveway but was again blocked.
He wound down his window.
The policeman stooped. “Sorry, sir, you cannot come in here.”
Cunningham again showed his credentials. The officer nodded and waved him through, pointing to a section of freshly mown lawn now turned into a temporary car park.
“Let’s go find out who’s in charge.”
Moana followed Cunningham through the small crowd milling about outside and into the station house.
“Who’s running this show?” he asked a constable just inside the door.
“Superintendent Carlyle.”
“Jimmy Carlyle?”
“That’s him. He’s through there in the lounge,” the constable said, pointing to a door off the corridor. Cunningham knew Carlyle. They met at conferences and spoke often on the phone. Carlyle was standing in a corner of the room speaking into his mobile. When he saw Cunningham he waved him over. He quickly finished his conversation and put the phone in his jacket pocket.
“Brian Cunningham.” He smiled, holding out his hand. “Good to see you again.”
The two men shook hands.
“You look like shit, Jimmy. I suppose you’ve been up all night?”
“You’ve got it in one. I understand you Aucklanders are to blame for this fiasco?”
“I’m afraid so,” Cunningham replied. “What’s the latest?”
“Not much more to add to what you probably already know. We have one in hospital. There are three on the run but as yet no sign of them. They have either turned into trees or gone to ground. The army is on its way. The dogs haven’t found a trail and the only sighting from the police chopper so far is green fields and cows. But we have the region surrounded and closed off. We’ll get them.”
Cunningham nodded. He was not about to tell Carlyle the terrorists had probably flown the coop. For most of their lives they had been evading the world’s best intelligence agencies. They’d had most of the night to escape. Even in the dark they could easily cover three to four kilometres an hour. Stick to the road and only go cross country to steer clear of a roadblock. Right now they could be fifty kilometres away. In his opinion a vehicle from Auckland would have already collected them. However he could be wrong, and there was no point winding down the search just yet.
“You head up the STG, don’t you? Where the hell are they?”
Cunningham said, “The SAS boys are on the way. Tracking down this type of enemy is what they’re trained to do. Might as well leave it to the experts.”
“Then what brings you here? Not just sightseeing are you?”
“Do you have somewhere private we can talk?”
“Sure.”
Jeff had a pang of sympathy for Gareth and his wife. Journalists and television news teams had begun to arrive in Waipu en masse. Gareth’s home was the centre of activity. Extra police had been brought in from the surrounding towns. Gareth’s wife, Miriam, busied herself making coffees and sandwiches. The women from her book group had rallied round to help her.
As news of the violence spread throughout the area, first by word of mouth and now live television news broadcasts, locals from the surrounding valleys and farms poured into the small village. The Post Office, pizza restaurant and the local pub and cafés opened early. Everyone wanted breakfast and coffees and to share stories and pass on exaggerated information. This was the most excitement Waipu had seen in many decades. Like the cafés the owners of other retail outlets recognised the opportunity and also opened early.
Jeff had rented two rooms in the Clansman Motel; the only accommodation on offer in the village. He had slept, then woke hungry and in need of decent coffee. The hot-beverage sachets in the room were not going to do it for him. He tapped on Barbara’s door and asked her to join him at the Art Gallery Restaurant. They took a table by the window that overlooked the town’s only intersection and less than a hundred metres from the police station. Jeff mindlessly watched cars, farm vehicles and pedestrians criss-cross each others’ paths as they hurried to nowhere in search of information no one had. A hawk glided across the skyline then swooped. A field mouse or rabbit foolish enough to leave the safety of their hide had just become a meal. Jeff thought through the events of the night before. He had brought violence to this tranquil piece of New Zealand. He thought through his impulsiveness. Why had he followed Esat Krasniqi the night of Quentin’s nightclub opening? He wasn’t a policeman. It wasn’t his responsibility. He was a wine grower now, not a soldier.
“It’s not your fault, Jeff. None of it,” Barbara said, breaking into his reverie. She spooned sugar into her coffee.
“A journalist and a mind reader.”
“I’m a talented woman. How are the aches and pains?”
“Nothing like an hour in freezing salt water to ease the bruising. I hate that I’ve brought this nightmare to town.”
“As I said, Jeff, you’re not to blame. You’re just as much a victim as the rest of us.”
“I’m not so sure.”
He saw Brian Cunningham and Moana Te Kanawa crossing the street and walking towards them.
“We’re about to have company.”
Barbara followed his gaze.
“That was quick. How would they know where we were?”
Jeff smiled. “The motel owner would have told them we walked off to have coffee. There aren’t that many places. Besides, you are a celeb, Barbara. Even the village of Waipu has television. Have you not noticed the people staring?”
“I thought they were looking at your nose,” Barbara teased.
“Morning, Brian, Sergeant,” Jeff said. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to see you two here.”
“We left Auckland early this morning. Mind if we join you?” Cunningham said as he pulled out a chair.
Moana waited for Jeff’s invite before she
sat.
“I’ve spoken with Bob Carlyle. He’s heading up the search. He’s of the opinion that even though it’s still early days the three terrorists will be caught. You and I know that’s not likely. We’ve seen enough of these shits to know they’ve probably well and truly got away by now, or at least are hiding somewhere where they’ll never be found.”
Jeff nodded. “Too isolated to get roadblocks in place fast enough, and besides they can always walk round them. Standard evasive training. Waipu is in the middle of nowhere and there are so many roads, plus bush and a million hiding places. And of course there are miles of coastline where they could be picked up by boat. I agree, they’ve gone. Not to mention these days with handheld GPS navigation systems they don’t need to be familiar with the area to know how to get out of it. Every bloody phone has one.”
“We need to discuss your safety, Jeff. This was a very clear message. They want you out of the way. I don’t suppose you’d consider getting lost somewhere until all this is over?”
“Not an option, Brian.”
“I didn’t think so. Okay. Fair enough. We’ll need to think of something else. My status will probably change tomorrow. Police politics will rear its ugly head. I’ll be pushed back to my STG office to wait for deployment phone calls. Someone higher up the ladder will take the lead. What it means is that you and Barbara will be out of the loop. I’ve stretched the rules already keeping you on the inside.” He looked at Barbara. “Sorry. It will become a closed shop.”