by Nick Spill
He rammed the gear stick into first even though he double declutched as the van screamed down the hill, unable to stop. He eased the hand brake up one notch at a time as he steered towards the other side of the wide, four-lane road. He weaved between cars heading up the street, narrowly missing a larger van until he thought he had enough space to glide into Kitchener Street and stop. The left tire burst, and the hand brake failed. He ripped it upwards until it came apart in his left hand. He braced both hands on the steering wheel as he crashed into a parked car, a red Honda Accord. The Accord crumpled with the impact; Alexander twisted his body and hit the windshield. The glass cracked but he bounced back into his seat, dazed, still gripping the wheel. His forearms were stiff. He looked around and saw no one else was hurt. Traffic had stopped and he tried to exit from his side but was blocked by the squashed Honda. He managed to get himself out of his seat and slide over to the passenger side. The door was stuck.
A young man ripped open the door and helped him out. “Are you all right?” he asked breathlessly.
Alexander shook his head. He ignored the startled onlookers and drivers and walked like a drunk to the gallery entrance on Kitchener Street and through the double doors. The guard at the entrance recognized him and informed him he was expected upstairs. He patted his shirt and heard pieces of glass fall to the floor. He ran his hands through his hair to shake out more glass and checked his hands for blood. Pausing at the entrance to the Omai exhibit he saw a group of men crowded around a painting. For a moment, he thought it was the color reproduction—then he saw the look on Colin McMillan’s face. He walked towards them. Colin hugged him. Alexander grimaced. He had pain all over his body.
Inspector Grimble and Sergeant Cadd started to clap, followed by the director, Thomas Jones, Peter MacIntosh, the director of security and the other curators.
“What? What’s going on?” Alexander asked, running his hands through his hair again.
“It’s back! It was where you said it would be. In the red Mini in the garage. We got it last night. It’s in perfect condition. Colin just checked it. Well done.” Grimble shook Alexander’s hand, followed by everyone else. Alexander had never seen the inspector smile before. He had a sickening feeling about the red Honda.
Chapter Sixty-three
By the time Rawiri and Wiremu returned to Moana and Rickey’s place in the afternoon, they were a little drunk. Wiremu had been upset at the exchange rate and thought they had been ripped off by the Russians, but Rawiri consoled him. They were richer than they had been earlier in the morning. They had cashed a few American bills for expenses and embarked on a pub crawl from Vulcan Lane to High Street, finishing at the Kiwi Tavern where they met members of the security company they had drunk with the previous night and who had provided additional oversight to the exchange earlier.
Wiremu had used the payphone at the Queen’s Ferry, the oldest pub in Auckland. He dialed Central and asked to speak to Inspector Grimble. “Listen, inspector. You know my voice but I’m not telling you my name. Three important small black notebooks are in the possession of one Soviet spy named Natasha, at the Castle in Epsom. I believe you know the place well, and if you go now, you’ll find them. You owe me one, inspector. Let’s hope I never have to collect.”
Wiremu ended the call before Grimble could ask any questions and was at his beer mug before Rawiri came out of the bathroom.
Grimble did recognize the voice. He dialed a number. He had one more raid to organize.
Chapter Sixty-four
Moana waved the new editions of the Auckland Star and NZ Truth in their faces. “Look! All for nothing! Read that!” she spat.
“CAPTAIN SAFE, NOT COOKED. MAORI LAND RIGHTS HOAX,” Rawiri read out loud. “What a paper. I’d hate to read what’s inside.”
“It gets worse,” Moana sighed.
Rawiri turned to page three. “SOVIET SPY LOVE NEST SEARCHED. CAPTAIN COOK SAILED. Wow. They don’t mess around, do they? It goes on: ‘Police and Security sources stated the love nest of Soviet diplomat Nikolai Raganovich, who was linked to Dr. Cedric Winter in the sensational spy case, was raided by police earlier today in a desperate search for the missing Captain Cook painting stolen from Auckland City Art Gallery last Saturday night. Truth has found out the painting was not recovered, but the police are satisfied they are closing the net on the conspirators who stole the only three-quarter portrait of Captain Cook in the world. ‘It’s just a matter of time before we catch the thieves,’ a police source stated.’
“Well, page three isn’t talking to page one. Anyway, I thought they had naked girls on page three? What is the world coming to?”
Wiremu sat at the kitchen table and started to read the Star front page. “It’s almost the same headline. I thought the Star was classier,” he said.
Moana snatched the paper from him. and read the beginning of the article aloud. “CAPTAIN COOK RETURNS. KIDNAP WAS A HOAX. The painting was being restored after its trip from Wellington, a government spokesman who preferred to remain anonymous, stated. There were never any Maori land hostage negotiations which the spokesman claimed was a hoax. Captain Cook is back in the Auckland City Art Gallery special exhibit ‘The Two Worlds of Omai’, under strict security, the spokesman assured the Star, and will be on display until it returns to the National Art Gallery in Wellington.”
“Well, it’s over,” Wiremu sighed.
“Guess so,” said Rawiri.
“What about all our plans? The land? The cause?” Moana was angry.
“No one got arrested,” said Wiremu. “We put Maori land rights in the media again. It got everyone talking. It’s all good, right?”
Rawiri shook his head. “Yeah, it’s good. Don’t want to go back inside.”
“Toi te kapa, toi te mana, toi te whenua.”
“When did you start speaking Maori, Wiremu?” Moana had her hands on her hips.
“Since I’ve been taking lessons. And the proverb encompasses what we hope to do. Rawiri and I have a plan.”
“Since when?”
“Since we came from Mangawhau.”
“What?”
“Mount Eden. We did a lot of thinking up there and we’re going home tomorrow. We’re got new classes in Rawene and in Kaitaia. Maori language and Maoritanga. We’ve elders we’re going to hire as well as new teachers. And we’ll be talking to Northland Education Board or whatever it’s called, getting more Maori language into their lessons. All good, eh, Rawiri?”
Rawiri burped and smiled. “Yes, all good!”
Moana looked from one pair of bloodshot eyes to the other. She did not seem convinced.
• • •
Inspector Grimble called the commissioner to inform him of the anonymous phone call and ask, again, if he could raid the Castle apartment.
“What do you mean she has the notebooks?”
Grimble had known the commissioner would be angry but he hadn’t expected to be blasted out of his chair. “Commissioner, I called you first because I think it’s connected to what the FBI wants from that scientist, Henry Lotus. I was at his last interview. I think he lied about the notebooks and the Americans are after them. We know now the Russian has them.”
“I understand. It’s just I thought the whole episode was over. Talk to Jarvis and I’ll call the magistrate you used to make sure he’s still sober. You’d better make it snappy.”
Chapter Sixty-five
Alexander walked into Mel’s dojo at seven o’clock. The women recognized him from his previous appearance. Mel came out of the dressing room in a track suit and lined up her students. They started with breathing exercises and stretching.
“We’re not going to be practicing on Alexander tonight,” she said. “ He’s had a rather rough day.” She didn’t elaborate.
The women laughed; Alexander kept a straight face.
After the class, Alexander waited outside on Ponsonby Road. Mel appeared dressed in a black polo and tight black pants, her leather jacket open. She kissed him and to
ok his hand. “What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Oh, it’s just my arms.”
“You’re fine. I checked you out. The pain in your tendons will go away in a few days.”
“Thank you. Better than the telling off I got from that cop.”
“Well, it’s not very diplomatic to crash into a cop’s car.”
“At least nothing is going to get reported. Too embarrassing for everyone. Now answer my question I asked earlier. What did you do?”
“You mean the fingers in the throat? There’s a little hole above your sternum, just here.”
“Okay, I got it. Does that always work?”
“You collapsed, didn’t you?”
“Every time.”
“Well, you’ve learned a new technique. Remember, pain is your friend.”
“I thought pain was my ego leaving my body.” He twisted his neck left and right. “I think all my ego left my body today.”
“Not to change the subject, but what do you want to do on your last night here?”
“I was thinking we could drive to the top of Mount Eden again. Are you game?”
“You mean in the car?” Mel put a finger to her lips. “Well, maybe.”
They walked around the corner to where she had parked. As she drove, she kept glancing at Alexander. “You look sad,” she said.
“Our last night, and I’m getting to know you, as much as I can know you. Yes, I’m sad.”
“When are you returning?”
“I hope when the exhibit ends I can escort the Captain safely back to the National Gallery. Do you want to see me again?”
She smiled. “Of course.”
Alexander felt relieved. “It’s unexpected, what happened to us, or at least to me. I still can’t believe it’s true. But it is. Isn’t it?”
Mel smiled again. “What do you mean?”
“You know I operate on instinct, and I could be wrong, but I feel a deep connection between us. Right from the moment I met you in the gallery. And ever since, we’ve just clicked.”
Mel made the turn on Mount Eden Road. “Can we talk about this when I’m not driving?”
“Of course. Are you okay?”
“Of course. I’m with you.” Mel kept her eyes on the dark narrow road to the summit.
Alexander smiled as he watched her.
“What?” she asked.
“You. I love being with you.”
Mel drove in silence. She stopped in the same place Alexander had parked. She got out of the car before Alexander got any ideas and walked to the rim of the big crater. “Now I know why you wanted to come here,” she sighed.
Alexander saw a giant round hole in the sky. It let in all the light from the universe. The moon illuminated Rangitoto, the symmetrical volcanic cone floating in the Waitemata harbor where the water glistened as if millions of silver fishes were on the flat surface.
There was no wind. They held hands and walked to the other side of the crater, along a narrow path. A few stars in the Southern sky competed for attention. Mel leaned against Alexander and kissed his cheek. Their foreheads touched.
She held him in her arms, and he felt safe.
Epilogue
The ordinary-looking man in a grey suit was sitting opposite Richard Catelin when Mavis informed her boss by intercom that Alexander Newton was waiting outside. Catelin told Mavis to keep him there.
The ordinary-looking man swirled the last of his Scotch with the melted ice cube. “The librarian proved her worth, didn’t she?”
“Yes.” Catelin smiled. “Though I think she got more than she bargained for.” They both chuckled.
The ordinary-looking man put his empty glass on the table. Catelin made no offer to refill it.
“Absolutely discreet! Well, she is a librarian.” The ordinary-looking man rose from his seat and adjusted his trousers. “Did you ever think Newton would turn out to be this good?”
“I like to think we provided him with solid on-the-job training.”
“Yes. A nice way of describing it. And the current project?”
“He’ll deliver.”
“By the way, the Brigadier wants you to know how pleased he is with how this all worked out. He hopes we can continue.” He adjusted his cuffs and looked down at his empty glass again. “Didn’t know you had such good Scotch.”
Catelin stood and they shook hands. He motioned to a door hidden by a curtain and waited for the ordinary-looking man to disappear before he called Mavis on the intercom.
Alexander strode into Catelin’s large office with a big smile. He wore his dark blue suit, an indigo silk tie, a blue paisley waistcoat and a white shirt that looked as if it had a spotlight shining on it. He held the red-covered book in his left hand. It was the same color as his pocket square.
The Permanent Under-Secretary of the Department of Internal Affairs stepped forward to shake Alexander’s hand. “Well done, Alexander.” He smiled. “Here, sit.”
Catelin made himself comfortable in his favorite armchair; Alexander chose the sofa. He looked around the office lined with paintings and sculptures, then at the table with its piles of books and magazines. He placed the KGB book Catelin had lent him on it. “I read it. I think I lived it,” he said.
“Yes. Quite an education.”
“Are you going to deport our favorite KGB agent?”
“Raganovich is leaving of his own accord by next week. In return, we are not prosecuting his daughter.”
“You’re not going to deport him, after what he did? He tried to kill me.”
“Yes, but he didn’t succeed. It’s smoother our way. Besides, we think he was acting on his own. The Soviets are touchy about their own history and got nervous about the painting once they found out about it. We think it was a rogue operation, revenge for the trial. But his daughter gets to stay and complete her doctorate on Soviet relations.”
“Irony or what?”
“Yes, it is rather delicious. But we’ll keep an eye on her, now we know who she is.”
“You don’t think stealing the Captain was a ploy for something else? Like settling old scores or preparing his agents? Or maybe the notebooks he acquired from Henry Lotus?”
“That we don’t know, and this is the problem with espionage, Alexander. It can be all rather vague and ambiguous. It’s not like a novel or film where everything is tied up neat in a bow at the end. Real spying is messy, and you never know the full story.” He studied Alexander, who appeared lost in thought. “Would you like a drink? I think we deserve a Scotch.”
Alexander raised his eyebrows in agreement and occupied his time with adjusting the crease on his trousers and admiring his new Oxfords. Two empty glasses were on the table in front of him and he wondered why he had not bumped into anyone leaving the office. A lingering smell of Old Spice cut through the pipe smoke in the room.
Catelin pushed a button. Mavis entered and asked, “Ice?”
“Yes, thank you Mavis, the usual. And you, Alexander?”
“I’ll have what you’re having.”
Mavis took ice cubes from the ice bucket and poured two scotches into fresh glasses from the cocktail cabinet. Once she had left and each had savored his drink, Catelin said to Alexander, “You heard about the notebooks?”
“Yes, I did. Henry was ecstatic. He’s flown to the States. Funny how the police found them at Natasha’s apartment. I don’t believe she originally had them.”
“We’ll never know. She’s not talking.”
“But you made copies of them anyway and gave them to the FBI man who was searching for them?”
“You’re a quick study, Alexander. But, I hear from Inspector Grimble, not a very good driver.”
“I’ve been called worse things.”
Catelin selected a pipe and found his leather tobacco pouch. “That accident went away. Price of doing business. Grimble is a little annoyed. Wouldn’t want to run into him.”
He started the ritual of preparing his pipe. “On the table, the e
nvelope.” Catelin pointed with his extinguished match. “I had to fight to stop them deducting expenses for the van.”
Alexander noticed a large brown envelope with the government crest on it in front of him.
He opened the clasp and saw a bundle of $100 notes. He was tempted to take them out and count them. Instead he looked at Catelin, who was puffing on his pipe and staring at him. He had a distinct feeling he was being played but he was too committed to his new role as a spy to think about stopping. He tucked the envelope into his inside jacket pocket then took a sip of his drink and rolled it around his mouth. He was beginning to understand he had been used, and the strange aftertaste was not from the Scotch.
“The minister wants to extend his thanks to you and all your efforts. And your director wants you to go ahead with the Maori touring show you were talking about. I think the Arts Council will fund it.”
Alexander swallowed. “Well, thank you. I don’t know what to say.”
“You might hear rumors about the shadow minister, you know, the photos with the girl, what was her name?”
“Kathy.” Alexander nodded. He had deliberately forgotten about the photos, his betrayal.
“Apparently his wife saw them and is filing for divorce. He is resigning his post. I am sure there will be more repercussions. I wanted you to hear it from me first.”