by Peter Kozmar
Andy felt like a child being talked at by a parent and being told he should have known better than to ask silly questions. He knew Vladim well enough not to argue with him. “Okay,” Andy replied, a bit reluctantly as he hit the button for their floor.
To Andy’s relief there were no visitors waiting for him in his room. He removed his aging laptop from its case and placed it on the writing desk. He took the memory stick out of his wallet and paused. He was about to learn what was so important to have got his son killed, he took a deep breath and inserted the memory stick.
A few moments later, a directory marked ‘Video’ appeared on the screen. He clicked on the only file in the directory and watched as the President of the United States of America appeared from a bedroom, dressed in a white bathrobe.
CHAPTER 24
Two tall brunettes entered the President’s hotel suite.
“We are here to show you good time,” one of the women said in a thick Russian accent.
“You know I don’t pay for this kind of thing,” the President replied.
“It okay, account already taken care of, you no pay,” said the other brunette. Her voice, like the first carried a heavily accent, low and melodic.
Andy looked for the Secret Service detail – there weren’t any – the President looked younger too. Andy made a note of the date stamp on the bottom right of the screen. Maybe this was before you ran for office.
The scene continued to unfold as the two women removed their clothes and then stripped and aroused the President before they led him to the bedroom. Andy wasn’t too impressed by the quality of this porn video … he’d seen better. The two women were noisy while the man pleasured himself in them. They wailed, moaned loudly and proclaimed he was ‘the best’!
Andy had seen better acting on daytime soaps, but the President appeared highly satisfied with their performances. To show his appreciation he tipped them each one hundred dollars as they left
***
He turned around to observe Dortman. He showed no interest in either Andy or what he was watching as he continued to read a daily newspaper. From where he was seated, Dortman wouldn’t have seen the screen, but couldn’t have avoided hearing the action. Dortman wouldn’t have needed to have watched to have figured out what had transpired on the video. Andy thought about sharing the video with Dortman when his cell phone rang. He glanced at the screen.
“Hi Helen. How are things?” Andy answered.
“Thanks for having Amy Carter send through Jones’s fingerprints,” Hobbs replied.
“Amy didn’t make any progress with them, did you?”
“Facial recognition gave me a hit, but without another form of unique data, I couldn’t be one hundred percent.”
“What have you got?” Andy felt excited at the thought of making a significant breakthrough.
“Jones’s fingerprints scored a hit with Homeland Security. They have a record of him entering the States six months ago. He was on a flight from London Gatwick straight to Florida. Stayed for two weeks and returned to London.”
“I take it he wasn’t Craig Jones when he went to Florida?”
“No. He was travelling as Matt Temple.”
“So, who’s Matt Temple? Another ghost identity?”
“No. Matt Temple travelled with his wife and two sons. They went to Disney World.”
“Okay. I’m with Tomas Dortman. I’m going to put you on speaker phone. Now tell me, who is Matt Temple?” Andy hit the speaker button on his cell phone allowing Hobbs’s voice to fill the room.
“Temple served with distinction with the British SAS and held the rank of Staff Sergeant. Once I’d pulled his records it didn’t take long before I received a call from London. I must have tripped an alert. Their Foreign Office wanted to know why I had an interested in Temple. I stretched the truth and said I was going over old data on who travelled from London to Florida six months ago as part of another investigation and his name came up. I said an experienced SAS operator in Florida was always worth a further look.”
“What did London say to that?”
“They confirmed that Temple had been in Florida on vacation with his family. They said he wasn’t with 22 SAS, he served with R Squadron. London said, and I quote, ‘R Squadron is for part-timers and those who aren’t up to scratch’. They were the exact words. I wrote them down.”
“Why would the British Government have a flag on some part-timer who wasn’t up to scratch. Something doesn’t add up.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Go on.”
“I did some digging on the identify of Craig Jones to find who had fabricated the identity. No one from the British Home Office can explain how he secured a fake passport and driver’s license nor can they explain why they were being used by a member of the SAS. I then found out Matt Temple had served with 22 SAS for twelve years in their counter terrorism team. He’d been transferred to R Squadron while undertaking a black bag operation.”
“Anything else I should be aware of?”
“No. Just be careful. The Brits have their fingerprints all over this and they have some well-trained operators on the ground.”
“I will. Thanks Helen. Bye,” Andy ended the call. We have the tape of the President of the United States, the CIA, the British Government, the SAS and The United Nations all mixed up in something. If it was just the tape, why are the Brits involved? He called Carter and asked if she’d join him for a late lunch. She accepted and they agreed to meet at the café on the ground floor of St Paul’s on Pipitea Street.
When Andy arrived with Dortman, Carter was waiting patiently by the glass doors. “Is Mr. Dortman joining us?” Carter asked.
“Yes, he’s making sure I don’t get lost,” Andy replied.
***
Sitting at a corner table, The Listener waited patiently for his order to arrive. His directional microphone pointed towards Andy and picked up each word with crystal clear clarity. It was too easy with the right equipment.
***
Carter led them to the food counter where Andy studied the wide selection of delicious meals and, after some indecisiveness, ordered a slice of lasagna followed by a piece of sticky toffee rice Krispy cake. Dortman asked for a chicken and avocado sandwich on five-grain bread, while Carter went for a slice of pizza and a blueberry muffin. They all ordered soft drinks.
“I’ll get these,” Andy called out and produced his credit card. Once he’d paid, the waitress handed him the number twenty-four which he carried with him to an unoccupied long bench table.
“Why the call? I heard from Keith saying you’d been seen near Sayers Hut. Is it something to do with that?”
“Something on those lines, I’ve learnt a few things, today. First, Craig Jones is really Matt Temple, a Brit.”
“The CIA came up with the goods then?”
“They did. Who’s the resident MI6 agent at the British High Commission?”
“Why do you ask? Is Matt Temple with MI6?”
“I see a number of links to the British and, maybe, the MI6 agent can shed some light on what’s going on.”
Carter paused for a moment before responding, “It’s Anthony Clement-Bridges, he works under the guise of trade attaché. He lives in the Wairarapa and takes the train into town.”
“Thanks. I’d like to ask him why ex-Staff Sergeant Matt Temple of the British SAS was running around the Tararuas killing people.” Carter’s eyes widened. “He was most likely the gunman who murdered everyone at the UN office.”
“You said he was an SAS Staff Sergeant?” The conversation paused while the waitress arrived with their meals. “Are you certain?”
“One hundred percent. I also recovered a digital video which I’d like to get analyzed, but I need to do it independently. I don’t suppose you know anyone who could help?”
“Why don’t you use the police digital forensic team? They’re pretty good.”
“Did you just say that I should go back and spend time wi
th my close friend, Inspector Copeland? The same Inspector who is mighty pissed off with me at the moment for apparently beating a charge of murder?” Andy said with mock surprise, then continued, “Probably not a good idea just yet, not until I have a few more pieces of the jigsaw in place.”
Carter rubbed the side of her head before speaking, “Okay, yeah, I do know someone. They work at Empty Glass Productions, they’re over in Miramar, close to the airport.”
“Are they any good?” Andy asked.
Carter laughed, “His team have won a fistful of Oscars and have several blockbusters to their name.”
Andy smiled at his own ignorance of the film scene, “Can you give me a name and phone number?”
Carter typed on her cell phone and seconds later, a business card flashed on Andy’s phone. As they finished their meals, Carter asked Andy what his plans were for the rest of the day.
“I want to look at the video in detail. I’ll visit Tom Evans’s house. I find it too much of a co-incidence that he died a week before the office was hit. What about you?”
“I’ve got friends who serve with the New Zealand SAS. They work closely with the British, so maybe they can find out about Matt Temple’s background. You can’t serve twelve years in that Regiment as the grey man.”
While they ate, the rest of their conversation was steered away from the current issue and they enjoyed talking about different aspects of New Zealand from a residents and tourists perspectives. Andy felt a little less tense as they finished their food. While he would have liked to have spent more time finding out about New Zealand, he knew any future visit would always be linked to Mark’s death.
As they got up to leave, Carter moved close to Andy and spoke quietly, so she wouldn’t be overheard. The Listener turned up his microphones sensitivity to catch every word.
“You should know the SAS don’t forget anyone who kills one of their own.”
CHAPTER 25
Andy walked with Dortman through the well maintained grounds of the New Zealand Parliament and right past the Beehive as they headed towards their hotel. “Do you think the British SAS will come after me?” Andy asked.
Dortman thought for a long moment before he replied, “They might. It depends on a number of factors. For example, was Matt Temple here on the official business of the British Government or acting as a gun for hire? How valuable to the United States Government are you? Are there any reasons why the British Government should reign in the SAS? What are their current operational commitments? I mean, do they have the time to come after you? How easy are you to find?”
“Oh,” Andy was looking for a clear answer, ideally one that said the SAS wouldn’t come after him. “What can I do to avoid being whacked?” Andy asked.
“Move regularly, to make planning an operation difficult. Don’t broadcast on social media where you are planning to go. Ditch your phone, get a new phone and number and while you are at it a new email account. Don’t call any of your friends or contacts from your new number, use someone else’s phone, ideally a random stranger each time. Just keep a low profile and don’t draw attention to yourself.”
“I’ll make a list of things to do.” Andy stopped and faced Dortman, “How long do you think I could stick around here before they turn up?”
Dortman looked into the distance while he thought about his answer, “I’d estimate about a week. They’d need local intelligence to confirm your location, provide details on your routine and identify the best time to kill you, with the fewest witnesses or collateral damage, and their getaway options. Three teams would arrive: one would place you under surveillance; the second would kill you; and, the third would be responsible for extracting the hit-team. When all of that is set-up, they’d kill you. A couple of weeks at most to get the job done.”
Andy nodded, it was useful to have Dortman around, his logic and common sense had their time and place. “Could I use your cell phone?” Andy asked. When Dortman gave him a quizzical look, he smiled, “I want to start lowering my profile by not using mine.”
Dortman handed over his phone. Andy used the electronic business card Carter had sent him, keyed in the number and waited for the call to be answered.
By the time they reached the hotel Andy had arranged to meet with Rick Sprag of Empty Glass Productions at their Miramar offices at five. Andy and Dortman went up to find Vladim in his room. They quickly brought him up to speed with what they had found out during their short time apart. Andy could see Vladim had been looking through a brochure about things to see and do in Wellington.
Vladim picked up the brochure and waved it at Andy. “I think I’ll take the ferry to Matiu/Somes Island, it’s a former quarantine station and gun-emplacement from the Second World War. It sits in the middle of the harbor and has lots of wildlife. So I’ll get a different view of the city and maybe I’ll see something a little unusual.”
“We have an appointment at Empty Glass Productions at five, but before that we plan to visit the home of Tom Evans.”
“He wasn’t killed at the office. Why go there?” Vladim asked looking puzzled.
“I don’t like co-incidences. I don’t believe his drowning could have been an accident. He was working on something with Fiona Armstrong. Something which bothered her enough to flag it with the Brits. Tom’s dead. So his house is worth a look and, if I can speak with his widow, I may learn something.”
With their catch up over, Andy and Dortman headed for the basement carpark while Vladim headed out of the main entrance to the East West Ferry terminus on the waterfront.
With his SATNAV set up, Dortman drove Andy to Tom’s home in Eastbourne. Andy enjoyed the journey out of the city along the main highway which followed the water. Seeing the harbor close up offered a different perspective to that he’d had from the air. He could see the clarity of the water and watch as it lapped against the breakwater along the side of the railway line and highway.
The drive to Eastbourne took just over half-an-hour and, for the last ten minutes, the road narrowed and wound its way around the numerous bays dotted along the coastline. Dortman parked the Range Rover and pointed up to Tom’s house.
The single story house was set up against the steep bush-clad hillside and looked as if it offered uninterrupted views over the harbor towards the city. Nice. They crossed the quiet main road and climbed the steep white concrete steps to reach the house. Andy knocked firmly on the solid wooden front door and looked away to take in the stunning views while he waited for someone to answer the door.
When Andy heard the door open he turned to see a slender woman in her early forties wearing denim jeans, white sneakers and a black long-sleeved top. Her long brown hair fell below her shoulders. “Mrs. Evans? I’m Andy Flint. I’m Mark Flint’s father. Mark used to work with your husband at the UN office. This is my friend, Tomas Dortman.”
Mrs. Evans looked sad and tired. Andy thought sleep had eluded her as she came to terms with the loss of her husband. Unlike when he’d met Jake Armstrong, this time he felt her grief as if she was a mirror of the grief he was going through.
“How is Mark? I heard he wasn’t in the office when they were murdered,” she replied, her English accent was easy to pick up.
Andy wasn’t expecting or ready for the question. It had only been a day since Mark’s untimely death, but for some reason he’d assumed that was long enough for everyone to find out. “Um … he’s dead.” Andy said, looking downward as waves of emotions crashed over him.
“Oh, no!” she said putting her hand to her mouth, her anguish, at the clumsiness of her question, palpable, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Could we come inside and talk with you please?” his trembling voice betraying his emotions.
“Yes, come in.” She opened the door wider and stepped inside to make room for them to enter, then closed the door behind them. They followed her into the lounge which had a large bay window with expansive views over the city and harbor.
“I’m Natasha,
but everyone calls me Tash. Take a seat,” she said, pointing to a large double sofa, “can I get you a drink, tea or coffee?”
“Yes please, black coffee for me,” Andy replied.
“Same for me please,” Dortman added.
Tash left the room and returned a few minutes later carrying a tray with their mugs of coffee, a cup of sugar and a plate of cookies. “I didn’t ask if you needed sugar, so I popped it on the tray just in case,” she said as she placed the tray on coffee table in front of them. Both men shook their heads as they reached for their mugs. Tash picked up a white coffee and sat down on a single chair facing them. “Can you tell me what happened to Mark?” she asked, looking directly at Andy.
Andy looked at the pattern on the mug while his mind searched for the words – any words – that wouldn’t make him crumble as he spoke. “I was with Mark when he was shot dead yesterday in the Tararuas,” his voice monotone and stripped of emotion.
Tash looked puzzled. He could feel the question before she asked it. “Did you catch the killer?”
“No. He’s dead,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Do you think he was the same man who gunned down everyone in the office?” Tash asked.
“I think so.” Andy was keen to move the conversation away from him, so he asked, “Can you tell me a bit about Tom? How he died and, if you knew, what he was working on?”
Tash glanced at a photograph of Tom resting on the sideboard. It was of Tom was abseiling down a cascading waterfall. The image had him looking up at the camera. He looked soaked to the skin, but the smile said it all: the guy had adventure written through to his core, loved life, every second of it.
“Tom had always been an active, outdoors man who did triathlons regularly, he even completed an Ironman on the South Island not so long ago. I know he liked Mark and they spent time together in the hills, it was as if they were kindred spirits, I didn’t do the endurance stuff so it was good he found someone to share those experiences. Even though Tom wasn’t in the office and died a week before the shooting, I believe Tom was murdered,” she paused, “but no one listened to me. The police said he’d had an accident. They’re wrong.”