The Mark of Halam

by Thomas Ryan

On the police launch Barbara saw the light first and pointed. They were less than three hundred metres away. Then they heard the burst of gunfire.

  “Well at least we know where Bradley is,” Caldwell said dryly. “The terrorists look like they’re lining up the Ulysses. Look, the tide has swung the protection boats apart. There is an opening.”

  The police launch increased speed but it was never going to make it in time. The Te Hana stood between the terrorist launch and the sub, a sentinel towering above the Ulysses. Although Cunningham had been on board the frigate he had not been aware it had an attack helicopter. At least it was in the air. That was something. He did know that on the deck below the bridge, a competent naval rating sat at the desk that controlled the Phalanx weapons system, and he hoped a hand on the control handle was lining up the gatling gun or whatever they called the damn thing. The wall of lead it was capable of spitting forth would rip the launch’s fibreglass hull to shreds.

  “We’re going to be too fucking late. Where is that bloody chopper off the Te Hana?” Cunningham screamed.

  “They’re searching but haven’t sighted it yet,” the captain responded.

  “Are you kidding me? With Jeff lighting it up, a Russian cosmonaut on the space station could see it. Get that thing blown out of the water. Right now.”

  Larry swung the boat to the right as a terrorist opened fire. At the same time Jeff tried to keep the light aimed directly at his eyes. As Larry closed and sped past Jeff made sure he kept the launch lit up. The defensive naval vessels must be able to see it.

  “We have to slow them down,” Jeff yelled.

  “Under the seat are fishing nets. Put the light off and down.” Jeff did as he was told and scrambled back into the cabin.

  “Found them!” he yelled.

  “Okay, we have to tangle the propellers with it.”

  “Great idea. Do you think they’ll let us get close enough if I ask politely?”

  “That looks like an old launch. New boats are fitted with a disc around the shaft designed to chop up anything that gets wrapped round it. Let’s hope this doesn’t have one. I’m going to speed across the bow. You throw one of the nets in the water in front of them. Hopefully when they run over it the propellers will get caught.”

  “That was my next idea,” Jeff laughed.

  “Sure it was. That’s the trouble with you soldier boys. On dry land you don’t have to learn to think.”

  Larry was turning. Jeff held up the net in both hands. He gave no thought to spreading it. The water would do that. As they turned he could see the dark shape of the submarine.

  “Why don’t they fire the torpedoes?”

  “Probably the incoming tide. They have to get past it a little. Another hundred metres or so.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Okay, here we go. Splay it out when I say.”

  Larry hit the throttle and the boat surged forward. They were crossing in front.

  “There’s a gunman on the bow. So keep your head down.”

  Jeff instinctively ducked at flashes of light emitting from the launch. He was reminded of dancing fireflies.

  “How do I do that and toss the net?” Jeff responded.

  “If you get shot, make sure the net gets thrown. Okay here we go, ready, ready, now!”

  Jeff splayed the net out as they passed in front. Two holes appeared in the fibreglass a few centimetres beneath the railing he clung to.

  “It’s done. Get us the hell out of here.”

  Larry swung the boat away. On the terrorists’ launch shadowy figures took up positions along the starboard deck. Gun barrels were following the path of Larry’s runabout.

  “Get your head down,” Jeff yelled.

  Around them sharp cracks followed flashes of light as metal projectiles from Kalashnikovs rocketed towards them. None had hit the boat. This didn’t surprise Jeff. Hitting a moving target while standing on a rolling base would be almost impossible.

  “Get the light back on,” Larry yelled. “Let’s see if we’ve held them up.”

  Jeff directed the lamp back onto the launch.

  “They’re shooting at the light,” Jeff called out.

  “Hold it away from me,” Larry said, then swung his boat into another manoeuvre.

  “The launch, it’s not slowing,” Jeff yelled.

  “Give it another few seconds.”

  The police boat was closing but was still 150 metres away from the terrorists’ launch.

  “They’re going to fire at any moment,” Cunningham said. “Where the hell is that navy chopper?” He searched the sky. There was too much noise to hear whirling blades.

  Caldwell watched, frustrated. He checked the line of barges. The gaps had closed again. The torpedo would never get through. The terrorists had got close and failed. But the night was not over and there was always the chance that they might have other tricks up their sleeves.

  The crazy New Zealander was lighting them up and deliberately making himself a target. The navy boys must have it in their sights. Why haven’t they blown it out of the water? Then he saw protest craft nearby. He shook his head in despair.

  “Look,” Cunningham yelled. “It’s stopped moving.”

  Cunningham ran to the cabin. The captain turned to him.

  “Ram the fucking thing,” Cunningham yelled at him.

  The captain smiled and shook his head. “No need.” He pointed towards the sky over the stricken boat. Hovering above Mechanics Bay was a Kaman SH-2G Seasprite helicopter. It was swinging round and lining up to fire its missiles.

  “What the hell is it waiting for?” Cunningham.

  Caldwell said, “Look, the launch is turning. Whatever it is Jeff did, it’s turning away from the target.”

  They both saw the torpedo fly through the air a few seconds before it hit the water.

  “Oh God, they’ve launched,” Caldwell yelled.

  There was a flash of light and the launch disappeared as a wall of water erupted into the air. A deafening roar followed and in all directions shock waves fountained forth from the blast centre. As waves hit the Deodar III, the multi-hull vessel rocked back and forth. When the water settled there was no sign of the terrorists’ launch. Caldwell and Cunningham’s attention switched from the destructive force of the navy chopper’s missiles to the direction of the launched torpedo. It was an old weapon with no homing device. It went where it was targeted.

  The small rushing wave of water, like a porpoise skimming the surface, was speeding towards Marsden Wharf and directly at the multi-level vehicle carrier Star of the East. Its ramp was down and only half its load of second-hand Japanese cars sat across the dockyard. When the torpedo hit the explosion lifted the huge steel hull before it collapsed back onto the water, sending a massive wave back across the harbour. Protest boats were flung from side to side and some smaller vessels capsized. The Star of the East listed as it filled with seawater and slowly sank onto the muddy bottom. A mooring rope groaned, then snapped, unable to restrain the thousands of tons of ship from sinking. The rope flicked across the dock surface like a giant whip, catching two port workers who disappeared from sight.

  Larry stopped fifty metres astern of where they had last seen the terrorist launch.

  When the missiles had struck, his boat had been flung sideways. Jeff had managed to hold onto the rail and grab Larry as the sailor slid across the bottom. He held him under his feet until the rocking stopped. Then he saw the exploding vehicle carrier and the wall of water sweeping towards them. Jeff sat down his back against the hull and helped Larry do the same. The speedboat lifted into the air. It stayed aloft. Then the wave disappeared and the boat crashed down onto water now seemingly as hard as concrete. Both men became weightless as they and the boat parted company, then crashed back onto the fibreglass bottom and lay still, winded.

  “What the
fuck just happened?” Larry groaned as he untangled himself from Jeff. He bashed the side of his head with the flat of his hand then tilted his head side to side. The ringing in his ears stayed.

  “My best guess is a missile blew up the terrorist launch and the terrorists’ torpedo blew up the Japanese car carrier,” Jeff said. Then he managed a laugh. “Won’t worry you, Larry. You only buy expensive European cars.”

  “Is this a time for humour?” Larry asked. “Okay, I get it. You soldier boys change the subject instead of telling everyone you’re scared shitless. Good stuff. Did I ever tell you about sailing the Southern Ocean?”

  “Not yet, but I guess I’m going to hear it over and over from here on.”

  Larry nodded. “You got it.” He scrambled back behind the wheel. “What now?”

  “There’s the police launch. Let’s get over there.”

  Jeff held up the hunter’s lamp and searched the area for survivors as they cruised up beside the police boat.

  Jeff was surprised to see Cunningham, Barbara and Lee Caldwell leaning over the railing.

  “Are you okay?” Cunningham yelled.

  “Yes. Look, Brian, I was close enough to make out the shapes of those on board, and I don’t think Zahar was on the boat. He’s not the type to hide in the cabin. He’s still out there in the city somewhere. I’d stake my life on it.”

  Cunningham nodded.

  “You and your mate did a good job, Jeff. I owe you one. I need to get back to the city and find Zahar. Maybe we’ll get lucky. Someone else can look for survivors. How many do you think were on the boat?” Brian yelled.

  “Seven, maybe eight. No more. I’m coming with you,” Jeff said then leapt onto the police boat. “Thanks, Larry, get home to your family. We’ll talk later.”

  Larry gave Jeff a thumbs-up then pushed on the throttle. After a few seconds he had disappeared from sight.

  45.

  Demi Myftari lay on the cot and stared at the ceiling. He contemplated his uncertain future. When he thought it through it wasn’t so bad. What did they have on him? Nothing. He had talked to Bradley and the woman but nothing was written down, there had been no tape recording. Then Bradley had beaten him in the restaurant. He had plenty of witnesses. He would bring assault charges against Bradley. If he stuck to his story they would have nothing. Esat Krasniqi was dead so there was no one to link him to Zahar Akbar and his men. His lawyer would easily deal with this and he had the money to hire the best.

  His eyes flicked to the door at the sound of a key in the lock. The cell door was pulled open and two police officers entered.

  “Mr Myftari. I am Senior Sergeant Moana Te Kanawa, and my colleague is Detective Red Dawson. We want to have a chat.”

  Myftari swung his legs to the floor and sat up.

  “I want to see my lawyer. I’m not talking to you without a lawyer present.”

  “Sorry, Mr Myftari, that’s not possible for now. If you tell us what we need to know then maybe it will be considered.”

  “You can’t do that. I have rights.”

  Moana opened the file she held.

  “Mr Demi Myftari, immigrated to New Zealand in September 2002. Started your own business registered October 2004. You have a factory in Mount Wellington producing a variety of food products, most of which are exported. You have a house in St Heliers. Nice neighbourhood, Mr Myftari. You remarried after the death of your first wife. Your new wife is also a Kosovan refugee and you have two children, both born in New Zealand. Overall life has been very good for you since you arrived in this country. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Silence.

  “You don’t need a lawyer to answer a question like that, Mr Myftari, surely. Wouldn’t you agree that New Zealand, our country, has been very good to you?”

  Myftari nodded.

  “Is that a yes, Mr Myftari?”

  “Yes. All right,” Myftari replied. “New Zealand has been good to me.”

  “Good. Your wife and children are happy here.”

  “Yes they are happy.”

  “And what about you, Mr Myftari? Do you like it here? Are you a happy new immigrant?”

  “Yes. Until now that is. What is it you want from me?”

  “You know what we want, Mr Myftari.”

  “I want my lawyer.”

  “This is not an interview, Mr Myftari. This is not the interview room. There are no tape recorders. No notebooks. Nothing you say will be used as evidence. You have not been cautioned. Everything you say is off the record.”

  “What is it you want? I can’t help you if I don’t know what you want.”

  “Mr Myftari, we know you were working with Esat Krasniqi helping to house terrorists who came to New Zealand. We know there were seven of you. We know you were being used and that you would be killed if you didn’t cooperate. Who wouldn’t do what you did under those circumstances?” Moana said, turning to Red.

  Red nodded. “I would do what you did. I don’t want to die. Perfectly understandable.”

  “I want the names of the others, Mr Myftari,” Moana said.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Moana looked across at Red.

  “It seems Mr Myftari has decided not to cooperate, Red. That’s too bad.”

  “What is it you’re afraid of, Mr Myftari?” Red asked. “We will protect you.”

  “I’m not afraid of anyone. I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  Moana said, “The men you want to protect have committed murders. You have helped them, protected them and now you are lying for them. That makes you complicit in the act. You are just as guilty as they are.”

  Myftari rubbed his hands on his thighs. They were bluffing. He licked his lips. Uncertain. If he kept his mouth shut then everything would hold together. This was what he must do.

  Moana went on. “As Mr Krasniqi is dead, killed by Zahar Akbar, there are now only six of you. If one of you testifies against the others then we might be able to grant that person immunity from prosecution. That person could be you. You would be free to carry on with your good and happy life. You don’t want that?”

  Myftari said nothing.

  “Very well, Mr Myftari. We won’t bother you any more,” Moana said. “We will now make the same offer to Mr Ibrahim Mustafa in the cell next door. I’m certain he’ll be more receptive.”

  Myftari looked up, uncertain. The two officers stood in the corridor. In a few seconds the cell door would slam shut. They had Ibrahim Mustafa. He was not a strong man but he was loyal. He was to be trusted. But the situation was serious. Under these circumstances maybe Ibrahim might grasp at the offer of immunity. Could he really turn his back on a chance at a good life? And his family? Did he not have a duty to protect them? His shoulders slumped. His head dropped as he nodded. “What is it you want to know?” He focused on the shoes of the two police officers as they walked back toward him.

  Demi Myftari told them everything. He repeated the information they already had of how the groups had come and how it had been organised. Red and Moana sat patiently and let him speak.

  “None of the terrorists we found had passports or identification of any sort,” Red said. “We assume they have been kept in a safe place.”

  “Yes, this is the job of Sami Hadani. He is on the list I gave you. They are to meet with him when it is all over.”

  “Where are they to meet?”

  “This I do not know. It was never discussed with me.”

  “This Sami Hadani. He has a warehouse.” Demi wrote the address on a piece of paper and passed it to Moana.

  She stood. “I need to talk to Detective Dawson outside.” When they had left the room another officer entered and stood in the doorway.

  “We need to talk to Inspector Cunningham,” Moana said, taking out her phone and dialling Cunningham’s mobile
. “Inspector, where are you?”

  “Coming into the ferry terminal. Why?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Okay, I’m dropping Barbara Heywood at Channel Nine then I’ll swing by. Be there in ten minutes.”

  46.

  And Myftari told you this Sami Hadani has everyone’s travel documents and he is passing them out tonight?” Cunningham asked Moana, who had been waiting for him with Red at the public counter.

  “That’s what he said,” she replied.

  Cunningham turned to Jeff. “You’ve spoken with Myftari, do we believe him? We don’t have time or resources to go chasing red herrings.”

  Jeff shrugged. “Who the hell knows? But he has nothing to gain by lying and everything to gain by telling the truth.”

  Cunningham gave Caldwell a ‘what-do-you-think?’ look.

  “What Jeff says has some logic to it,” Caldwell said. “It sounds like good intel to me. If I was in your shoes I’d act on it.”

  “Okay, we go after Hadani, but he’s unlikely to keep the passports at his house, I would think.”

  Moana said, “It’s only an exchange of documents. It could be done at the airport. A public place.”

  “Too much security at an airport,” Cunningham replied. “One guy sitting on a bench in front of God knows how many security cameras; a dozen or more strangers coming up to him and leaving with a package. No, I don’t think so. Too risky. Especially now, when all border controls are on a heightened state of alert. Let’s phone his home. Moana, you do it. If his wife answers tell her you have a delivery problem and cannot get in touch with Sami.”

  Moana gave Cunningham a look as if to say, ‘why can’t you phone, I’m not a bloody slave’.

  “I’m hoping a woman phoning will make her comfortable enough to tell us what we want to know. Open up. Not be suspicious.”

  Moana nodded, took up the phone and dialled the number.

  “Hello, Mrs Hadani. I am trying to get in touch with Mr Hadani. He is not at the warehouse. I have a delivery to process and need his authority.”