by Thomas Ryan
“We have a problem.”
Zahar quickly related the events of the previous evening. “This man Bradley approached one of your exporters and started asking a lot of questions. He mentioned your name and mine and my brother Halam. He knows I am here. Sami Hadani was led into a trap. It could have been messy if he had been caught. Esat Krasniqi has been compromised. They will be after him. They will know where he lives and his business address by now but everything is moved.”
“Bradley is not to be underestimated. Your brother did, and paid the price.”
At the mention of his brother’s death Zahar sucked air through his teeth. It made a whistling sound. His fists clenched as he rose from his chair and paced the room.
“Again he is making a nuisance of himself,” Avni continued. “Normally I would not support a man seeking to avenge his brother if it interfered with my business, but now he has found you . . . This man is not a man who will go away. I think there is no choice. You have my permission to get rid of him. The mission is too far advanced. I can’t have it jeopardised by a meddling New Zealander. But be careful.”
“Don’t worry. I will not make any mistakes.”
“Maybe it is better that you do not do it. Send some of your men. How is the rest of the project progressing?”
“Under control.”
Avni Leka rang off.
Zahar put the phone back into its container and packed it away under the loose floor board. He returned to pacing the room. Avni Leka was right of course. Disposing of Bradley should be a task for his men. Reluctantly he would give up his desire to see this man’s eyes pleading for mercy as he drove a knife into his heart. The operation was too important. Right now it did not matter who killed him as long as he was dead.
He turned his attention to Esat Krasniqi. The fool had outlived his usefulness. His stupidity had endangered them all.
Avni Leka was unable to return to sleep. Once again the New Zealander Bradley was entangled in his fortunes. Halam Akbar had told him as they attempted to escape in his car across the Macedonian border that men like Bradley had a habit of getting in your face at inopportune times. They needed to be eliminated. Now the words had come back to haunt him. When Bradley and his friends had destroyed his Kosovo operation he had lost his wife, his mistress, and worse, he was now in hiding. All international organisations knew his identity and were looking for him and any day might be his last.
The loss of funds had hurt his organisation but he had recovered. The heads of the terror groups he worked on behalf of had been unhappy but had responded to his moment of crisis. Avni was much too valuable to them to be lost. They respected his genius in establishing a worldwide network of terrorist bases. His links with the Albanian mafia in Italy had secured him a new home on the outskirts of Rome and his millions ensured discretion and anonymity. The ruthless Albanians were feared by their counterparts from Sicily, and Avni and his men grew more powerful by the day. He had woven them into an efficient criminal and security unit.
The blood of many hundreds on his hands was something he had gotten used to. He had no real hatred of anyone. That had dissipated long ago. The dead were only numbers on a balance sheet to him.
But now he had new clients seeking his unique services.
He was moving on to a newer and bolder initiative, and the success of the New Zealand operation would ensure a demand for greater payments than previously asked for. Bradley now threatened it. Well so be it. He might have been prepared to let him be to protect the mission but the New Zealander had forced his hand. He could not stand aside and allow Bradley to bumble his way across the path of the mission and wreck everything as he had done in Kosovo.
21.
Cunningham dozed on the settee in Moana’s office; half his body on the settee, his legs on a chair. He was not exactly comfortable, but some wriggling had made it bearable. Barbara Heywood came to mind. The shape of her mouth. Bradley had stayed the night. Had they slept together? Tension and stress could be emotionally disruptive, affect judgment. It sometimes brought people together who might never cross paths otherwise. The thought of Bradley and Barbara together irritated him. And that was a surprise. He had never been good with women. If he had left his run too late then so be it. However he could not deny he had feelings for her. And in the back of his mind he hoped to hell Bradley would fall down a lift shaft.
The squad re-assembled in the crime room. A few hours of sleep had not helped. Elbows on the table supported heads drooping onto hands. Eyes peered through half-closed lids. Moana sympathised but it couldn’t be helped. Catch the bad guys, and then they could go to bed for a week.
“There has been a development and we need to act quickly. One of the men Jeff Bradley chased last night was a Mr Esat Krasniqi.
“Mr Krasniqi is an Auckland businessman. He owns two properties, a home in Glendowie and a warehouse in Mount Wellington. Warrants to search both premises will be available in the next few minutes. We’ll split into two teams. Inspector Cunningham will lead one and I will lead the other. Inspector, you take the warehouse if you will, I’ll take the house.” Cunningham nodded, grateful Moana had included him. “If, for some reason, Mr Krasniqi is still hanging about then there is every reason to believe that he might have company. Armed company.”
She paused a moment. All eyes were now wide open.
“You will draw weapons and wear protective vests. Any questions?”
“Isn’t this a job for the Inspector’s anti-terrorist unit?”
“Yes, it is. Any other questions?”
Everyone looked from one to the other, uncertain. “Okay. I know how it looks but this is our investigation. Do you guys really want someone else to take over?” No response. “We don’t know the home and the warehouse are occupied. Let’s play it by ear. If we see a bunch of bad guys with guns we’ll call in the heavy squad.”
Red grinned. “Sergeant, it’s not that we aren’t willing but we’re not soldiers. The Inspector might be used to this stuff but the rest of us have never been to war.”
Cunningham smiled.
Moana said, “Point taken, Red. As I said, any sign of armed men and I’m sure the Inspector will call in the cavalry. Okay?”
The squad filed out, unconvinced.
Cunningham was in the lead vehicle. A chained gate blocked the entrance into the warehouse.
“What do you think, Red?”
“It looks empty to me.”
Cunningham studied the fifty metres of sealed car park his team needed to cross to reach the building’s outer wall. The warehouse was a single storey with offices at the far end. Cunningham breathed a sigh of relief. A two-floor administration block would have given a gunman an advantaged field of fire. He wouldn’t mention that to his team. Red gave him a quick look. Cunningham ignored him. He was not about to tell Red they could be walking into a trap. At the gate end of the warehouse was a roller door, ‘Deliveries Only’ painted in red lettering on a white board bolted to the wall above it. To the side of the door was a blue knob that looked like a doorbell. No vehicles in sight and no sign of movement inside. But Cunningham knew appearances could be deceiving. He was trained to be perceptive and right now his gut told him they were too late. The goose had gone.
“Okay, Red. Get the bolt cutters out of the boot and get rid of that chain. Tell the other car to go round the back and block any exits.”
“Will do.”
Cunningham remained watchful. It took a few seconds and a number of grunts before Red had cut through the chain. He pulled back the gates and waited for the lead car to drive forward. He climbed into it, dropping the bolt cutters onto the floor. The cars sped into the compound, Cunningham’s targeting the administration block. He and Red leapt from the car as it slowed. Weapons drawn, they dashed the last few metres and flattened themselves against the wall. Red peered in through the window. Shook his head at Cunningham. N
o sign of any occupants.
The office doors were secured with deadlocks.
“I’ll get the sledgehammer,” Red said.
Cunningham stood, gun at arm’s length and trained on the windows. Red swung the sledgehammer against the lock. Wood splintered exposing the lock mechanism but brass teeth maintained a tenuous hold. A determined Red raised his size ten police issue boot and smashed the door open.
“Well, if there is someone inside they’ll know we’re here,” Cunningham said. He waited for Red to draw his pistol. “Cover me. But stay back. Any shooting get the hell out.” He turned to the men standing back. “You two get behind the car and keep your weapons trained in this direction. If you hear shooting, don’t shoot Red.”
That brought a smile.
Cunningham entered. They were in a small reception area. There were two doors, one to the offices, the other to the warehouse. Two doors further along had male and female toilet symbols. Cunningham pointed to the office door. Red nodded and moved forward. Cunningham knelt on the floor in front of the door his weapon raised.
Red, against the wall reached out and pushed at the door. It swung open.
No activity. Red dived through the door, rolling over and coming up on one knee. No gunfire. Cunningham flicked on a light switch. The office was empty. They cleared the warehouse next, also deserted.
“Well done, Red.”
Red grinned. “Thanks, boss.”
“I need to tell you this, Red, and I hope you didn’t learn what you did in basic training, but you don’t need all that roll along the floor rigmarole. Anyone in the room could have emptied a magazine into you before you were ready to shoot back. That’s for the movies. Next time just dive through the door, weapon outstretched and shoot anything that moves. Okay?”
Red pursed his lips then made to say something but didn’t. He holstered his handgun and brushed dust off the front of his trousers.
A truck with a trailer holding a shipping container filled 70 percent of the warehouse. Nothing unusual in that, Cunningham ruminated, after all it was an exporting company. He told one of the two constables securing the entrance to call through the truck license plates. “Then the two of you go close the gate and stay there, I don’t want anyone entering without my authority.”
Cunningham and Red moved along the vehicle and past its trailer. Near the roller door were four mattresses. Unfinished cups of coffee covered an upturned fruit carton acting as a table. A number of chairs surrounded it and in the corner sat a gas cooker.
“I think there have been campers here,” Cunningham said.
“Looks like it.”
The doors of the container were open and it was empty. There were opened crates spread over the floor.
“If I was a betting man,” Red started, “I would say there was something very interesting in the back of this truck.”
Cunningham’s mobile rang.
“Brian Cunningham speaking.”
“Inspector, it’s Moana. How is it your end?”
“Signs of activity. Campers in the factory but no bodies.”
“You’d better get over to Krasniqi’s house. We have him.”
“On my way. Red, you take charge. Make sure no one touches anything. I want forensics in here ASAP.
It was a fifteen-minute drive from the warehouse to Esat Krasniqi’s home in Riddell Road, Glendowie. Even without knowing the correct address it would have been easy enough to find. There were four police cars outside, two camera crews and almost everyone in the neighbourhood by Cunningham’s reckoning. Moana had called in reinforcements for crowd control.
The house was two-storied and set back off the road. Lots of trees. Very nice, Cunningham thought. This was an expensive part of town. He parked then walked up the footpath. Moana stood on terracing which ran the length of the house issuing orders. She waved when she saw him.
“Where is he?” Cunningham asked, stepping onto the terracing.
“Upstairs. Follow me.”
Esat was lying on the bed. His arms spread. A human cross. He was very dead.
“Jesus,” Cunningham whispered. He moved closer and saw it immediately. A black marker pen lay beside the body. Zahar Akbar had used it to write a message across Esat’s chest: ‘Another one on your head Bradley.’ Barbara Heywood’s half-hearted supposition had come true. Now they really did have a killer on the loose.
Wiki Herewini was ecstatic when he hung up the phone. He went back into the bedroom and woke Marama.
“Good news,” he said. “That was the police. They’ve found my truck.”
“That’s wonderful,” she said sleepily. Then, as she laid her head back on the pillow, “But I’m not certain I want my husband out alone at night driving the streets of Auckland any more.”
Leaning against the window frame in the crime room, Cunningham looked out across the city. For the first time in weeks the protesters and the nuclear submarine were not the lead television news story. A killer roamed the streets of Auckland and had claimed his second victim. The headline annoyed the hell out of Cunningham because Esat was really the first murder. Why the police hierarchy had seen fit to issue such a press release was beyond his comprehension. This should have been kept under wraps. At moments like this he missed the military. It also meant he might be moved aside. Classified as a murder, the hunt for Zahar Akbar clearly came under the jurisdiction of Moana and her team. Without the terrorism label attached to it, nor any evidence of it, it was a murder investigation. The Tactics Group had no place unless called upon when Akbar was found.
Cunningham had sympathy for Senior Sergeant Moana Te Kanawa. She wasn’t the type to play games with the press and had made herself unavailable for comment. The police had public relations personnel. They could deal with it but public image was all part of the career-building exercise and right now her investigation had become high profile. If she didn’t step up someone else would. She had surprised him when she chose to go it alone when they raided Krasniqi’s warehouse. The Special Tactics Group should have been called in. If it had gone awry it would have wrecked her career. That it hadn’t was a feather in her cap. But the Moana he knew was a by the book copper. He doubted she would take such a risk again.
Pressure from the media would bring pressure from above. Journalists would demand to know why the police had not informed the public of the danger, arguing that the public had a right to protect themselves. What were the police doing to catch the murderer? And why had the identikit not been released earlier? The usual diatribe when journalists went on a rant to have themselves viewed as crusaders for good at the expense of the police. It would blow over when a new headline came along. In the meantime Moana would bear the brunt of it and if it ever came out that it was he who had asked her to withhold the information then his own career might be on the line. But it would never be made public. Moana would not defend herself and point fingers. She was a leader and leaders carried the can for their decisions. He owed the detective senior sergeant.
The identikit picture now splashed across all newspapers and television news programmes generated the response from the public that Cunningham had feared. Calls swamped the police switchboards and flooded the emergency lines. A local employment agency offered temps at a reduced rate. The district commander had little choice but to accept. It seemed every single one of Auckland’s million plus citizens had sighted the killer.
Moana had asked her superiors for more manpower to broaden her investigative reach. The reply was as expected. None to spare. Professional criminal gangs, aware for some time police resources could not cope, had stepped up their activities. Burglaries, shoplifting, car thefts and robberies were increasing at an alarming rate. Now, from here on in until the submarine left New Zealand waters, crime might become the perfect storm. Cunningham gave thought to sinking the bloody thing himself.
The detective team would now focu
s on capturing Akbar as a murderer and this muddied Cunningham’s waters. Moana would be forced to follow procedure because when they caught him and it went to court any aspect of the legal process not adhered to might see their case tossed. She had been caught with her panties down for withholding information and she wouldn’t let that happen again.
That made his ability to investigate the terrorist cells almost impossible; his tactics team were not detectives. He decided he would hang with Moana for as long as he was permitted. It made him feel like a bird on a perch waiting to swoop on any crumbs of information tossed his way. After searching Krasniqi’s warehouse there was little doubt Zahar Akbar had a team. Jeff Bradley had been right. Something else was going on and the something else had to do with a team of terrorists. If so, what? For the moment it was all conjecture. He stabbed his silver-plated letter opener through the forehead of the photo of Zahar Akbar pinned to the corkboard.
22.
Jeff pushed through the doors to Quentin Douglas and Associates offices at 8.30am. It surprised him to see Mary sitting behind her desk. A security guard sat on a leather chair reading a magazine. He glanced up, saw it was Jeff then turned back to the magazine and continued reading.
“Good morning,” Jeff said.
He received a glare and then a worried look.
“The bruising looks worse than it really is,” Jeff said.
Mary came out from behind her desk and gave him a hug, then she touched the side of his face.
“I’ll be fine. In a few days it’ll be gone.”
“Neither Quentin nor I are very happy with you. Disappearing the way you did on Saturday night. He wants to know what you were up to. So do I, for that matter. You promised me another dance. A girl doesn’t like rejection. You’ll have me thinking I’m a wilting flower and you don’t love me.”