Dead Secret

by Peter Kozmar

  Peter Kozmar

  Dead Secret

  MSYNZ

  First published in 2020 by MSYNZ

  Copyright © 2020 Peter Kozmar

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, not be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This book is dedicated to

  Cathy, Bex and James

  PROLOGUE

  To the outside world, the frosted glass walls on the twenty-second floor of Plimmer Towers in Wellington, New Zealand, looked just like any other corporate office. For the small team of technicians and analysts who worked there, it was a routine day staring at screens of data harvested from some of the world’s most secure data centers and global networks.

  The staff occupied a small section of the floor, near windows overlooking the idyllic harbor, the rest of the space was filled with row upon row of racks filled with high-performance servers quietly humming away twenty-four-seven. The servers were the heart of their operation: storing, filtering, processing, decrypting and sorting the data for prioritization and analysis.

  Mark Flint had been at the office in Plimmer Towers for a few hours before he’d stepped out to grab a coffee from his favorite café on Lambton Quay as he made his way back his cell phone came to life. He looked at the caller ID and swiped to accept the call. Five minutes later, at nine thirty-five, Mark smiled as he ended the call. He was looking forward to spending the weekend in Queenstown catching up with his father … now a different man to the one Mark had grown to despise during his youth.

  Refreshed and ready to dive back into the day’s activities, he headed back up Plimmer Steps and into the building to catch the elevator up to the office. When the doors opened he stepped out of the elevator reaching for his access card then, at the last moment, he decided he needed to use the restroom located off the stairwell on the floor below.

  The small, drab restroom had seen better days and needed basic maintenance to replace broken tiles and the leaking tap on one of the hand basins. Mark took the cubicle on the left, locking the door and, once comfortable, took out his cell phone to check his social media and emails as he wouldn’t have access to the device once in the office.

  Time passed quickly as he browsed, responded to emails and watched an amusing music video from Korea, featuring dancing cats, which had gone viral and become a global phenomenon. With the addictive tune and the images of the dancing cats stuck in his head Mark powered down his cell phone. He left the cubicle, washed his hands and exited the restroom before climbing the flight of concrete stairs to the office.

  He swiped his access card in the card reader and, when the lock emitted its gentle electronic ‘open’ buzz, he entered the office reception area. He walked across the room and went through the second door into the main office. He paused. Something felt wrong, very wrong.

  Cautiously, he made his way further inside.

  A body sprawled untidily on the floor of the small kitchenette came into view, blood oozing from a chest wound and forming a large dark pool on the floor.

  “Shit!” he whispered to himself. Part of its head was missing, blood and brain matter splattered over the surfaces and walls.

  The gruesome sight and stench were too much, Mark quickly turned away and puked on the carpet outside the kitchenette; his throat and mouth burned from the bilious contents of his stomach. He knew the body belonged to Greg Darcey, his Canadian colleague and a keen sportsman. They’d only known each other for a few months, but in that time had become good friends. Greg had a great sense of humor and was fun to be around. The two of them had played mixed indoor netball on Thursday evenings at Sky Stadium.

  Mark slowly walked deeper into the office, his heart pounding in his chest. To the left, a small meeting room revealed two more bodies: Fiona Armstrong and Murray McDonald. Fiona’s face was fixed with a look of terror. Mark couldn’t miss the two dark entry wounds in her chest, while most of Murray’s head was covering the walls and floor of the meeting room.

  Fiona had been the longest serving member in the office having been posted to Wellington five years earlier. Murray McDonald, the youngest in the office, was from Scotland and had a young wife. Murray was the guru of all things technical. He’d only been back at the office for two days after the birth of his first child two weeks earlier.

  Mark started to tremble and felt his legs went weak from under him. The room started to spin so he reached out and used the meeting room table to steady himself for a moment. When the feeling passed he moved out of the meeting room and breathed deeply to clear the stench of death from his lungs. He continued on into the office and looked behind the second row of desks where he found the bodies of Jose Fernando and John Hunter. Both had identical gunshot patterns, two to the chest and one to the head.

  Jose came from the Philippines and had been with the team for two years. He’d just received his next posting in New York: a promotion with extra benefits. The whole team were excited and, to celebrate his departure, there was going to be a cake with their usual morning tea. The cake sat untouched in its box on Jose’s desk. John was the only New Zealander in the office and loved his rugby, deer hunting and deep-sea fishing in the Cook Strait.

  The third row of desks still had Tom Evans’s laptop, notepad, a chipped Royal Marines coffee mug and a framed photo of his wife. The team hadn’t yet felt ready to pack it away.

  Mark made his way into the office’s server farm. Goose bumps quickly formed on his arms as the temperature dipped from the chilled air circulating to keep the racks of servers cool. The sweat on his back felt cold and uncomfortable to his skin. The gentle hum of the servers gave a false feeling of re-assurance and familiarity. Mark stepped further in and could see nothing out of order, but as he turned the corner, he saw the body of Ivan Rubtsov sprawled near the office’s second exit.

  Mark looked at Ivan’s body lying face down in a large pool of blood. The first bullet had stopped him from leaving; the second, execution style, had stopped him getting up again. Ivan, their Russian team member, never shared details about his private life and didn’t mix socially with the team. He’d arrived unannounced from HQ, a few weeks after Mark, just under twelve months ago. Ivan claimed that he didn’t like the Russian Government and had joined the United Nations to get away from Russia and shine a spotlight on Russian criminal activities. Mark and the rest of the Wellington team didn’t believe him, they believed he still worked for the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service.

  Mark retraced his steps back to his desk where he sat in the deafening silence. He buried his head in his hands. Tears slowly streaked down his cheeks and dripped onto his notepad causing the blue ink to smudge and spread out. He tried to comprehend what had happened; he’d only been gone for a short while and now all his team were dead.

  Thoughts flooded his mind. The killer could still be in the area. The killer could be looking for him to finish the job. He needed to act. He picked up the desk phone and dialed ‘111’. Within three rings his call was answered: “Emergency Services, which service do you require?”

  “They’re dead … they’re all dead.”

  CHAPTER 1

  The rain poured down in a heavy torrent as Andy looked out of the kitchen window across the steep-sided valley at the cascading waterfalls.
The rain had the appearance of milk as it fell in large drops, the size of which he’d never seen before. He hoped the rain would ease up after breakfast for the last day of their hike along the Milford Track.

  He quickly polished off his hearty breakfast of porridge with honey and a muesli bar washed down with a strong black coffee, courtesy of two sachets of instant coffee. Heading from the cookhouse to the bunkhouse, he paused and looked up at the waterfalls as they fell away from the steep cliffs to his front. He turned and looked up at the towering cliffs behind the hut and was met by a similar spectacle from yet more waterfalls.

  He reflected on the previous day which he’d thought had been the most stunning day of the walk. McKinnon Pass had been a relatively easy climb and rewarded them with jaw-dropping views at the top. He and Vladim Martirossian had taken refuge in a dry and warm modern shelter, perched on the summit, while they had a brew and took in the stunning landscape.

  Andy switched his thoughts back to today, the last, and longest, day of the hike. His clothes had dried overnight on the clothes line strung up above the wood burner, but his boots were still damp. No waterproofing could keep the amount of water they’d walked through out. Looking at the downpour, he knew he’d soon be soaked to the skin again, but that didn’t matter, he had a set of dry clothes at the end, as long as Dortman hadn’t been delayed.

  It hadn’t yet turned seven when the Department of Conservation warden, wearing full waterproofs, approached Andy as he stood in the porch of the bunkhouse. “Andrew Flint?” she asked.

  “Yes … how can I help?” Andy replied.

  “Just had a call on the sat phone from DoC Head Office, asking me to confirm you’ll be finishing on-time,” she said.

  “Vladim and I are fine, we’ll be at the pick-up in good time.” As the warden turned away to leave, Andy added, “Tell Dortman not to worry.” The warden stopped and turned to face Andy with a quizzical look, shrugged and headed back to the warmth of her hut to provide the update on their timings.

  It was just before eight when Andy and Vladim attached the bright orange waterproof pack covers, put on their packs and stepped out into the driving rain. “We should see some more great waterfalls today,” Vladim called out over the noise of the pounding rain.

  “I can’t believe it could get any better,” Andy shouted in reply.

  Once on the track, they strained their necks continually looking up and from side-to-side, as impressive waterfalls cascaded down either side of the narrow valley. Vladim had been right, with their tributaries full from the torrential rainfall, the cascading waterfalls were definitely more spectacular than the ones they had seen earlier on the hike. In places the strong winds blew the falling water back up and over the lip edge, creating the effect of perpetual motion. They had to ford several fast-flowing creeks and, where the main river had burst its banks, they were wading chest-deep in freezing cold, churning white water.

  A good two hours in, they stopped on a solid wooden viewing platform which allowed them to almost touch one of the waterfalls. The two men smiled at one another as they stood side-by-side taking selfies next to the moving wall of water just inches away. The roar from the waterfall was deafening, the flow creating a strong, freezing downdraft, but they were too high on their adventure to feel cold. The solid, slippery steps leading steeply downwards followed the course of the waterfall offering numerous viewing points as the two men walked parallel to the cascades.

  After four days hiking in the wilderness, covering just over fifty-three kilometers, the two friends arrived at Sandfly Point. They were in high spirits, and a good thirty minutes early for their scheduled water taxi to the terminus at Milford Sound. At the sign announcing the end of the trail, the two men high-fived and made their way towards the DoC shelter to get out of the pouring rain while they waited for their ride out.

  As they approached the shelter they could see two figures in the rain, protected by their wet weather gear. They were police officers.

  “Mr. Flint?”

  “Yes.” Andy replied.

  “I’m Constable Parish and this is Constable Kamahee, we need you to accompany us when the water taxi arrives,” Parish informed Andy.

  “Is there a problem officer?” Andy asked. Kamahee turned away and used his radio while Parish continued.

  “I wouldn’t know, sir, my instructions are to get you to the terminus as quickly as possible. There are some VIPs waiting for you.”

  “Why not chopper us out?”

  Parish smiled, “We’ve got some great pilots, but even they can’t fly in this rain and low cloud.”

  They didn’t have to wait long before a small orange water taxi came into view heading directly for the small wooden jetty. On reaching the jetty the skipper of the water taxi quickly secured it and killed his engine. Andy and Vladim walked with the two officers towards the jetty just as a group of four very wet hikers appeared from the track and approached them. “Can we get a lift with you?” a young woman with a German accent asked.

  “Sure, as long as it’s just you four and you’ve got all your kit with you. We aren’t going to wait. We’re on a tight schedule,” Kamahee replied.

  “Great. Thank you!” the hiker replied and the four hikers fell in behind, clearly as high as Andy and Vladim had been on completing the walk.

  Once on board, Andy, Vladim along with the other hikers slipped off their packs and stowed them away. The skipper cast off the lines when another pair of soaked hikers arrived at the jetty. “Hey, can we get on board, there are two more in our group, they’ll be here in a minute?” they called out over the engine noise and falling rain. The skipper looked at the police officers. Parish shook his head.

  The skipper shouted over the noise, “I’m sorry, we’ve got to get away, I’ll be back in half-an-hour to pick you up. Go to the shelter, change into some dry clothes and keep warm.” The hikers looked crestfallen as they stood in the pouring rain looking at the half empty boat. The skipper shrugged and moved quickly to his position at the front of the small launch, applied power and, with a roar from the engine, navigated away from the jetty into the wide lagoon.

  As they moved through the lagoon, the water taxi picked up speed cutting through the choppy sea causing spray to splash over the windows. After a few minutes Andy looked out to the left and saw Mitre Peak towering up above them, he recognized it from the guide books. Mitre Peak was iconic, the New Zealand equivalent to the Sydney Opera House. Today, to his disappointment, the peak was shrouded in low cloud; he’d have to come back on a good day to see the top.

  A large waterfall came into view as the water taxi turned to the right heading towards the wharf. Although the waterfall was impressive, it couldn’t make up for the lack of not seeing the top of Mitre Peak. After a few more minutes, the sea calmed, and they pulled up against the wharf complete with steps leading up onto the wide walkway.

  With two mooring lines gripped firmly in his right hand, the skipper jumped from the water taxi onto the steps and secured the forward line against a cleat on the steps before he quickly moved towards the stern to secure the rear line against a steel ring attached to a concrete pile. The skipper impressed Andy with his efficiency as it took him less than thirty seconds to secure the vessel single-handed.

  The busy wharf was alive with a bustle of activity. Even on a wet and windy day, large tourist boats quickly shuttled in and out, loading and unloading their tourist hoards. Andy and Vladim grabbed their packs and headed off the water taxi and up the stairs, followed by the two officers and, finally, the party of hikers who’d joined them.

  On the walkway a lone woman watched their arrival. Andy couldn’t see her face under her full set of dark waterproofs. As they drew near she spoke, “Mr. Flint, I’m Amy Carter of the Secret Intelligence Service. Could you please come with me?”

  “Is there a problem?” Andy asked.

  “Can we discuss this somewhere less public? There are some people who’d like to speak with you. It’ll all be explained
when you meet.”

  Since they had stopped walking about twenty minutes earlier, and wore only wet clothing, Andy felt his body temperature drop, he shivered. “Okay, as long as we can get somewhere warm and dry first,” he replied.

  Amy led Andy and Vladim into the gleaming ferry terminus. The bright and airy terminus had immaculately clean floors and numerous kiosks offering much the same tours, each promising the ultimate cruise package around The Sounds. The terminus made Andy feel claustrophobic due to the sheer number of tourists filing in and out from the rows of coaches and tourist vans parked outside.

  Andy looked around the terminus. It struck him there were lots of dry, clean tourists moving with purpose through the building. In contrast, Andy and Vladim looked like outsiders with their unshaven faces, dressed in dirty, wet clothes and boots covered in mud. Amy led Andy and Vladim over to a small group that looked equally out of place amongst the masses of tourists. Their clothing looked expensive and their ages at least twice that of most of the people around them; they were definitely not tourists.

  “Mr. Flint, Mr. Martirossian, may I introduce you to the Governor General of New Zealand and Mike Patotara, the Police Commissioner,” Amy said by way of introduction.

  Vladim spoke before Andy could say anything, “Does everyone get a police escort and VIP reception when they complete the Milford Track?” They all laughed and, with the ice broken, they shook hands.

  Andy spotted Dortman enter the terminus carrying two packs containing their dry clothes. Dortman picked them out from the crowd and headed towards them, giving Andy an accusatory look when he saw them surrounded by police and officials. Andy gave a subtle signal to keep his distance stopping Dortman in his tracks.

  Andy crossed his arms and rubbed them vigorously, “I’m sorry to be a pain, but we’re wet and cold. If you could just excuse us for five minutes while we go to the restrooms and change into dry clothes.” Andy took half a step backwards and looked down to his muddy boots and back up. The Governor General and Police Commissioner also looked him up and down.