“That depends entirely on the nature of the ‘Op’, Wendy,” I had replied, guardedly.
“You know we’ve got a growing problem with gangs here, in New Zealand, especially in Auckland, Hastings, Rotorua, Christchurch, and even here, in bloody Wellington.”
I had nodded.
“The really bad ones for us are the Mongrel Mob, the Nomads, Highway 61 MC, Black Power and the Road Knights motorcycle club, which operates in South Island – and a relatively new gang, the Tribesmen, who run the Killer Beez youth street gangs, in South Auckland.”
I had heard of the Mongrels and the Nomads, but the others had all been relatively new to me.
“These gangs use to be arch rivals – ‘arch’ in the sense that they would kill one another rather look at each other. But now we’re starting to see a worrying development.”
“They’re starting to work together,” I had interjected.
Wendy had frowned slightly. “Yes – but how did you know?”
“It’s called evolution, Wendy. Look at the Mafia, and how they have evolved into one organisation for the common good of all the individual families.”
“Well, it’s happening here, also,” she had admitted. “Don’t get me wrong, there are still violent turf wars; based on territorial boundaries. But now, when it comes to gang business, we are seeing an increased level of cooperation between the main rival gangs.”
“They’ll be forming a ‘Corporation’, next; just like the Mafia did under ‘Lucky’ Luciano, back in the thirties,” I had remarked.
“They already have!” she had exclaimed, energetically. “The Mongrels, the Nomads, Highway 61 MC, Black Power, the Road Knights and the Tribesmen – they have all got together to form an ‘Executive’. This ‘Executive’ meets every three months to organise the mass purchase and distribution of drugs – not only throughout New Zealand, but using Highway 61’s contacts, into Australia, itself,” Wendy had paused to take breath. “So we’ve got the bloody Aussies on our backs, as well. But it’s not only drugs they’re bringing in…its military grade weapons and explosives as well – supplied by Vietnam, via Indo-China.”
“Sound serious,” I had commented – I could understand her predicament.
“Sounds serious – it is bloody serious!” she had replied. “While they are all best of mates, when it comes to this ‘Executive’, they are using these weapons to slaughter each other out on the streets. And our fear is that, with ready access to explosives, they’ll start bombing each other, next. And, as you know from your own experience, bombs are far from being target specific…they kill and maim anyone and everyone – including innocent civilians,” Wendy had looked slightly pensive for a moment. “I have been directed to take whatever measures I have, at my disposal, to break up this Executive – including extreme action.”
‘Extreme action’ is a popular euphemism for ‘deadly force’, in polite circles.
“I didn’t think that your guys were sanctioned to provide extreme action anymore – and that’s why you use the likes of Patrick and me?”
“Yea – you’re quite right. Since 1980, thanks to our bloody namby-pamby government, we’ve not been able to use any of our regular NZSAS or NZSBS to take care of these things, for us. But we do have some of our own blokes…good as gold blokes – who are always up for doing a bit of shady stuff,” she had admitted, after a slight hesitation.”
“You do – do you?” I had smiled as I had said it.
“Yea – well sometimes, ‘freelancers’, such as yourself, are hard to get hold of in a hurry,” Wendy had smiled back. “After all – it takes you the best part of thirty bloody hours to get here and, sometimes, we need things done in the next thirty minutes.”
“Point taken,” I had conceded and then had added. “But I’m here, now. So, why am I just merely riding shotgun on this ‘Op’ – you indicated that there was ‘work’ to be done?”
“Yea, but one of our blokes has put himself up for it.”
“But I thought that there was an embargo on you taking extreme action on NZ soil.”
“There is,” she had promptly replied. “But there’s no embargo on taking extreme action on anybody else’s soil!” Taking a deep intake of breath, Wendy had explained herself more fully. “Every three months, the head blokes from each of the six gangs meet up in Bangkok. They meet up, chew the fat, and agree a common business agenda for the next three months. They also do most of their wheeler dealing there, as well – bulk buying drugs, guns and, now, explosives too. At this meeting they will also arrange transportation and distribution.”
“And this meeting is held in Bangkok?”
“Yea – they meet at a Polynesian bar, downtown.”
“Apart for these six head guys – anyone else with them?” I had asked.
“Yea – each one is allowed to take just the one bodyguard with them,” had come Wendy’s prompt reply. “That’s why they use the Polynesian bar – it’s easy to spot any ‘whities’ that might be cops,” Wendy had paused again. “And that’s why we need to use our own bloke to get up close to them, without raising suspicion – he’s one of them.”
“He’s a Maori?”
“Yea – too right. But better than that – he’s ex Special Boat Service,” she had said with somewhat pride, her thin face beaming. “He’s a top bloke – been with us since ’81, infiltrating and investigating the Gangs. Occasionally, getting involved in the odd piece of work – abroad,” she had quickly added.
“But?”
“But?” She had echoed, a slight puzzled expression on her face.
“Yes, Wendy – BUT! If he’s that good – walks on water ex Special Boat Service – why do you need me?”
“Ah, as I said earlier; it’s not so much ‘work’ ‘work’, but support – covering our bloke’s back while he does the business.”
“And if he is not able to do the ‘business’ – what then?”
“Then you do it – and we’ll pay you your going rate, mate,” she had replied.
Cheek, I had thought to myself. I’m only wanted if their bloke screws up. But I did owe Wendy a big favour over Jean-Luke, though. “And afterwards – what then?” I had continued questioning her.
Wendy had paused again, just for a moment. “Ah – then we need you to lose him, but not ‘lose’ him – but just lose him.”
To ‘lose’ someone, is also a commonplace euphemism for ‘assassination’.
“Explain,” I had demanded.
“Our bloke has been a bit of a bad bugger. Don’t get me wrong – real first class operative, but got a bit carried away on his last assignment.”
That had not boded well. “How exactly do you mean – ‘got a bit carried away’?” I had asked, putting her further on the spot.
“One of the district judges, down in Otara, was on the payroll of the Tribesman Motor Cycle Gang. And our bloke went and had a quite word with him,” Wendy had been edgy. “The district judge is still in a coma, in hospital – and our bloke faces an assault charge.”
“A quite word?”
“Yea – only he let a Maori war club do all the talking,” she had confessed. “My Director says that we need to lose him. So, when he arrives back from Bangkok, he’ll get pulled up by Immigration for a passport check. They’ll switch his legitimate passport for an obvious fake – and then deport him back to Bangkok as an illegal immigrant.”
“That is subtly devious of you – when do I get to meet your ‘bloke’, Wendy?”
“He’s just next door, I’ll call him in,” she had answered, twisting round to press the intercom on the edge of her desk. “Can you ask Maaka to come in, please,” she had politely requested the person on the other end.
I had been slightly unsure as to what to expect – but I had not been disappointed.
Maaka H…was definitely some ‘bloke’. Dressed in denim jeans and a tight fitting white t-shirt under a blue and white open Hawaiian shirt, at six foot, it had not been his height that had given him
his stature; it had been his immense broad chest and thick muscular arms. So much physical bulk and muscle mass, I had not been exactly sure as to what role he could have possibly had in the New Zealand Special Boat Service – couldn’t see him being able to keep his head above water, let alone be able to swim – and, as far as putting a wet suit on…! His facial features had come directly from his distant Polynesian ancestors, no mixed blood there – large features set in an almost round face, which had been lit up by piercing jet black eyes. His hair, a mass of black thick dreadlocks, had been pulled back and tied into a large loose ponytail.
He had stepped forward into the room and had held out his hand towards me. “I am pleased to meet you – I am Maaka H….” he had introduced himself, the tone of his voice deceptively soft and mellow.
“Hi, I’m Martin – and I am equally pleased to meet you, too,” I had greeted him, loosing most of my right hand in the firm grasp of his.
“Wendy has told me a so much about you,” the Maori had continued, still retaining my hand in his. “She says that you’re a good bloke – one of the best in your field.”
“Oh – I wouldn’t believe everything that Wendy says,” I had replied, finally managing to free my hand from the captive grasp of his.
Just for an instant, Wendy had glared at me and then had lightened up. “Yea – you can’t believe everything that this pommy bastard says, either,” she had quickly countered.
What had then followed had been the very briefest of briefings – and then on to the airport, direct flight to Sidney with an onward connection to Bangkok. It had been during the flight to Bangkok that I had really got to know and to like Maaka. First impressions are always very, very, very important.
Especially as we would be relying so much on one another.
CHAPTER THIRTY
We had adjoining rooms in a cheap low rent tourist hotel.
Situated on the edge of Bangkok’s ‘Red Light’ district, at night the hotel had been permeated by all the sights, sounds and smells of the bustling area; the sounds of noisy bars, the overpowering stench of the fast food stalls, and the chattering banter of the district’s prostitutes plying their trade.
Although I had only notionally been providing backup and support, for my new Maori friend, I had still needed to procure some equipment. Such was the level of drug trafficking, into and out of Thailand, even back then; random searches for drugs at Bangkok airport had made smuggling firearms into the country far too risky. Even the immunity of ‘Diplomatic Bags’ had not placed them beyond the close scrutiny, of overly zealous Thai customs officers – denying yet another favoured means of bringing weapons into the Thailand.
But not to worry. Thailand, like any other country, had contacts who, at a price, could procure most things. And, if they could not, often knew someone who could!
Back in the eighties, one of the best places in Bangkok to find a firearm had been a registered gun shop dealer, up on the north side of the suburbs. He was a perfectly legitimate gun dealer – but he had also dealt in clean, untraceable, illegal weapons, too. I had known exactly what I had wanted but, before ringing an order through to the dealer, I believed it only reasonable to check and see if my new Maori friend had needed anything.
“Maaka, I’m making a call to get me some firearms. Is there anything that you need at all?” I had asked.
The large Maori had been lying on his back on the room’s second bed, reading a glossy magazine. Effortlessly, he had sat up and had swung his legs over the side of the bed to face me.
“No thank you, Martin,” he had politely replied, his voice rich and warm. Then, reaching behind his back, from underneath his brightly coloured Hawaiian shirt, he had produced what, at first sight, looked like a large flat paddle. “I have all that I need, here,” he had smiled.
Plainly formed, some forty centimetres long and twelve centimetres at its widest, its two convex sides flowed into a blunt rounded tip at one end, giving it a distinctive spatula shape; with a carved handle at the other end, which had been pierced and threaded with a thong for attaching around the wrist. The centre of the blade was probably just over a centimetre thick, tapering down to sharply ground edges. Made from Pounamu, greenstone, dark green, almost black in colour, the finish appeared to be highly polished – although heavily darkened and stained, in places.
“Is that what I think it is?”
“Yes it is. It is a ‘mere’ – a Maori traditional close quarter weapon,” He had promptly replied, before smiling deeply with obvious pride. “This was fashioned out of greenstone by the hands of my great, great, great grandfather, Te Rauparaha, before he led the great migration of my tribe southwards. He used it in a great many battles and also when he performed ‘utu’ – customary revenge and execution.”
That explains what the dark stains on the war club might have been – untold years of violent use. I had speculated. “And you used this to ‘talk’ to the distinct judge?”
Maaka’s smile had grown even wider. “No, on that day my mere only whispered to him, like a soft summer breeze. That is why he still draws breath – but, soon, very soon, my mere will shout out once again.”
“You intend to use only the club…the mere, then?”
“Yes,” Maaka had promptly replied. “With my mere, and you watching over me, I need nothing else.”
To a layman, using a simple piece of stone to bludgeon someone to death with might seem slightly implausible. However, from my own firsthand experience, in those formative years in the foothills of the Atlas Mountains, I know exactly what can be achieved with a simple modest weapon.
Maaka obviously had his tool – but I had needed tools of my own.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The Bangkok gun dealer had not been able to get exactly what I had asked for.
For defence, I had asked for a 9mm Browning Hi-Power, or a Beretta 92, something with a large magazine capacity – but he could procure neither. Instead, he had offered me a Czech CZ 75, with a large staggered round magazine and a peculiar single and double action system. It had grouped well in the dealer’s range, behind his shop, and had handled nicely. My preferred choice for offensive had been a Colt .45 calibre automatic. But, again, the dealer had not been able to get hold of an untraceable version in time. He had offered me a four inch barrelled Colt Python, instead. Firing the .357 Magnum round, the Python had been a man stopper – with a one shot kill capability. However, the trigger pull, when firing double action, had been far too long and heavy – forcing the aim off to the right or the left, depending upon which hand the revolver had been in. The dealer had offered me a practical solution, if I didn’t mind loosing the single action capability – that is where you cock the hammer with the thumb and release it with a light pull on the trigger. I had no need of single action on the weapon, so the dealer had modified the Python – honing down the internal sear of the gun’s mechanism. The result had been excellent. No longer having to climb over this sear of metal, the double action pull of the trigger had been greatly reduced, enabling consistent close grouping of rapidly fired shots. With both guns securely placed in the rear waistband of my jeans, hidden from view under a loud gaudy red and white flowered Hawaiian shirt, I had waited patiently for Maaka.
The Polynesian bar had been fairly busy and, apart from me, and a couple of Australian guys, most of its customers had appeared to be of Polynesian descent. The Australians, judging by their loud licentious behaviour, were tourists, each with a pretty young hooker fawning all over them. My own ‘date’ for the evening had been the cause of sneers and sniggers, from the knowing patrons of the small bar, she…he – had been a lady boy!
I had needed the cover of appearing to be a hapless tourist – and how hapless can you get when you engage the services of a lady boy!
With a one hundred US Dollar down payment, and the promise of another ‘C’ note later, she…he, had been hired as an escort for the complete night. Sitting at the bar, drinking very, very cheap Champagne, to all i
ntents and purposes, I had been just another ‘mark’. Behind the bottles and optics, the mirror running the full length of the bar had provided me with an excellent vantage point that covered every corner and every customer. The six man ‘Executive’ had sat crowded round a small circular table, close to the fire escape door, at the rear of the bar. In a booth next to them, against a side wall, directly opposite the toilets, had been their respective bodyguards. Both the ‘Executive’ and their bodyguards had been a mean looking bunch of hombres – big, butch and bulky, with assorted body tattoos and tribal facial marks – but they had also been very drunk and spaced out on coke, as well.
At precisely ten past ten, I had slipped a folded hundred dollar bill across the bar counter, to my escort and had politely suggested to her…him, that they should go to the little boy’s room – and stay there!
At twelve minutes past ten, Maaka had entered the bar. At almost a leisurely pace, he had strolled down the length of the bar counter, passing me, without any acknowledgement; keeping well to the left, as if he had been going to the toilets. Then, at the very last moment, he had veered off to the right, pulling the mere war club free from underneath his blue and white open shirt.
‘Bish – Bash – Bosh’, as my dear old Granny would say.
The devastating speed of Maaka’s onslaught had taken everyone by surprise – including me! He had bought the war club smashing down on the gang leader who had his back turned directly to him, bone grating against stone, as he had snatched the weapon free from the clasping grasp of the shattered skull. With a backhand stroke, Maaka had then swung the club deftly at the gang leader, who had been sitting to his immediate right, striking the man an almost horizontal blow just a few centimetres above the ridge of his flat nose. Then, with a forehand blow, Maaka had then stuck the man sitting immediately on his left, with an identical blow above the ridge of his nose, leaving a visible deep linear indentation in the man’s broken brow. With his progress now impeded by the small table that they had all been sitting round, Maaka had bent down slightly, putting his left hand under the table, as he had stood upright again, hurling the table over to the booth where the bodyguards had been sitting stunned and motionless. Without pausing in his attack, Maaka had repeated his backhand and forearm strikes on the two gang leaders, to the right and to left of him, sitting transfixed in their chairs. This time the edge of the club had directly struck the temple of each man, shattering eye sockets, with the resultant rupturing of the soft tissued orbs that they had housed. Sitting, with his mouth gaping wide open, the last of the gang leaders could only look up helplessly, his heavily marked and tattooed face screwed up in furious rage. Stepping forward, Maaka had brought the mere war club directly down on to the top of the man’s head, the hard solid blade of the club cleaving open the skull – sinking into the tangled mess of hair and bone. Again, with just a flick of his wrist, Maaka had freed the gore covered club from the skull of his last victim. With the flat of his right foot, Maaka had kicked out at the lifeless corpse, sending it, and the chair that it had been slumped in, crashing backwards. The fire escape door had been left unbarred and unlocked, to enable a quick escape for the gang leaders, should they have needed it – but now it had been Maaka who had made good his escape though it.
Autobiography of an Assassin:: The Family Page 15