***
“Hello,” said Dino Sutic curtly.
“The customs boys have impounded the latest ether consignment. They’ve been X-raying the drums and taking samples from each of them.”
There was a slight pause before Dino replied. “Thank you. There’ll be a bonus in your pay packet this week.”
Then the line went dead.
41. The Bubble Bursts.
As the south-westerly breeze freshened, the surface of the sea broke into troubled ranks of white horses. With the wind steadying on the port quarter, Ragusa gently heeled over. She was making a good eight knots and was two hours out of Dubrovnik, the Pearl of the Adriatic. Dubrovnik once owed its existence to maritime trade, being an independent, merchant republic for over 700 years. During the Middle Ages it was the only port in the eastern Adriatic that rivalled Venice. As one of the most important cultural centres in Croatia, Dubrovnik could boast to be at the very seat of the development of the Croatian language. Despite being severely damaged by an earthquake in 1667, Dubrovnik has retained its architectural splendour, marked by a blend of Gothic, Renaissance and Baroque churches, palaces and fountains.
Aleksander Kolarič had the sea in his blood, as had many of his male relatives before him. In fact, it was his uncle Štefan Mlakar that had trained, many years ago, a young midshipman called Goran Sumovich. Sailing had been an insatiable passion for Kolarič since his teenage years, when Štefan Mlakar taught him the rudiments of the sport in a 5.3 metre clinker built sailing skiff, called the Veronika May. Since money was no longer a problem Kolarič had tracked down, bought and restored and renamed the Veronika May and in his spare moments he too was teaching his own nephew how to sail.
Ragusa was an 11.0 metre Jeanneau Sun Odyssey. With a sail area of over 61 square metres and her rakish lines she was both fast and luxurious. She was the new love in Kolarič’s life. Long divorced, with his children grown up and with families of their own, Kolarič had little to tie him down. Most Friday afternoon’s Kolarič would fly to Dubrovnik from Zagreb and stay on the yacht. Friday and Saturday evenings he could always be found drinking at the Orsan Yacht Club, chatting up any unattached female, forever hopeful that for those nights on the yacht he would not be alone. At fifty-eight, balding and weighing 96 kilos, his luck with the ladies had been minimal. Now with money to splash about, his appeal to the female yachting fraternity had, not surprisingly, improved. Kolarič now felt quite proud of the number of notches he could carve on the bedpost in his master cabin aboard Ragusa. His current companion was an American widow on an extended holiday in Croatia. Her husband of 32 years, a Croatian National, had collapsed and died of a heart attack six months ago. Joan Anderson was a tall elegant woman in her fifties. Her figure was trim and neat, the result of serious training in the gym. Her dark hazel eyes entranced Kolarič from the moment he saw her, that and her ample cleavage. He hadn’t managed to get her into bed yet but there was plenty of time for that. He knew she was willing, for she had said as much. “It’s too close to my husband’s death,” she had told him. However, it didn’t stop him fantasising about a flesh-to-flesh encounter with her lithesome body.
“Joan darling, do you need any help with the dinner?”
“Straight and level would be good Aleks. Then set the tiller and come here, there’s something I’d like you to see.”
“Mmmm, mystery, I love a good mystery.”
Kolarič tied off the tiller and went below.
Joan lay on the main saloon sofa in a semi-transparent, cherry red negligee. She looked stunning.
“Joan, you look fantastic. But I thought you were preparing dinner.”
“Well, I thought you needed a little apéritif before the main course.”
Surprised, Aleks couldn’t believe his luck.
“That sounds very tempting, let me drop the anchor and I’ll be all yours.”
I took Aleks just ten minutes to auto-furl the jib and the mainsail and set the anchor.
“OK, my love, here I come,” he said, descending the short companionway into the main saloon.
Kolarič knelt beside her and kissed her gently on the lips. Only when she responded to his touch did he embrace her and kiss her more urgently. They toyed and petted with each other for nearly twenty minutes before Kolarič lay beside her. Joan’s heady perfume, Chloe by Karl Lagerfeld, he had bought her at Dubrovnik airport the day before was a favourite of his, and on Joan it smelled divine. He pressed his lips to her bosom, drowning in the rich scent of her warm body. Then he felt a sudden stinging pain on the back of his neck, like a bee sting, it was both unexpected and unusual. And as he looked up into the eyes of his lover, his vision was already starting to blur.
Kolarič awoke with a start as ice cold water was thrown in his face. His hands were awkwardly secured behind his back and his ankles were pinned together. When he opened his eyes, it took him several seconds before he could focus on the person standing before him.
“Where….is…. Joan?" he stammered.
“I’m here Aleks,” said a disconnected voice behind him. Ignoring the pain pounding between his eyes, he twisted around so that he had a clearer view of the female who answered him. To his astonishment, Joan was now fully dressed, in jeans and a tee shirt.
“What’s going on, Joan?”
“Listen to Commander Lyall, Aleks, he wants to ask you a few questions.”
“Who the fuck are you?” Aleks demanded, addressing the massive male form standing beside him.
Pat Lyall had been drafted into the CIA in Vietnam to undertake black ops behind enemy lines. He had been their number one interrogator, in one theatre of covert war or another, for most of his “peacetime” career. Standing 2.1 metres tall, he could easily be mistaken for a pro-footballer. Even at 56 he could still run a marathon in than three hours thirty. He was one of the agency’s hard men, the sort they deny any knowledge of. However, they were at the forefront of most of the covert ops the modern CIA were involved in.
Pat grabbed Kolarič’s face in one of his massive hands and squeezed tightly, forcing his lips and cheeks to form a grotesque shape, like those of a gargoyle projecting from the gutter of a Gothic cathedral.
“Listen, shithead,” he hissed at Kolarič, squeezing his face even harder. “I’ll ask the fucking questions, OK?”
Kolarič couldn’t answer, he just nodded dumbly. When Pat let him go, Kolarič immediately stated the obvious.
“Do you know who I am? Do you realise who you are dealing with?
Pat knew exactly who he was, and what he was.
“That’s two questions which deserve only one answer. I don’t give a fuck. But I’ll tell you one thing, you’ll pray that you’d never met me before the afternoon is over. Now let’s get you on this chair so I can reach you more easily. Pat lifted Kolarič off the sofa as if he were a rag doll and almost threw him onto one of the dining chairs close by. Unseen hands quickly secured him to the chair, whilst Pat retrieved a hammer and nails from the dining table. Then without warning someone behind him grabbed Alexs’ hair and pulled his head backwards. Using the hammer and four-inch nails it took Lyall just six hits to drive a nail through each of Kolarič’s feet and secure them to the deck. As Kolarič made to scream a wad of kitchen roll was rammed forcefully into his mouth. Once his head was released from behind, he slumped forward to look at his feet. Only small dribbles of blood could be seen leaking from beneath the large washers, which prevented the heads of the nails from pulling through his flesh. He was hopelessly pinned to the white oak parquet flooring. Only then, his eyes wide in terror, did Kolarič realise what was about to happen to him.
***
Although it was a moonless night, the area around the Viaduct Harbour on Auckland’s waterfront was lit by so many street lamps that it was like daylight. As the early hours of the morning ticked inexorably by, fewer and fewer people moved about. Four thirty in the morning was a quiet time, a resting time before the hustle and bustle of life on the waterfront started al
l over again. There was just a small window when the area became almost deserted, when the night’s restaurant staff had left and before the early morning arrival of trades-people delivering fresh produce to the restaurants.
As Ngaire walked the wide boulevards along the quayside, she heard the incessant ting…ting…ting… of the mainsail halyards of the yachts moored nearby, as they slapped against the tall alloy masts. At sea level the boats didn’t appear to be moving, yet the tops of the 20-30 metre masts rocked gently to and fro in synchrony with the ripples of the dark waters beneath. The early morning air was fresh and invigorating, the sky clear. Each of these tell-tale messages held the promise of fine weather, and high temperatures would soon follow the dawn. To all this Ngaire was oblivious, her mind fixed on one thing, Terra Brasil. The canvas bag that she carried, contained the instruments of her retribution on the regime that had so cruelly stolen her man and her woman. In the twisted and broken mind of Ngaire, Daniel Tua, her man, had been elevated to an almost saintly status. Forgotten were the beatings, the split lips, the lacerations that required stitches. Forgotten too were the lies and the excuses, the infidelity and the cruel sexual deviance. Janet Packwood too, her lover, had been venerated beyond reality. For them both Ngaire would wreak her revenge, determined to destroy the empire that had snatched away those she loved. Ngaire was mentally unbalanced, completely irrational, trapped in the cold and dark recesses of her fractured mind. She moved in small painful steps, her rounded shoulders leaning forward as if into an invisible gale, hobbling on a broken knee. Nervously looking all around and yet completely unseeing, she resembled a rodent, foraging in the midst of predators. This was a woman chasing her own doom.
The glass-fronted restaurant looked cold and abandoned, the white-clothed tables standing redundant without the restaurant’s lifeblood, the paying customers. But that was about to change, Ngaire had the power to cleanse this place, to purge the evil that surrounded it. Using a trick Daniel had told her about she placed the centre punch at the corner of the main window and hit it hard with the hammer from her bag. With one blow Ngaire transformed the silent morning into a cascade of shattering glass. Half the window had given way and now lay in a thousand pieces on the red and crimson carpet of the restaurant floor. Quickly lighting the fuse of her first Molotov cocktail, she hurled it with all her strength at the back wall. As it shattered, huge tongues of flame reached out to consume the surroundings.
“What the fuck are you doing, lady?” It was Levorko Sutic, who had been upstairs working on the books.
Ngaire saw the lone figure of the restaurant’s co-owner yet heard nothing. After lighting a second incendiary bottle, she threw it at his feet. Splashed with petrol and flame, Levorko was quickly engulfed. Having now found a direct target for her hatred, Ngaire threw a third bomb at the fiery figure, who was now screaming and twisting in agony. Wanting to get closer to him, she stepped through the shattered window. As Levorko hit the floor a fourth petrol bomb smashed beside his head, replenishing the burning fuel that had consumed his face. Bored now with the screams of her victim Ngaire turned and threw her last bomb at the small bar in the far corner of the room. Her job complete, she walked slowly to what remained of the front window. Now all she could hear was the roar of the inferno behind her. Just before she left, she glanced back over her shoulder at the still and silent form of Levorko Sutic, crackling and sizzling like a spit roast. Smiling at the demise of her unidentified nemesis she thought of poor Janet ablaze in the meth lab. Then, with the fire raging behind her, she laughed all the way back to her stolen wheels, parked in Daldy Street.
***
5.40 am was not a good time for Dino to be awakened by the telephone at his Mount Maunganui address.
“Yes,” he said curtly as he put the telephone to his ear.
“Good morning Mr Sutic, Trevor Hartley, Group Four Security here, I’m sorry to disturb you at such an hour, but there has been a fire at your restaurant here at the Viaduct Harbour. I couldn’t get hold of Mr Levorko Sutic, so I wonder if you could come back to Auckland. Both the Fire Brigade and the Police will want to interview you. It looks like arson Mr Sutic, one of our officers heard the shattering of glass before the flames took hold.”
“My brother was working late at the restaurant, is he not there?”
‘No sir, we’ve not seen him. Excuse me a moment sir, one of my officers has just handed me a message from the fire chief.” There was a long silence before officer Hartley came back on the line. “Sorry to have kept you waiting sir, but I have some tragic news. A body has just been recovered from the fire.”
“Oh please, not Levorko?” cried Dino.
“It might not be him; it could be the arsonist. Can we expect you soon sir?”
“I’ll have to drive up, I’ll be a couple of hours.”
“That’s fine. Give me a call on this number when you arrive sir, I’ll take you over to the officers in charge. See you in a couple of hours then Mr Sutic?”
“Yes, a couple of hours.” Said Dino as he put the phone down.
“Who was that, Dino? What did they want at this time of the morning? said Frančiška Sutic, now beside him.
“The restaurant has been burned down. I’ll have to go.”
“Shall I come with you? And what about Levorko?”
“I’ll be OK. And, don’t worry about Levorko, he’s fine. You get back to sleep. Once I’ve got things sorted, I’ll give you a ring, then you and the kids should come up. I don’t want them fretting unnecessarily.”
“Yes, you’re probably right about that. Are you sure that you and Levorko can cope? We can catch a flight and be there as soon as.”
“No, no we’ll be fine. I’ll ring you; I promise.”
Dino quickly washed and dressed, then gulped down some strong black coffee. Just as he was about to leave, he retreated to his study and opened the safe. He took out his passport, some telephone sim cards, a set of credit cards issued by a number of offshore banks and two handfuls of American dollars. He scanned the remaining contents of the safe, wondering whether he should take his gun. Dismissing the idea, he left.
***
At the Te Atatu home of Andrew Kuri’s grandmother, Sonny Rewaka was pressing Andrew for answers,
“Andrew, for fuck’s sake get a grip, you knew Danny better than any of us, where could Ngaire be hiding?”
“I’ve no idea, really I haven’t. I don’t know her rellies at all. She’s always been a fucking mystery, and not just to me either, Danny could never figure her out.”
“Well, what about Danny, did he have any relatives that she could stay with?”
“There are bloody hordes of them. If you’ve got an hour or two, I’ll write you a list.”
“I didn’t know you could even write your own name,” joked Sonny.
Andrew smiled at Sonny. “I’ll have you know that I got School Certificate Art, I’m not your average halfwit.”
Andrew Kuri certainly wasn’t stupid, and Sonny appreciated that. Sonny gave Kuri a hug. He was desperate to find Ngaire before she did any more damage.
“The only person that comes to mind is a distant uncle that Danny talked about once. He’s a share milker near Mangatupoto, on the edge of the Pureora Forest. I don’t remember his name but I know the farm has a really imaginative name, not. It’s called Forest View.”
“Would you stake your life on it that that’s where she’ll be?”
“Bro,’ I owe you my life and I’d gladly give it if it meant that that evil bitch would suffer half of what she did to me. It’s just a guess, but if I was a betting man...”
“Which you have always bloody been, you lucky sod,” interrupted Sonny. Andrew Kuri was blessed with good fortune at cards and the National Lottery, both of which brought him into conflict with Danny Tua, who stole the $800 Andrew had won on the Lotto last year.
“Well, that’s where I’d look first.”
“OK that’s where we’ll go then. Thanks Andy. Here, take this and have a
couple of beers on us.” Sonny handed over ten $20 notes.
***
As the MV Olga Tovic slipped her moorings she was being watched by two separate sets of eyes. Those using night vision scopes belonged to the Green Team, six Customs officers led by Mikka Haurer. They had observed and noted every single movement of goods on and off the freighter since it had first berthed. Then, with the arrival of the harbour pilot, the ship had eventually set sail. As she steamed through the harbour entrance with the dark mass of Mount Maunganui off her starboard beam, she was pursued by the Port of Tauranga pilot launch. Aboard this, the Green Team was waiting. When the Olga Tovic slowed, to allow the pilot to disembark, it was the Green Team who first used the embarkation ladder. Seven customs officers stormed aboard and quickly took control of the vessel.
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