Jožef Sumovich never truly recovered from those two brutal days in 1942. In his later years he was confined to the family home in Dubrovnik that he shared with Irena, his wife of fifty years. Being crippled and bed-ridden, he perished when the Serbs shelled Dubrovnik in 1991. The stabbing pain that was Captain Sumovich’s grief was never far from the surface; it made him clutch his chest and brought tears to his eyes. Their house in the ancient city was completely destroyed and like the phantom pains of an amputation, there was no relief from it. Goran had by that fateful day in 1991 been living in Trieste with his family for just over fifteen years. He was the captain of a ship, a family man with two beautiful daughters, but an orphan of war. Outwardly Goran Sumovich was a peaceful, gentle grandfather of 71, but deep inside there was a boiling cauldron of hate, fuelled by the injustice his and many other Muslim families had endured, the world over.
Ten metres below the open bridge, Captain Sumovich watched one of the assassins move through the shadows to the rail below him. He saw the man look up at him as he had sensed the stare of another. Ignoring Sumovich the man turned to the shore before lighting a cigarette. Only when it was dark and Tio Reihana was at his post deep in the bowels of the ship did this man walk on deck to smoke. It was a concession that Captain Sumovich had allowed, as he knew how hot, stuffy and claustrophobic his after cabin was. Even so, the two assassins never appeared on deck together. They kept to themselves and spoke to no one. Except for the occasional times Sumovich saw one of them, as now, it was as if they were ghosts.
Suddenly illuminated by the light of an open door, Sumovich saw another figure move silently across the deck below. As the captain opened his mouth to warn the assassin below of the approach of another seaman, he quickly realised there was no need, the assassin had disappeared below deck as quietly as he had arrived. Curious as to the identity of the mysterious intruder, Sumovich watched the man approach one of the lifeboats that rested on its davits. He could not see what the man was doing deep in the shadows beside the hull of the lifeboat, but guessed who it was when he heard the clink of a glass bottle against the steel gunwales of the lifeboat. It was Reihana, sneaking some of the scotch that he had stolen and secretly stashed. Hardly an imaginative hiding place, but then Reihana was not one of the sharpest knives in the drawer. His identity was confirmed a few minutes later when he stepped into the pool of light that emerged as he opened one of the hatchways to return to the engine room.
Stepping back onto the bridge, Sumovich rang through to his after cabin, using the bridge telephone just inside the door.
“Yes?” came the curt answer to the two short rings.
“Were you seen?” replied Sumovich, mimicking the assassin’s tone.
“Yes.”
“It was Reihana. He’s officially due on deck in twenty minutes for his mid-watch break. See to it.”
There was no reply to the captain’s command, just a clicking as the line went dead as the assassin replaced the phone on its cradle.
Sumovich had no wish to see the fate of Reihana. He slid the door to the bridge shut, in both frustration and anger that the unavoidable had occurred so close to the shore.
When Reihana reappeared on deck his executioner was already waiting for him in the shadows. As the troublesome Skorpion gang member reached for his illicit scotch, he was suddenly confronted by a powerfully built man, dressed completely in black.
"Who the fuck are you?" were Tio Reihana’s final words. When the 17cm blade sliced through the muscles between his ribs, piercing his lungs and heart, Reihana collapsed instantly. Devoid of emotion, the assassin watched the life fade from his victim’s eyes. To prevent any blood from staining the teak decking, the assassin didn't remove the knife until he was sure his victim’s heart had stopped. Having deftly bound Reihana's ankles to a spare lifeboat anchor the killer watched the lifeless body tumble over the side before it splashed through the wake that raced alongside the ship. The whole action had lasted only a minute and a half.
4.
‘The Finches’
Although the ether fumes were kept to a minimum by using kerosene filters, the farmhouse at The Finches always smelled like a hospital. With a boiling point of only 35 degrees Celsius, ether is a dangerously volatile solvent, and because the fumes are heavier than air, many a meth-lab has been destroyed in a violent explosion.
Petera Mokaraka smoked cheap Holiday Extra Mild cigarettes incessantly and Tony Graham-Collins had repeatedly told him that smoking was bad for his health. Petera didn’t care, and his reply was always the same,
“So’s breathing in this shit all day. If the fags don’t give me cancer, then the fucking ether will, so who gives a shit, I’m fucked whichever way you look at it.”
Because of the ever-present danger of fire, Petera had to go outside to smoke and if there was a batch brewing, which there was most mornings, then he could only go out when Tony could baby sit the distillation gear. No matter what the weather, the smell of the ether could never be detected outside the farmhouse. The reason for this was simplicity itself – the constant pungency of pig shit. The façade that kept the meth-lab hidden was a productive and very smelly pig farm. Petera also had to look after the farm’s 200 pigs, kept in two large deep litter sheds. One of his first tasks every morning was to collect the pig shit. Using a miniature tractor that could move easily within the confines of the sheds, Petera scraped the excrement into a large, concrete-lined pit that was half in and half out of each shed. An Archimedes screw at the bottom of each pit moved the foul-smelling brew into a moderately sized organic digester, where it was consumed by bacteria and reduced to a form of compost. However, a portion of the raw manure was always left out in the sun while a moderate amount was also sprayed onto the three paddocks that surrounded the farm.
A large pile of cigarette butts beside the largest of the pig sheds marked the spot where Petera got his nicotine fix twenty to thirty times a day. It was also a strategic viewing spot from where he could survey the approaches to the farm. From this vantage point he could easily spot any observers or stationary vehicles that might herald the discovery of the meth lab by the law, the other ‘pigs’, as Petera would often say. There were never any legitimate visitors to ‘The Finches,’ all farm business was by appointment only and conducted well away from the lab, in a small Lockwood unit, the ‘Finches Bungalow’, close to the Harrison Road end of the driveway. That was where Petera lived, a simple home that substituted as a farm office and a work’s changing area. Whenever Tony arrived at the ‘Finches Bungalow,’ he would change into his work clothes, then, before he left for home he would shower and change back into the clothes he had left home in. So, when Tony picked up Carol from school or arrived home after late appointments, as he called his overtime at the farm, he never smelled of ether or pig manure.
Petera Mokaraka was a gentle giant, a thoughtful, patient man, and one who in different circumstances would have made an excellent father. In the corner of one of the larger paddocks he kept four special pigs that he treated as pets. They all had names, and they all answered to them. His favourite was a large Gloucestershire Old Spot sow called Alice. Unlike the modern examples of this breed that are predominantly white in colour, Alice had fourteen very large black spots on her body. Whenever she saw Petera she would gallop across the paddock to greet him. When he was on her side of the fence she would lean against him, insisting on having the soft area behind her heavy drooped ears scratched. At one time, Gloucestershire Old Spots were called Orchard Pigs, because they were often fed on windfall apples from farm orchards. Alice was no exception she loved apples and would chase a very fleet-footed Petera across the paddock in pursuit of the apple she knew he was hiding in his pocket. Alice was also a jealous girlfriend and would bite the other three pigs to gain Petera’s sole attention. Alice was a very amiable well-behaved pig and would happily follow Petera around whenever he was walking around the property boundaries. Although such a walk happened at different times, it was always every
day to check the security of the farm.
Petera kept sheep in the other paddocks to control the grass. Because of the efficiency of the sheep and the quality of the soil, the grazed paddocks were as well-groomed as the fairways of any golf course. When Petera practised his golf shots in the sheep paddocks Alice would push against the fence surrounding her enclosure, audibly protesting that she should be allowed to help him. On only one occasion did Petera Mokaraka allow Alice near his golf balls and on that afternoon, Alice ate sixteen of them. Frightened that Alice’s gut would become blocked by so many indigestible foreign objects Petera followed her around for the best part of 36 hours, checking each of her bowel movements for the offending objects. He got the first dozen back very quickly, though the partly-digested balls were of no further use for golf. The remainder took a little longer and when they at last appeared they were hardly recognisable as golf balls. This was a worrying time for Petera, with the meth lab being so close he could not call a vet to attend his pet pig. He would have to shoot her if her gut became blocked, a thought that tortured the mind of her guardian, the man mountain, who cried when he thought that Alice might die.
“Petera,” Tony’s call caught his attention immediately. “I’ve just had a call from my wife there’s a problem at home. I know it’s your golf afternoon but would you mind if I dash off? Nadine say’s its real urgent. I hope you don’t mind”
“Not a problem boss, I know you wouldn’t ask unless it was urgent. You get along I’ll mind the store.”
Petera was a generous soul and the fact that he was meeting some of his mates that afternoon to ‘slaughter the golf course’, as he would say, didn’t matter. He knew Tony’s problem was genuinely serious, because he could trust him. The burn scars on his arms were testament to the loyalty the two methamphetamine cooks shared. Tony had saved Petera from certain death when one morning his still had sprung a leak. Tony’s quick thinking, and a trusty fire extinguisher, had prevented a serious conflagration. Tony had put out the flames on Petera’s arms first, before attacking the seat of the flames. Tony had also received burns to his own hands, though not as severe as those Petera had suffered. Once the fire was out, Tony had half dragged and half carried his friend to the water trough in the yard.
Crying in agony, Petera’s arms were a mess, but once Tony had forced them into the cold water the searing pain soon started to subside. His road to recovery had been long and painful. Though he hadn’t needed to endure skin grafts, it took more than fifty visits to the hand clinic at Middlemore Hospital before Petera was discharged. Then he had had to wear pressure bandages on his hands and forearms for a further six months. But in the end the bandages and the painful physiotherapy had been worth it. He now had the full use of his hands again, though his grip of a golf club was still a little weak.
***
When Tony walked into the kitchen of his Howick home, Nadine was sitting at the dining table, her head in her hands, crying. She was distraught. When Tony embraced her, she latched onto him like someone drowning. It was a full ten minutes before Tony dared to ask her what had happened.
“Carol’s been caught smoking dope at school.” She sobbed. “She’s been suspended pending the outcome of a meeting with the Board of Governors next week. Tony, she could be expelled, her future could be ruined. What are we going to do?”
Tony took the news as if someone of Petera’s size had just punched him in the stomach. He slumped back on his heels, almost pulling Nadine on top of him.
“Where is she?” was all he could say.
“Upstairs in her room. She knows how serious this is and she’s gutted. I don’t know what to say to her, I’m stunned by it all.”
Tony got to his feet. His knees were like jelly and he had to support himself by hanging onto the table. When he looked down at Nadine, she couldn’t meet his gaze. It was as if she had taken on the blame for her daughter’s offence. Squeezing his wife’s shoulder to comfort her, he opened his mouth to speak. But no sound emerged. He knew what he wanted to say, but couldn’t find the words. He was angry, so angry that he wanted to beat some sense into his renegade daughter. But he knew he wouldn’t, he couldn’t. Not really knowing what he would say to Carol, he turned towards the front hallway and made his way unsteadily to the stairs. With each step upwards, closer to his daughter’s bedroom, he was more and more unsure of how he was going to deal with this nightmare. When he opened the door, he saw Carol lying on the bed, sobbing, her whole body convulsing uncontrollably. Seeing his eldest daughter in such agony melted Tony’s heart. The anger he had previously felt, evaporated. Sitting on the bed next to her he put his arm around her. And as his head sank to her shoulder he also began to cry. The grief that each of them felt became the bridge between them. Carol turned to face her father, at first a little unsure of what to expect. Then, as their eyes met, they flung their arms around each other.
“Oh Dad, I’m so sorry.” She sobbed. “I’m so, so sorry I’ve let you and Mum down so badly.”
“Don’t worry babe, we’ll work it out. We can get through this together. Let’s just wait until the Board of Governors’ meeting. Mum and I will be with you, we’ll get you through this.”
Carol stared at her father, red eyed, choking back the tears.
“It was so stupid of me. I just went with the boys for a lark, a bet. I had just one puff and nearly choked. I’ve never smoked anything before; I didn’t expect it to burn me like that. I thought I was going to die. The boys all thought it was so funny. I was coughing so bad Mr Revell heard me. When he came round the corner and caught the boys smoking and passing the joint round, it was game over for all of us.” She looked imploringly at her father. “That’s the end of university, isn’t it?”
“Look love we don’t know what’s going to happen yet, do we? Let’s just deal with tomorrow. I’ll telephone the principal and let’s see what he has to say. You’ve been a good student up till now, so I’m sure they’ll be lenient. We’ll get through this. Get yourself washed then come down stairs for dinner.”
“No! I can’t face Mum and Naomi. I’ll stay here.”
Hugging his daughter Tony replied “You’ve got to face them sometime. We’re a family, we can get through this. You staying here crying isn’t going to do any of us any good. Please come down.”
When Tony turned for the door, Carol was hugging a pillow, rocking backwards and forwards. She was now an awful grey colour. He was just about to speak when Carol rushed past him on the way to the toilet. When he followed, ten paces behind, her she was already kneeling over the toilet, retching. All he could do was kneel beside her and rub her back.
Nadine heard the noise her eldest daughter was making and guessed what was happening. By the time she reached the bathroom, Carol had vented all the food she had in her stomach and was now retching bile. Nadine grabbed a face flannel and ran cold water through it. As she placed the cooling flannel on the back of her daughter’s neck, Carol turned to look at her. At that moment love was exchanged without words. The three of them knelt, cried, and tried to comfort one another. Soon trust, hope and love filled their hearts, strengthening their resolve to fight this together. The spell was broken when Naomi shouted up the stairs.
“Mum, what’s for dinner, I’m starving? Mum?”
As the tension evaporated, all three started to smile. Hugs and kisses were exchanged before they all left the bathroom and descended the stairs together.
“What the hell’s the joke? It must have been good for all you lot to be smiling like that. What’s for dinner then?” Without knowing it Naomi had saved the day.
***
Since attending the Basic Intelligence Technical Skills (BITS) course at the Customs Training Centre close to Auckland International Airport, Alex MacLean had been processing intelligence reports for nearly two months. During this course Alex had learned some of the skills required to be an intelligence analyst, skills that would allow him to evaluate disparate, unrelated information and draw conclusions tha
t might forewarn frontline customs officers of illicit activities and identifiable threats to the New Zealand border. Irrespective of the country, no customs service can search every person, craft or goods shipment that crosses the border. The function of the customs intelligence branch is to assess identifiable risks and direct the finite resources of the service towards the areas of greatest risk. The principal tool in this process is the Customs Database. Using this database, an intelligence analyst can gather information about people, houses, and vehicles. Almost everything the general population does in the modern world leaves a paper trail that can be followed.
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