In the early morning he woke, no more rested than when his head hit the pillow. His bladder demanded action. He forced himself up. His tongue felt thick and his throat raw. He had an unpleasant taste in his mouth. The sound of water flushing reminded him that he was awake. His bladder felt better. For a long moment he stared at himself in the bathroom mirror the hot water running unchecked over his hands. He did not like what he saw. Untidy hair framed a grey, unshaven face and his eyes stared dully back at him. He grabbed his toothbrush and spread peppermint gel over the bristles. After brushing vigorously he looked into the mirror again and pulled back his lips to check his teeth. His mouth tasted better and his teeth were clean. He poked his tongue out. There was less white fur showing. Feeling more like himself, he padded out to the lounge to check his emails. Amongst the usual batch of work related memos was one from E Redpath.
CHAPTER 42
Thanks to the late Denzil Jackson, the Blast Gang was trained for the job and had a hidden store of explosives at hand. Like all the other of Brady’s projects, the cell leader had meticulously planned and analysed every detail of their task. It was like a drama production, stage managed by the producer, each act scripted in great detail.
North of Pukerua Bay Boy, a patched Hells Angels member, was in charge of the action. No-one ever mocked him about his name for he had an explosive temper. He had big hands, wide across the knuckles and when clenched in a tight, hard fist, the tattoo on its back graphically boosted its menace. Both hands were loaded with heavy gothic-style rings. Few were foolish enough to test that combination of bone, metal and force and none tried twice.
The only other patched member was the explosives expert. He answered to Bomb, not because he was a bomb expert but because as a child he had been able to make the biggest splash jumping into the school swimming pool. The nickname had stuck. The others in the team were prospects. Bomb was responsible for calculating the quantity of explosives needed, directing where to place it and when to detonate. Their allegiance was to the gang.
Every night for a month Boy had recorded the number of cars and commercial vehicles passing the rocky corner just north of Pukerua Bay. The road was the main route out of the city. One of only two exits it tracked along the Pukerua fault. It was a lonely job and cold, especially when the southerlies snapped in off the sea. At first he found it hard to sit still but by September he looked forward to the dark quiet nights. When it was clear he gazed at the stars amazed at their number for he had never taken the time to look up. Maybe he’d see a UFO but in that month there was nothing unusual apart from an occasional shooting star. No-one saw him. Traffic flows were light and few people drove along the unlit strip of road between three and five. No trains passed during his watch and he had come to the conclusion that managing the traffic was child's play.
Below his lookout spot, the road twisted around the rocky outcrop and followed the coastline squeezed between cliff and sea. At that point the railway line, which tracked above the road passed through a small tunnel. It was a rugged stretch of land, uninhabited. The hillsides were too steep for agriculture and the sparse vegetation clung close to the ground, cowed by the bitter, salt drenched, gales.
From his lookout Boy could see the dark angular crags jutting up above the rocks, foam-washed and sparkling as moonlight reflected off the spray. The sharp silhouette was a visible reminder of the land’s violent past. His old grandmother had retold the myths of his people so many times that her stories had a ring of truth. She told how Maui had dropped his hook overboard and dragged up a giant fish which became the North Island. Fearful of the gods’ anger he left his brothers and his catch to seek pardon but his brothers were impatient. In their greed they pounded deep gashes into Maui’s fish, which twisted and writhed in agony. Its death throes left sunless gullies and ragged scrapes. Sometimes, she had whispered as if she feared the gods were listening, her words no more than puffs of breath. Sometimes the great fish still shudders remembering their blows. The shadows shifted about him and for a fleeting moment he was aware of the land’s agony and his own insignificance.
Boy shook himself. It was only myth. Time and the city had tamed this place. Its scars were long buried under gardens and houses, roads and bush. Nature had eroded the hilltops exposing fractured greywacke rock while roads cut into the steepness or circled hillsides along ledges and through tunnels.
A car drove past and he dragged his attention back to counting. He felt the land sigh as if in sleep and heard the waves break against the rocks below him. It was a perfect spot, the perfect plot.
Unknown to him other teams were similarly active, each operating in isolation, each ignorant of the overall plan.
CHAPTER 43
The name E Redpath meant nothing to George and the subject line held one seemingly enigmatic word. Reminder. The mail contained attachments. George opened it. Its message was brief.
‘These will be sent to Pania Morrison at midday on the 8th. If you do not meet the deadline they will then be forwarded to the UN.’
Rashly he clicked on the attachments. The photos were graphic, perfectly clear and date stamped. It was as if a bomb had exploded. A pounding roar of white noise deafened him. For a moment he could hear nothing, neither the traffic outside his room nor the ticking clock above the TV. The images were burned into his retina. He felt his heart lurched irregularly and his airways contracted leaving him painfully breathless. A shot of the ... that girl, another of … The pictures slapped him about making him giddy. He fumbled for his inhaler. It was utterly condemning; evidence he’d never dreamt existed. Two quick puffs. He held his breath allowing the chemicals to settle and ease his congested airways. He felt trapped, hunted and damned. It took a moment for him to see the deadline, midday on the eighth and another much longer moment before he saw the implications. That would be seven am New Zealand time and it would be the ninth there not the eighth. He would be just arriving in New Zealand and he’d be on the spot to deal with the fallout. Face to face with Pania he could deal with this. Perhaps, if Lady Luck smiled, they’d be so busy that Pania wouldn’t have a chance to check her emails before the Forum started.
His resolution wavered and then strengthened. If Brady thought he was an easy pushover then he’d miscalculated. With evidence like this, George knew that he would never be truly free until he faced up to his past. He shrank from counting the cost. Whatever he did the consequences were equally grim.
He glanced at his watch. He didn’t have time to brood. He had another flight to catch. Knowing there was nothing he could do seemed to calm him and he started to get himself ready for check-out.
George removed his new blue-grey suit from its plastic bag and laid it out on the bed then removed the packaging from a shirt and tie. He placed them beside the suit and stepped back to assess his new look. Everything had been bought in the same store. The minute he’d looked at the rack, this suit had caught his eye. The fabric and the colour had been different from the others. Irish linen, the assistant had said sneaking up on him, wonderful natural fabric, fabric that breathed and the texture of the weave was quite unique. George had seen that. The assistant had quickly selected the shirt and tie, insisting that there was no better combination in the store and then had offered George some classy cufflinks at half price. On impulse he’d bought those too. They would bring good luck, the assistant promised. He needed that now. George cast a critical eye over the items and was satisfied that he would look much smarter than usual. He removed the tags and stepped into the shower.
When he was dressed he stopped in front of the hotel mirror and hardly recognised himself. He looked like a successful executive. The suit hung beautifully in crisp, stylish lines. He tried a stiff smile and pulled his fingers through his damp hair. Would Pania notice, he wondered frowning at himself.
CHAPTER 44
As the Gate lounge filled, George peered over the top of his newspaper observing his fellow travellers. It was one of his amusements, this study of human foibles
. He liked to catch glimpses of the little clues which told him so much about his fellow travellers. He could tell who was nervous and who blasé; could distinguish between the novice traveller and the frequent flyer, the business person, the holidaymaker and the man going to a funeral. He also kept a wary eye out for terrorists and was thankful none had yet chosen to travel on his flights.
In the corner he could see several men deep in earnest discussion. Their dark, expensively tailored business suits marked them out from the rest of the passengers. Automatically he identified them as delegates. A row of restless assistants sat nearby fussing over their hand luggage and several beefy athletic types stood with their backs to the group. Bulked up by bullet vests and aggression, they were the easiest to label. Were they armed, he wondered? Their weapons would be well hidden before they landed. It was a game they played with immigration and security, these private armies so detested by Kiwis. He could picture Parsons’ pleasure should their subterfuge be uncovered and they were denied entry or their arsenal confiscated. There would be no diplomatic incident; it would be handled firmly but discreetly. Still Parsons would refer to it later in satisfied tones.
The men constantly scanned the room looking for trouble. George ducked behind his paper. The eyes of one of the bodyguards raked towards him and he sensed that he’d become a target of interest. He started to read the article. It was in Spanish but it might as well have been in Martian. After what he deemed was a suitable time, he turned the page and risked a glance up. The man’s attention had moved.
He wished that fate would similarly move its attention away from him. Where would the sword of Justice fall when his life was weighed in the balance? Would his work against terror outweigh his involvement in the cover-up? His phone vibrated in his pocket telling him that a text had been received. He lowered his paper and unlocked his phone.
The text was from E Redpath. ‘I know where the girl is. ’ E Redpath was obviously connected to Brady. No-one else knew what had happened to the body and locating her body would damn him in the eyes of the law. It was almost as if he had no emotions left. He had a sense that his remaining life was following a preordained path, with only one destination. Nothing could shock him anymore he thought.
The boarding call came and he watched as people lined up, keen to board. The crowd of delegates hung back until the lines shortened then they too joined the queue. George watched and waited. They wouldn’t leave without him and he was in no urgent hurry to take his seat. For the next 12 hours he would be safer than Jonah in the whale. Stragglers were hurrying towards check-in. The last of the delegates had disappeared down the ramp and George folded away his paper. He had his passport and boarding card in his hand when his phone rang.
For a moment George was tempted to ignore the call. Both the insistent ring and the agitated vibration made this difficult. He answered curtly intending to keep the call short and recognised Brady’s voice immediately. Adrenalin-fuelled fear surged through him and he held his breath as he struggled to hear the words above the pounding in his ears.
“I’m sure you know what to do George but if you can’t make up your mind perhaps this’ll help. If you miss the deadline, I’ve arranged a little entertainment, a mishap or two for your girl friend.” George sat up in shock and strained to listen. “We’ve been watching Miss Pania Morrison and believe you me, she’s an easy target. We know where she lives and where she works. We know when she will be at the airport and the route she’ll take.” His eyes darted about as if looking for the exit. The room was almost empty of people and anything he said would carry. He forced himself to breathe regularly. “What’s the trouble ... dragon got your tongue?” A barking laugh sounded in his ear. Still he held his silence. “You think you have everything under control? You don’t know nothing. I know everything. I tell you, nothing in your wildest dreams comes even close to what we have planned. You’ll wish you’d never left America. You and your precious UN.” Brady was gloating. George heard it creep into his voice. He also heard Brady’s mocking scorn. The man made no effort to disguise his feelings. “Maybe you can stop it and then again maybe not. Nothing’s guaranteed anymore. Just remember whose safety is in your hands. You don’t want a second death on your conscience.”
There was a click and the line was cut. George was left staring stupidly at the cell phone. The final boarding call came and he forced himself to act normally. He did not want a repeat of his previous boarding attempt. The UN might start to ask more questions if they were again called upon to vouch for him. He took several deep breaths and calmed his thumping heart then he stood up. He was slightly pale but he managed to smile at the attendant and make his way on board without attracting unwelcome attention. He followed his usual settling routine, shook out the airline blanket, switched his phone to flight mode and checked the in-flight magazine for distraction options.
The cabin shook, the engines roared and the big plane began its slow taxi to the runway. It waited in the queue. George sat with his eyes closed waiting for liftoff. Dimly he became aware of exclamations of alarm on the far side of the plane. The pilot’s calm voice crackled overhead. He apologized for disruption to their takeoff procedures. Unfortunately the aircraft was experiencing mechanical issues but the flames passengers might have spotted on the right wing were of no real concern, merely an overheated engine.
They returned to the terminal and waited, half an hour, an hour. The time passed slowly and the cabin grew hotter. The stewards passed around paper cups half filled with tepid water. Passengers muttered and grumbled. George’s anxious thoughts were interrupted as the sound system crackled. Engineers, explained the pilot, were having difficulty solving the problem and in the interests of passengers and crew a decision had been made to disembark. Everyone groaned with disappointment.
George felt events piling on top of him. The external door opened and the cabin emptied in a reluctant confusion of noisy activity. George grabbed his briefcase, papers and other belongings and joined the throng of grumbling passengers. The burly bodyguards looked tense. They did not like unexplained disruptions to their schedules and considered anything out of the ordinary a possible threat to their charges. The VIPs were herded together into a tight, nervous group by their restless minders. George knew that under these circumstances, they would act first and ask questions later.
CHAPTER 45
The keys of the three almost identical black 4WD Toyota rentals were collected from the desk at Christchurch Airport. The girl staffing the booth had been busy all day and had taken no special notice of her customers or the rentals they hired. She checked that names, licences and credit cards matched the bookings. She swiped their cards and obtained their signatures. No booking or customer stood out as unusual or memorable.
Kaikoura locals were so used to tourists that three black 4WD Toyota’s with tinted windows were virtually inconspicuous amongst the herd of parked campers and on that very ordinary day, the fourth of September 2014, no-one paid any attention to the quiet group sharing a café table. Every day thousands of tourists passed through Kaikoura attracted by whales and other marine mammals but these visitors had other things on their minds. When John and Mary Smith, Jason and Liz Brown and Tony Green stopped their rentals in the public car park, their names had already changed from those printed on the rental agreements. They acted with relaxed intimacy, but they were complete strangers. They’d been ordered to keep their real identities hidden, even from each other and each carried several false identities, forged driver’s licenses and travel tickets to match. They had been instructed to use each identity only once, to discard clothing, change hair colour and style, and by the time they got to their destination they had become Manu and Maree Kirangi, and Josh and Annie Grantham. The fifth member became invisible.
The road from Blenheim passed through open country until it reached the sea and turned sharply to follow the coastline. It squeezed between the manicured green of the golf course and the wild surf-washed shore until it passed
between Rarangi and a stony beach. Leaving the town, the road turned inland and twisted up into the native forest. Beyond Rarangi the hills folded into each other, unsuitable for farming and too rugged for houses.
You could hardly describe Rarangi as a town. It was just a straggling cluster of modest cottages strung out along the shingle bay. A few had been converted into permanent residences and so it was slowly getting a name as a place to retire to when you wanted to escape the hustle and bustle of Blenheim. Some rented out their houses visiting only in high summer when Marlborough was hot and dry and the sea breeze refreshing. For the rest of the year it was a lonely, windswept, deserted place.
Solo mum Jennifer lived with her 15 month old daughter in her grandparents’ bach in Titoki Street. She managed the neighbouring property for its owners, greeting the holiday makers when they arrived, inspecting it when they left and keeping it clean and tidy. It was not onerous, especially in winter when visitor numbers were few. Often she had little to do but air the house on sunny days. Her duties paid for her groceries and gave her a financial reason for staying in Rarangi besides she enjoyed living on the coast away from the retail distractions of city life. The colours of the sea and the sky changed constantly and inspired her. She sold her distinctive paintings at the little art gallery in Renwick.
As she prepared the new canvas she had a clear view of the driveway next door. She would not miss the arrival of the new guests. Little traffic passed her house and before they came into view she heard the sound of a slowing engine. She had plenty of time to take off her paint splattered smock, pick up the baby and the keys before the cars stopped outside. She was outside before they had even opened her gate.
2014 Year of the Horse Page 17