Crystal Ice

by Warren Miner-Williams

  ***

  “Isn’t it about time I saw your other girlfriend?”

  Rewa was talking about the other love in Petera’s life, Alice, the Gloucester Old Spot sow that he could never stop talking about. It took Petera a second or two to realise that she wasn’t accusing him of having a bit on the side.

  “Oh Alice, she’s just a pig.” Said Petera untying the rope attached to the stern of Gladys, Hohepa’s boat. Petera always chuckled when Hohepa ever talked about his boat, he just couldn’t take the name he had chosen for it seriously. When Hohepa’s mum died he sold her house and bought the boat with some of the equity. He had named it Gladys after his mum. It was a Rayglass Legend 730 with a two hundred and fifty horsepower sterndrive unit, a serious boat with plenty of grunt. Petera thought Gladys was a bit tame for such a craft.

  “She’s not just a pig darling, she’s your second lover, my competition. You speak of her as if she were human you know. So, she isn’t just a pig.”

  Rewa’s son, Robbie, spoke up. “Hey Uncle Petera I want to see her as well. If she’s half as clever as you say she is, then she ought to be at school like me.”

  Petera knew that he would eventually have to face this awkward moment, just as he had done when he invited Rewa to his bungalow at The Finches. Then he had gambled, that because it was during the evening when Rewa came, she wouldn’t want a tour of the farm in the dark. Showing Rewa and Robbie Alice though was very different, it would mean outsiders being close to the meth lab, which was not only unwise, it was forbidden. He had no idea how he was going to get out of this?

  “Sunday if you like. Come round for lunch and I’ll show you then.” That was what came out of his mouth, but ‘Oh fuck!’ was going through his brain. But the weekend was three days away, so perhaps he could think of something by then.

  Gladys moved slowly down the two ranks of craft in Pine Harbour before turning to port and entering the channel. The exit from Pine Harbour is a little tricky and involves negotiating a muddy channel almost three kilometres long to the north-west towards Bucklands Beach. As the boat pootled along at only five knots, Robbie became a little impatient.

  “Can’t this thing go any faster, Uncle Petera?”

  Robbie was a great kid, tall for his age with jet black hair and bright hazel eyes. He was already 1.60 metres tall, at the age of just thirteen. He obviously got his looks from his father, Carl.

  “That’s the speed limit in the channel, Robbie. If we went any faster it’d stir up the bottom of the channel and then they would have to dredge it out more often. We’ll soon be making up for our slow start.”

  The moment they left the last of the channel markers behind, Petera opened the throttle as far as it would go. Skipping over the water at nearly thirty knots on the plane, Petera eased the throttles back a little.

  “Don’t slow down.” Cried Robbie.

  “Come over here Robbie, you can take the wheel.”

  “Wow, really?”

  As Robbie clamped his hands on the wheel Petera showed him the rudiments of boat handling.

  “Now, don’t hang on to the wheel so fiercely, you need to feel what the boat is doing.” Robbie relaxed a little. “There you go. Now head towards the north end of Waiheke and we’ll find a place to stop and catch us some fish. OK?”

  “Yes Capt’n,” said Robbie, grinning with delight.

  Just fifteen minutes after they had passed the final channel marker, they anchored off Hitapa Bay on the Southern shore of Waiheke Island. And while Rewa got the lunch organised, Petera showed Robbie how to bait a hook and cast the line over the side for some serious fishing.

  Rewa looked approvingly at both her men “It’s good that you’ve made time for Robbie, you two make a great team. And he’ll be in seventh heaven if he catches a fish.”

  “He’ll catch a fish. No one ever leaves this boat fishless.”

  It was a glorious day, with the sun shining, the sky bright blue, with a warm gentle breeze from the West. As the boat gracefully swayed at anchor, only the sound of water lapping against the hull could be heard. It was a world away from drug making. As the sun warmed Petera’s face he wondered what he could say to Rewa about his other life? In reality, it was a secret he couldn’t share. Remembering what Rewa had already said about drugs and drug makers, convinced him that telling her what he really did at The Finches would end their relationship for sure. He was terrified by the inevitability of Rewa discovering the truth, the consequences were too awful to contemplate. He would have to ask Sonny if he could quit The Finches, but in reality, he knew that was impossible.

  Petera thought perhaps he could move his pigs to a paddock at the end of The Finches driveway, and move the sheep to another one, closer to the main house. Alice and her friends would love that, they would be excavating the turf as soon as he let them loose. But Alice might then be too preoccupied to perform her tricks.

  “Thanks, Petera, this is real good, Carl didn’t get the chance to take his own boy fishing,” said Rewa, as she hugged him lovingly.

  “Ah, forget it. Thank Hohepa, it’s his boat. Now, where’s that chicken? I’m starving.”

  “Uncle Petera, I think I’ve got one already. Quick come and help, what do I do now, quick.”

  Petera showed Robbie how to play the fish and bring it up slowly. When the Snapper, a good three kilos, flopped on the surface Robbie was ecstatic.

  “Wow mum, come and see my fish! It’s a monster!”

  But when Petera got it aboard and unhooked it, Robbie said: “Let it go Uncle Petera, I don’t want to kill it. Not my first fish anyway.”

  “You’re sure? It’s certainly big enough to eat.”

  “No, let it go.”

  Once the line was baited again, Robbie lowered it back to the sea bottom and waited for his next bite. Petera sat down and picked up his chicken again and smiled at Rewa.

  “Robbie was in a dilemma this morning, he wanted to come fishing but he didn’t want to kill any of the fish. He doesn’t eat fish, so he said he shouldn’t kill any just for sport.”

  “I respect that, taking a life should never be easy, even if it’s just a fish.”

  Sunday, I hope I still have a life after this Sunday he thought.

  15. The Ceremony

  Robin Yeager was already 10 minutes late for his meeting with Jordan King, the American Ambassador for Croatia, when his phone rang. It was probably the call he was waiting for, so he picked it up. Robin Yeager was the security advisor to the ambassador, and organising the memorial ceremony for the victims of the recent bombing was turning out to be a nightmare. The ceremony was just two days away and Robin had had no luck persuading the Zagreb police to allow American military personnel to take up positions around the monument site in the park just off Ulica Thomasa Jeffersona, (Thomas Jefferson Street). Robin was doubtful that he could keep the American Ambassador Jordan King safe either. If he had the choice he would cancel the ceremony, but that was not an option. He had wanted to put snipers on the embassy roof and on some of the buildings close to the park, but that had been denied. He wanted to put armed soldiers around the park, but that had also been denied. He wanted to close off Ulica Thomasa Jeffersona but that too had been denied.

  “Alex, good morning. How are you?” Aleksander Kolarič was the chief of police for the metropolitan area of Zagreb. Robin Yeager had been in constant contact with Alex for the best part of a fortnight, trying to gain some concessions from the Zagreb authorities, with limited success, to make the memorial ceremony safer for the ambassador.

  “Good morning Robin, I’m fine. Look, I’ve just left the mayor’s office and I think we’ve made a breakthrough. The mayor is going to allow your military personnel to accompany our snipers and undercover officers. It’s the best I can do in the circumstances.”

  Aleksander paused for a second, before he continued, his voice a little softer.

  “There are a few powerful people who are trying to oppose any involvement by your security personnel. It�
�s seen by some that we are incapable of providing adequate security. It’s a principle thing, not a conspiracy, I hope you can see that.”

  “I can, but I’m really troubled by this Alex. Charles Powell gave his life to warn us that something was going to happen on Wednesday, and I’m very uneasy about the security arrangements. I’m really worried that we’ve missed something, so I’m going to recommend that the ceremony be cancelled, I’m sorry Alex.”

  “Look I understand, but I don’t think that will be possible. The government officials are determined that the ceremony will take place and that we are not seen to be intimidated by the threats of a few fanatical thugs. I know you’re seeing the ambassador this morning, so give me a call after the meeting and let me know what’s been decided.”

  “I will. Any news about finding the killers of Charles Powell?”

  “No, I’m afraid not, but believe me when I say we are leaving no stone unturned to find out who was responsible.”

  “OK Alex. I should have been in the meeting fifteen minutes ago, so after getting my arse kicked for being late, I’ll give the ambassador an outline of your concessions. Then I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Thanks for your efforts, speak to you later.

  “OK Robin, best of luck.”

  As soon as Robin Yeager put the phone down, he strode from his office to the conference room, where the meeting with the ambassador was scheduled to take place. When he entered the room, he was met by complete silence. Everyone had been waiting for him and they were not best pleased by his late arrival.

  “Grab a coffee Robin,” said the Ambassador, coolly, “and then we can start.”

  Robin Yeager needed more than a coffee, he needed a shot or two of bourbon and two paracetamol. As he sat down, all eyes were on him. Along with the ambassador there was Bill Yates, the military attaché, and his deputy Michael Sullivan. There were the spooks from the CIA, Andrea Price and her deputy Zac Young. There was Frank Stewart, his own deputy, as well as a variety of other folk that included secretaries and an administrative officer.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Robin declared as he sat down, “I’ve been waiting for a call from Aleksander Kolarič the chief of police. He called just as I was about to leave the office. He had just been in a meeting with the Zagreb authorities and phoned to let me know the outcome of that emergency meeting. Alex says that the best we can get is to have some of our military guys accompany their key security personnel. By that he means the snipers and the undercover guys that will be stationed around the perimeter. However, we can have our own security guys around you Ambassador, and close to the memorial site itself. He added that was the best deal and they would not allow anything more than that because of ‘saving face.’ He told me they don’t want to be seen as being any less competent than we are, or to be intimidated by the threats of a “few fanatical thugs.” By that he means terrorists. I must add, Ambassador, that I’m very uneasy about this and I have not changed my recommendation to cancel the ceremony.”

  “Thank you for that Robin, but there is no way that Washington and the President will allow the cancellation of this ceremony, for of the same reasons the chief of police has given you,” replied Jordan King. “We are going to be in the international spotlight at this ceremony and we cannot give these terrorists any indication that we are weak on anything to do with security. There isn’t a chance in hell that it will be cancelled.”

  Jordan King was a tall, elegant woman with short dark hair and flawless complexion that bellied her sixty-two-year age. She had been the first black female ambassador to any European country let alone Croatia. She had made the diplomatic service her whole life and although she had been married the pressures of her service had ended that almost ten years ago. Her daughter Alicia, who was also in the diplomatic service, was now facing the same dilemma. Marry and have children, or sacrifice all that and seek promotion. Alicia had seen what had happened to their family, and her mother believed that she would choose to marry and put her career on hold. Jordan had married within the service and had to make many sacrifices herself, but once Alicia had gone to college, she had restarted her career and forfeited her marriage. Jordan King still looked ten years younger than her chronological age and many had said that if she gave up her diplomatic career she could easily start afresh as an actress. Her looks and her affable personality allowed her to befriend most of the foreign diplomats she met, and those she had met in Croatia were no different.

  “Ambassador, Powell gave his life to warn us that we should expect an attack at the memorial ceremony, and if he was right then I’m not sure that we can keep you safe.”

  “Thank you for your candour Robin but as I say, we have no choice. I trust that you will do the best you can. Have you and the authorities made any progress finding Charles’ killers?”

  “No Ambassador, we haven’t.”

  The Ambassador frowned.

  “His wife and daughters arrive today; is there any news I can give them?”

  “No, I’m sorry Ambassador, but there’s nothing to report.”

  “Andrea, what’s the best you can do?”

  Andrea Price was a short dour lady, who always dressed in grey flannel, and tied her black hair in a tight plait. She was dedicated to her work and except for formal occasions was rarely seen socially.

  “We believe that the group who killed Charles Powell call themselves the “People of the Faith,” Ambassador.” She said in her distinctive gravelly voice. “They are a bunch of thugs who believe that we should have done more to prevent the ‘ethnic cleansing’ that occurred in the nineties. It is very difficult to identify anyone belonging to the group, where they are based or how they are funded. It’s proved to be impossible to penetrate the group, they’re like spectres of the night. We have been trying, unsuccessfully so far, to get a handle on them since the cessation of hostilities between the Balkan States. I’m sorry Ambassador I can tell you nothing else.”

  “Bill,” asked Jordan King, “have you anything to add?”

  Bill Yates, a Marine lieutenant colonel, had served his country, on active duty, in most conflicts since the Vietnam War. He commanded respect and suffered fools badly.

  “I feel confident that we can protect you Ambassador. You will be surrounded by my personnel and there will be many others observing the Croats attending the ceremony. With the assistance of the Slavic military, I think the screen we will have around you will be impenetrable. I see no cause for concern.”

  “I’m glad that you’re so confident. So where will you be standing?”

  “Right next to you, ma’am.”

  “I think that you’re over-simplifying matters, Bill,” said Robin, “because I certainly don’t share your confidence that the ceremony will be secure. One thing in our favour though is that the “Croats attending the ceremony” will be handpicked, and the likelihood that one of them is an assassin is remote.”

  Bill Yates stared at Robin Yeager, hardly camouflaging his contempt for the security chief. He was about to say something in reply when Jordan King spoke again.

  “Gentlemen please, let’s not fight about this. We have our hands full with the perceived threat, so any acrimony between us is counterproductive. Let’s press on with other events that will happen later in the day.”

  ***

  Three hours later, on the other side of the city, Matej Korošec was conducting his own meeting. There were just three people in attendance: Korošec, his deputy, Tomaž Rozman, and the Chief of Police, Aleksander Kolarič.

  “Aleksander, is everything ready for the ceremony?”

  “Yes Matej, I think that everything should go smoothly. Robin Yeager confirmed this morning what we knew already. He is still steamed about the killing of Powell, but they have no idea of what’s coming next.”

  “That is very good. Who have you chosen to do the work?”

  “A guy called Anton Logar, who’s a member of the HVO.” Kolarič was speaking of the Bosnian Croat Nationalist Armed Group,
often referred to as the HVO. “Logar and his cronies demand an independent state for the Bosnian Croats, and they’re known to hate the Americans.”

  “I made sure that he has no alibi,” said Tomaž, “by attaching him to Ivana on the night we sorted Powell. She was with him all night in a rented apartment in Buzin. When he’s interrogated the mysterious Ivana will have disappeared. There is no link to us at all and he should make a very good scapegoat for our actions. He was completely drunk for most of the night and some of Powell’s blood has miraculously found its way onto his shoes and the cuff of his jacket. The trail that will lead the police to him has been well disguised, I don’t think there will be any problems there.”

  “Excellent,” replied Matej, “then everything is ready for Wednesday.”