The Jaded Spy

by Nick Spill

  “Hey, that was the pipi bed? Can we go at low tide, what, in about an hour or two?”

  “And a couple more beers!”

  • • •

  Moana had walked down to the beach at low tide to fill a reed basket full of pipis and all the mussels she could find. She let them soak in a bucketful of seawater to spit out their sand and grit. She gathered a pile of dry manuka branches and started a fire, spread out an old blanket on the grass and waited for Wiremu and Rawiri to walk to the beach with the beers. She had the pipis on long thin manuka sticks she adjusted over the smoldering wood. “The manuka gives them a smoky flavor,” she said. “Only in Hokianga, eh?”

  Wiremu grinned and turned to Rawiri. “Did you see your probie?”

  “Yeah. We’re good.”

  “It’s George?”

  “Yeah. He seems laidback. Lot of things I can’t do. Like drinking.” Rawiri lifted up his large brown beer bottle and clinked it against Wiremu’s.

  “You’re at home. You’re safe. He’s on our side. And we have a full-time job for you, tending all our new plants hidden away.”

  They both laughed. “Then what did you do?” Wiremu asked.

  “I went to the marae. Paid my respects to our whanau. Stayed up all night. There were elders there. It was good to be with them. Made me feel real again. Like I belonged. No better feeling.”

  Wiremu nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Remember we used to think the elders were just sitting around, doing nothing?”

  “Yeah. Now we know better.” Wiremu lowered his head. “And we are in the right place.”

  Rawiri laid on his back and pointed out the meteors shooting across the sky on a moonless night. He was home, he was a free man.

  • • •

  The next morning Moana brewed tea while Rawiri made pancakes. He was proud of his thin, sweet crepes cooked to perfection on a thick iron skillet with butter. They were smothered with manuka honey. A recipe he had learned in prison. They ate in silence until Rawiri got up from the table to look for more bread.

  Wiremu glanced at Rawiri as he finished a slice of bread he had found. “Do you ever stop eating?” Wiremu asked.

  “Talking about conspiracies makes me hungry.”

  Wiremu waited until Rawiri had finished licking his fingers before he told them of his plans, and they read the newspaper clipping.

  “The City Gallery?” Rawiri had risen from the table to look for a crust in the bread box.

  “Yeah. Captain Cook will be there. Hanging on a wall, ripe to pluck.”

  “He’s been dead almost, what, two hundred years? What’s the big deal?” Rawiri buttered the last crust and took a knife full of honey to spread over it.

  “It’s a big exhibition about colonialism and how the Pakeha found us. If we kidnapped Captain Cook, it would be a big deal.”

  “Like we would steal his mana?”

  “Yes. And we would trade him for land rights. The perfect non-violent crime. A political gesture heard around the world. It would capture everyone’s imagination. Especially all the lefties and socialists here. They would love it. And it would anger the right-wing government. They wouldn’t know what to do. Look at the Hikoi. Look what happened there. Nothing. The politicians haven’t changed their minds.”

  Rawiri nodded. “Yeah. We talked about that a lot, you know? But I don’t know what happened after. It made some people think they were doing something important.”

  “You said it. Nothing happened. But Captain Cook—that’s different. They couldn’t sacrifice Captain Cook. He’s a symbol of their Western dominance. Their conquering hero. Their icon. It’s why he’s in their exhibit. He’s the man!”

  “You think we could use him as a bargaining chip?” Rawiri’s eyes moved from the manuka honey jar to the bread board and the crumbs. “Isn’t it kidnapping? I mean, it’s a painting but it’s the same thing.”

  “Stealing Captain Cook would have more of an impact than any march.” Wiremu didn’t tell Rawiri he had been talking to a friend in Auckland who had the contract for additional security at the Auckland City Art Gallery and had extra security uniforms. Wiremu would keep everything compartmentalized. No one would know the entire plan. No one would be able to betray him like Hei Hei had.

  Rawiri licked his fingers and smiled. “Steal the painting. Hide it and demand a ransom. You have a plan?”

  Moana turned from one to the other, noting how Wiremu changed as soon as he was with Rawiri.

  “Have to be really well worked out. Who could organize it all?” said Rawiri. “How do you steal a painting worth millions, and have no violence? Where’s the fun?”

  Wiremu sighed. “Now I know why you’re my favorite half-brother.”

  “I’m your only half-brother, unless there are more. Are there more?”

  Chapter Seven

  Police Commissioner Thompson had his secretary book the twilight special with his favorite inspector, Bernie Grimble. They were the last on the course. The hum of traffic seeped between the tall pines and birds sang in the twilight. The commissioner wore a cap to control wisps of white hair and a police-issue blue nylon jacket that barely contained his stomach. Grimble’s tweed jacket with leather elbow patches made him look more like a country squire than an Auckland city detective inspector. His hair had turned the color of steel since the shootings and he now kept it a short uniform length. His eyebrows almost came together and with his dark hazel eyes he looked intense but calm.

  They played the first few holes in silence, like a prayer for the dead, the dead policemen they were both thinking about.

  After Grimble managed to putt his ball into the fourth hole, the commissioner started to talk. He had given up keeping score several games ago. They wheeled their trundlers to the next tee and in hushed tones talked about the funerals they had attended for the fallen officers. “Lucky for you I didn’t have to attend your funeral,” said the commissioner. “How’re the headaches, by the way?”

  “Not as frequent now, thank you, sir.”

  Grimble concentrated on his game. At the fifth hole, the commissioner started to talk again. “The way we shaped the police inquiry lessened the political consequences. We have greater powers. The rules of engagement for armed police officers were too strict. Even if the Maori had a gun pointed at us, we still had to identify ourselves and command them to drop their weapon. And wait for them to disarm. So, we got killed. In reality, our procedure was sheer fantasy. We now have more relaxed rules. If we are in fear of our lives, even if we don’t see a weapon, we can shoot to stop the threat. It’s more real-world. And we don’t have to shout any commands the brown bugger holding a gun at us is not going to hear, let alone obey!” He took a deep breath. He was red in the face now. “As I said in the hearing, you cannot negotiate with a gun aimed at you, let alone a bullet coming at you. It only happens in movies and TV and those silly mystery books my wife reads.”

  Grimble nodded and wheeled his trundler behind the commissioner as they came to the sixth hole. In the pines on either side of them were invisible tui, birds with dark, almost black plumage, offset with a white collar. They made a mocking sound with their honks, he thought, as if deriding him and his golf game. “I think it’s changed all of us. No one is the same,” he said.

  The commissioner selected an iron and lined up his next shot. He made a practice swing before he hit the ball onto the next green. Grimble admired the commissioner’s technique. “At least we could claim we destroyed the Maori gang bringing all that marijuana into Auckland. At a terrible cost, mind you. A terrible cost.”

  The commissioner pointed to the iron he thought Grimble should use. “Those bloody Ngapuhis! Spoiled my knighthood.” He had managed the crisis and deflected most of the criticism—but when you control the press with a few phone calls to your friendly editors at the Herald and the Auckland Star, you would not expect otherwise.

  Grimble copied his boss and made a few practice shots before letting loose with his swing. The ball
sailed between the two lines of trees and landed at a respectable distance from the green. His luck, like the light, had not run out yet.

  Commissioner Thompson was to retire at the end of the year and expected to become Sir Ian in the Queen’s Birthday honors list. He looked forward to the time when he would be relatively powerless and content. It would be a relief to wake in the morning and know the growing gang problems and the breakdown of family values would no longer be his responsibility. If his golf handicap were his one problem, he would be happy. And he would be able to play with better golfers than Inspector Grimble.

  The commissioner had always seen his job as an elemental battle between good and evil. As head of the good guys, all the laws were stacked in his favor. The courts co-operated in putting away criminals, even with inadequate evidence. With a strong “law and order” lobby in a National government he was assured of adequate funding. New Zealand had more police per capita than any other western democracy. The last study he saw stated there was one policeman for every 540 citizens. He had the new multi-million-dollar Wanganui Computer Center, touted as being able to keep extensive records on every man, woman and child in the country. Even the Soviet Union did not have such a computer system or such thorough records. There was a joke he had heard that the inmates in Paremoremo told, that because New Zealand was such a small country the inmates knew who had committed a major crime before the media found out. So why was he, the Police Commissioner with so many advantages, so out of touch with what was going on? Not for a minute did he think he was winning the war on drugs. They had been ambushed in a huge gun battle in the forest, reminiscent of the Maori wars of the 19th century; drugs were plentiful on the street; and the prisons were getting more dangerous.

  Grimble made two more shots before he sank his ball. He looked at the commissioner, who seemed preoccupied.

  “We played the same position in the First Fifteen, didn’t we? What, sixteen years apart? Got to give you credit. At least you can play rugby.”

  The two policemen were Mount Albert Grammar old boys and shared a common bond. The commissioner liked to recall the good old days when winning was clear and simple, the rules did not change, and you always won because you went to the right school.

  “Correct. Right wing.” Grimble humored him, anticipating the conversation from their infrequent meetings. “You scored eighteen times. I got seventeen.”

  “But we won the championship.”

  “That's the important thing.”

  “Exactly. Now, there is something else I want you to do for me, Grimble. We’ll make the next one our last hole.”

  Grimble watched the commissioner’s ball sail to the next green. It was a par three shot. He would be lucky to complete it in six. “Do you mean follow up on Wiremu Wilson? Superintendent Jarvis told me to lay off after the shooting.”

  “No. In a way you took care of the Wilson problem, didn’t you? It’s one of our victories.”

  Grimble took two practice swings. Grass flew. The commissioner groaned as Grimble’s ball veered off into the trees. “Were you aiming at the tui? He seems to be mocking you.”

  The commissioner allowed Grimble to place another ball on the grass far from where he had lost his original. Several strokes later Grimble sank his putt, bent over to retrieve his ball, and walked to his bag without looking at his boss.

  As they pulled their trundlers to the clubhouse the commissioner said, “There is a rare and valuable painting coming to Auckland. It’s Captain James Cook. Well, three quarters of him. The government is extremely worried about the security. Even the Army is being recruited for its transport. I want you to keep an eye on things. You’ll have full authority. The Auckland police will have control. I just wanted you to hear your orders from me.”

  “Yes, commissioner.” Grimble attempted a smile.

  “A hotshot curator is bringing it on a plane and escorting it to the Auckland City Art Gallery. You can co-ordinate with him.” The commissioner fixed Grimble with his stare. “And I don’t want a body count.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Today we’re going to work on holds, when someone grabs you, from the side, in front or like so, behind you. Come here, Annie.” Dr. Mel Johnson in bare feet wore tracksuit pants and a T-shirt, like her students who trained in their street clothes. The dozen students she had led through her usual nonstop bodyweight exercise regime were gathered around her in a wide circle. She looked relaxed as her curly black hair fell over her wide shoulders. She had perfect white teeth and amber eyes that could turn golden in bright sunlight but were now dark in the overhead light. The dojo was a bare room with rubber mats on the floor above a clothes shop in a two-story wooden building on Ponsonby Road, across the street from her women’s clinic. Like a gym, it had the familiar smell of sweat and body odor but mixed with women’s perfume.

  Annie, her training partner, was a large, well-proportioned Samoan, with long black hair, big eyes the color of coal, and a wide smile. A good three inches taller, she grabbed her teacher in a bear hug as sweat dripped onto Mel’s T-shirt.

  “Any time an attacker grabs you, treat it as a gift. They’ve given you a hand, a finger, any body part you can use against them. Here.” Mel twisted her hips slightly to the left, dropped her left shoulder and dug her elbow into her partner’s ribs while stomping on her toes. She took her opponent’s left middle finger and bent it backwards. Annie loosened her grip and Mel twisted a little more while keeping control of the finger as she grabbed and twisted her partner’s wrist. Annie tried to step away but stumbled, as Mel continued using her momentum and her opponent’s loss of balance to force her to the ground. “I still have her wrist, her whole body.” She changed the direction of the wrist lock and Annie was forced to move in the opposite direction, still under Mel’s control, on the ground.

  “She can’t get to me. And I’m not using much force. It’s not about brute strength, it’s about body mechanics, natural body movements.” Mel kept smiling at her students who paid close attention as Annie tried to get up, but Mel eased her hips down and applied more pressure on the wrist. “If she moves, she hurts herself. Whatever she does to get out of my hold, I still control her.”

  All the movements were fluid—Mel made it look easy. She was not perspiring but looked coolly detached from the swift violence she had inflicted on Annie. “We train slow and easy because we want to use our training partners again. If you are too aggressive, it’s gonna come back at you.” The class laughed. Mel kept a straight face. She had had new students injure their partners. She called it working out their aggressions on the wrong person.

  “Now split into pairs. Nice and easy. Remember, we all walk out of here in one piece.”

  Once her students had completed their routines, changing sides, altering the speed and angles of attack, under her one-on-one direction, she had them form another circle around her. “There are lots of ways to defend yourself, based on who is attacking you, your physical makeup and limitations. Oh yes, we all have limitations. But we are talking about possibilities here, and I want to stress the positive and keep it simple. So here, Annie.”

  Anne put her outstretched hands around Mel’s neck, her thumbs digging into Mel’s throat.

  “I put the hands up, she loosens her grip and I stab with my thumbs in her eyes, or I can claw at her face. But I am getting in her face.” Laughter. “Note, I don’t actually claw her.” She went through the routine again, not as slowly. “What do I do?”

  “Finish him off?” one of the smaller students asked.

  “What if he’s down and there are witnesses and you are in a public place?” Mel countered. “I don’t teach aggression. I teach self-defense. It’s different.”

  Another student put up her hand. “Run. Run like hell.”

  “Yes. That could be your best option. Get the hell out of there. Wherever you are, run. Before he recovers and counterattacks or his mates join in. Why stick around?” She was quiet for a moment as she remembered situations she
had been involved in and how she had retreated as fast as she could. She did not want to share them with her group, or anyone.

  An older larger student broke the silence. “What if it’s in your own home?”

  “All the more reason to leave. Run to the neighbors and call the cops. Don’t expect him to be nice to you after you’ve defended yourself. I know every situation is different, but leave the scene. Nothing good can come of you staying. And if you have kids? Take them too. Probably listening in the other room scared stiff. Grab them and go.”

  The group nodded in unison and Mel walked them through another sequence, one move at a time. She wanted them to be able to move, grab, kick, poke and punch with confidence, and know their own capabilities: when to defend themselves as effectively as possible, and when to run.

  Mel dismissed her students and watched them leave. She threw Annie the one towel they had, and Annie wiped her face and hands.

  “Are you up for a little sparring?” Mel asked.

  “You got something you want to work through?”

  “We can talk later. You ready? Not full on, but don’t expect me to hold back too much.”

  “Bring it on, sister.” Annie put up her hands but kept them open as she stepped back enough to force Mel to advance and show what she was going to do with her footwork. Mel in turn took her time moving around Annie, looking relaxed, almost bored.

  “Come on, Mel,” Annie shot out but regretted her remark when Mel feigned a roundhouse kick with her right leg by sliding her left foot forward. Annie knew Mel favored her right leg and at the last moment Mel shot out a left side kick that Annie did not see. She fell over and Mel leapt on her, grabbed her left arm, dropped to the mat and put her in a leg lock she could not escape from. Annie tapped out. Mel untangled herself and helped her partner get up. Annie shook her head. They had sparred enough together that they knew the other’s favorite techniques—but Mel kept coming up with new moves Annie had not seen before.