The Mark of Halam (14 page)

Cunningham had been sitting in Moana’s office waiting for news. She appeared in the doorway, smiling.

“Jeff Bradley’s okay,” she said.

“Thank God.”

Moana opened the bottom drawer of her filing cabinet and pulled out a bottle of scotch. She poured two shots into the paper cups.

“To Jeff,” Cunningham said. They touched cups and sipped the whisky. “Jesus, what a relief.”

“Our Jeff Bradley is certainly an unusual man,” Moana said.

Cunningham nodded.

“What now?” she asked.

“Go home. Get some sleep. We’re heading north in the morning. We need to talk to the prisoner. He knows where Zahar Akbar is and I intend getting something out of the little shit.”

“That’s out of my jurisdiction, Inspector, it belongs to Whangarei
police.”

Brian nodded. “Then come as my guest. How does that sound? It’s the weekend. Think of it as an outing.”

25.

B
y the time Cunningham and Moana arrived in Waipu, the village was bustling with activity.

First light brought the police helicopter into action. Roadblocks were in place from Whangarei through to the Auckland side of the Brynderwyns and the back roads through to Mangawhai Heads and Dargaville. Dog teams had joined in the search. All
police officers in the region had been called back from leave. A Special
Air Service unit was on its way from their base in Papakura.

But the three terrorists remained elusive.

Cunningham pulled up beside a policeman controlling traffic and asked for directions to the police station. The officer, irritated and under pressure, advised Brian in a not-so-conciliatory tone that he was holding up traffic and that he needed to move on. Cunningham flashed his badge. He brushed aside the mumbled apology and drove on, following the given directions.

“Jesus, it looks a bloody carnival.”

“There’s the station house up ahead on the right,” Moana said.

Cunningham turned into the driveway but was again blocked.

He wound down his window.

The policeman stooped. “Sorry, sir, you cannot come in here.”

Cunningham again showed his credentials. The officer nodded and waved him through, pointing to a section of freshly mown lawn now turned into a temporary car park.

“Let’s go find out who’s in charge.”

Moana followed Cunningham through the small crowd milling about outside and into the station house.

“Who’s running this show?” he asked a constable just inside the door.

“Superintendent Carlyle.”

“Jimmy Carlyle?”

“That’s him. He’s through there in the lounge,” the constable said, pointing to a door off the corridor. Cunningham knew Carlyle. They met at conferences and spoke often on the phone. Carlyle was
standing in a corner of the room speaking into his mobile. When he saw Cunningham he waved him over. He quickly finished his conversation and put the phone in his jacket pocket.

“Brian Cunningham.” He smiled, holding out his hand. “Good to see you again.”

The two men shook hands.

“You look like shit, Jimmy. I suppose you’ve been up all night?”

“You’ve got it in one. I understand you Aucklanders are to blame for this fiasco?”

“I’m afraid so,” Cunningham replied. “What’s the latest?”

“Not much more to add to what you probably already know. We have one in hospital. There are three on the run but as yet no sign of them. They have either turned into trees or gone to ground. The army is on its way. The dogs haven’t found a trail and the only sighting from the police chopper so far is green fields and cows. But we have the region surrounded and closed off. We’ll get them.”

Cunningham nodded. He was not about to tell Carlyle the terrorists had probably flown the coop. For most of their lives they had been evading the world’s best intelligence agencies. They’d had most of the night to escape. Even in the dark they could easily cover three to four kilometres an hour. Stick to the road and only go cross country to steer clear of a roadblock. Right now they could be fifty kilometres away. In his opinion a vehicle from Auckland would have already collected them. However he could be wrong, and there was no point winding down the search just yet.

“You head up the STG, don’t you? Where the hell are they?”

Cunningham said, “The SAS boys are on the way. Tracking down this type of enemy is what they’re trained to do. Might as well leave it to the experts.”

“Then what brings you here? Not just sightseeing are you?”

“Do you have somewhere private we can talk?”

“Sure.”

Jeff had a pang of sympathy for Gareth and his wife. Journalists and television news teams had begun to arrive in Waipu en masse. Gareth’s home was the centre of activity. Extra police had been brought in from the surrounding towns. Gareth’s wife, Miriam, busied herself making coffees and sandwiches. The women from her book group had rallied round to help her.

As news of the violence spread throughout the area, first by word of mouth and now live television news broadcasts, locals from the surrounding valleys and farms poured into the small village. The Post Office, pizza restaurant and the local pub and cafés opened early. Everyone wanted breakfast and coffees and to share stories and pass on exaggerated information. This was the most excitement Waipu had seen in many decades. Like the cafés the owners of other retail outlets recognised the opportunity and also opened early.

Jeff had rented two rooms in the Clansman Motel; the only accommodation on offer in the village. He had slept, then woke hungry and in need of decent coffee. The hot-beverage sachets in the room were not going to do it for him. He tapped on Barbara’s door and asked her to join him at the Art Gallery Restaurant. They took a table by the window that overlooked the town’s only intersection and less than a hundred metres from the police station. Jeff mindlessly watched cars, farm vehicles and pedestrians criss-cross each others’ paths as they hurried to nowhere in search of information no one had. A hawk glided across the skyline then swooped. A field mouse or rabbit foolish enough to leave the safety of their hide had just become a meal. Jeff thought through the events of the night before. He had brought violence to this tranquil piece of New Zealand. He thought through his impulsiveness. Why had he followed Esat Krasniqi the night of Quentin’s nightclub opening? He wasn’t a policeman. It wasn’t his responsibility. He was a wine grower now, not a soldier.

“It’s not your fault, Jeff. None of it,” Barbara said, breaking into his reverie. She spooned sugar into her coffee.

“A journalist
and
a mind reader.”

“I’m a talented woman. How are the aches and pains?”

“Nothing like an hour in freezing salt water to ease the bruising. I hate that I’ve brought this nightmare to town.”

“As I said, Jeff, you’re not to blame. You’re just as much a victim as the rest of us.”

“I’m not so sure.”

He saw Brian Cunningham and Moana Te Kanawa crossing the street and walking towards them.

“We’re about to have company.”

Barbara followed his gaze.

“That was quick. How would they know where we were?”

Jeff smiled. “The motel owner would have told them we walked off to have coffee. There aren’t that many places. Besides, you are a celeb, Barbara. Even the village of Waipu has television. Have you not noticed the people staring?”

“I thought they were looking at your nose,” Barbara teased.

“Morning, Brian, Sergeant,” Jeff said. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to see you two here.”

“We left Auckland early this morning. Mind if we join you?” Cunningham said as he pulled out a chair.

Moana waited for Jeff’s invite before she sat.

“I’ve spoken with Bob Carlyle. He’s heading up the search. He’s of the opinion that even though it’s still early days the three terrorists will be caught. You and I know that’s not likely. We’ve seen enough of these shits to know they’ve probably well and truly got away by now, or at least are hiding somewhere where they’ll never be found.”

Jeff nodded. “Too isolated to get roadblocks in place fast enough, and besides they can always walk round them. Standard evasive training. Waipu is in the middle of nowhere and there are so many roads, plus bush and a million hiding places. And of course there are miles of coastline where they could be picked up by boat. I agree, they’ve gone. Not to mention these days with handheld GPS navigation systems they don’t need to be familiar with the area to know how to get out of it. Every bloody phone has one.”

“
We need to discuss your safety, Jeff. This was a very clear message.
They want you out of the way. I don’t suppose you’d consider getting lost somewhere until all this is over?”

“Not an option, Brian.”

“I didn’t think so. Okay. Fair enough. We’ll need to think of something else. My status will probably change tomorrow. Police politics will rear its ugly head. I’ll be pushed back to my STG office to wait for deployment phone calls. Someone higher up the ladder will take the lead. What it means is that you and Barbara will be out of the loop. I’ve stretched the rules already keeping you on the inside.” He looked at Barbara. “Sorry. It will become a closed shop.”

“I can’t operate blind, Brian,” Jeff said. “Not now that I know for certain Zahar’s men are after me.”

“Out of my hands, Jeff.”

“Maybe not.”

He pulled out his mobile, rescued from his BMW before he was taken to the motel.

“If it was just about you and Moana I probably wouldn’t give a shit. But I need to protect myself and to protect those close to me. To do that I need intel.”

Jeff found Caldwell’s number on his contact list and pressed dial. The phone rang seven times before it was answered.

“It’s Jeff Bradley.”

“Hi, Jeff. You’ve done it again. You need a clock that shows US time. I need my sleep.”

“There have been developments. When do you arrive?”

“I leave in the morning. It was the earliest flight I could get.”

Jeff quickly brought him up to date.

“You have been busy.”

“I need you to do something for me.”

“Go ahead.”

Jeff caught Cunningham’s eye.

“Inspector Brian Cunningham. An Auckland cop. Ex SAS. He’s one of us. Heads up the Special Tactics Group. Internal politics will see him kicked out of the game. In my opinion that should not be allowed to happen.”

“You want me to fix it?” Caldwell asked.

“Yes. I want you to fix it.”

“Okay, Jeff. Send me a full report in the next hour to my email address.”

“Okay, will do.” Jeff closed his phone.

“Who were you talking to?”

“I’m sorry, Brian. At the moment I can’t tell you. If he wants you to know he will tell you himself.”

Moana stared at Cunningham, mouth open. Incredulous. He shrugged.

“Moana and I are going to have a chat with Akbar’s man in Whangarei Hospital. I’ll let you know what we find out.”

Jeff smiled. “I won’t hold my breath.”

26.

J
immy Carlyle was waiting for Cunningham and Moana outside the hospital room. There were two constables stationed by the door.

“Is he talking?” Cunningham asked.

“Not a word.”

“Can he be moved?”

“The doctor said he had concussion but apart from a swollen
head and a very bad headache they see no reason he can’t be moved from tomorrow onwards. They want him to stay overnight for observation purposes,” Jimmy replied. “I take it you want him in Auckland?”

“At some stage, yes. Can we see him?”

“Go ahead. I have to make a phone call. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

Cunningham and Moana entered the room. Two constables stood either side of the bed, backs against the wall and keeping a good distance between themselves and the prisoner. Cunningham smiled, impressed by the professionalism. He noticed the terrorist’s left wrist had been handcuffed to the metal frame holding the mattress. A nurse holding a clipboard stood at the end of the bed. A check of her watch led to scribbling a notation onto a page unseen from where Cunningham stood.

The prisoner was in his late twenties, Cunningham assessed. A stubble of beard growth. His black hair and olive skin suggested he could be from the Mediterranean region; he guessed it was more likely to be the Middle East but he wasn’t going to jump to any conclusions. He might easily be Portuguese or Italian. Hostile
eyes flitted between Cunningham and Moana. Both officers met his gaze with equal belligerence. Cunningham smiled, the man in the bed was not about to be intimidated. This was going to be hard work.

“How is he?” Cunningham asked the nurse.

“Recovering from concussion, but apart from a giant headache
and a lump the size of a football on the side of his head, he’ll be fine.”

“Cigarette?” Brian asked, pulling a pack from his pocket and offering it to the prisoner.

The nurse frowned. Smoking was banned in hospitals and almost every other public place in New Zealand. She looked to Moana for guidance. Moana shrugged and said nothing. The nurse made to say something but decided against it. She raised her eyebrows at Moana and left the room.

The prisoner took a cigarette. Cunningham lit it up for him. He poured some water into a paper cup to use as an ashtray.

“How is your head?” Cunningham asked.

No answer.

“Do you have a name? Can you give us that? I need to call you something. My name is Brian.”

Still no answer.

“Very well. I will give you a name. Stupid asshole. Write that down will you Sergeant Te Kanawa. First name, Stupid. Family name, Asshole.”

Moana wrote it down.

“Now, age. Hard to tell. But with a name like Stupid Asshole you would have to have a mental age of thirteen years. What do you think, Moana?”

“Not more than thirteen years,” she replied.

“What sex are you, Mr Asshole? Male or female?” Cunningham watched the terrorist’s eyes. Looking for a flicker. Nothing. “Okay not male, not female. Write down donkey, closest member of the animal family to the ass in asshole, don’t you think?

“What about your father and mother?”

No answer.

“Okay. Moana, write down mother is a whore and father is a loser.”

The eyes narrowed. Cunningham threw Moana a wink. He was certain that if the prisoner hadn’t been handcuffed he would have swung a fist at him. Cunningham had spent enough time in middle-eastern countries. Family honour was important. Insulting the family was unacceptable.

A light tap on the door and it pushed open. Jimmy Carlyle poked his head through the gap. “Am I intruding?”

“Not at all, Jimmy.” Cunningham waved him in. “Jimmy, have we charged Mr Asshole here with anything as yet?”

“Not as yet.”

“Okay. How about child molestation?”

“Sounds good to me, Brian.”

“Good. Now let’s get some cameras in here. I want his face on international television. I want the world to know that Mr Asshole here whose mother is a whore and whose father is a loser is being held by New Zealand police for child molestation and if anyone knows who this sick asshole is please make contact.”

Akbar’s man spat the cigarette at Cunningham.

“You will die for this, pig,” he said in accented English. Then a curse followed in a language Cunningham did not recognise. Cunningham smiled.

Cunningham, Moana and Jimmy Carlyle filed out of the room. “Congratulations,” Jimmy said. “You got him talking.”

“Did you get it all, Moana?” Cunningham asked.

“Sure did,” she replied pulling a small tape recorder from her purse. She played back the conversation and it came through loud and clear.

“Great. Let’s get him fingerprinted and get that tape to the Auckland University Language department. See where Mr Asshole comes from. Hopefully the police in that country might be looking for him.”

“Have you finished with him, Brian?” Jimmy asked.

“For the moment, yes,” Cunningham replied. “Short of torturing him I don’t think he is going to talk to us willingly. As soon as the hospital releases him let’s get him to Auckland.”

“We’re stretched to the max with the search as you might expect, but I think if we haven’t caught them by tomorrow we will have to accept they got away. I’m sure we can send him down within the next forty-eight hours. That okay for you?”

“Good enough, Jimmy.”

“You don’t suppose this has to do with the submarine do you? Bit much to think it might just be a coincidence,” Carlyle asked.

“We’ve given that a lot of thought but the enquiries so far say it’s not possible. Security will be tight. Those things are pretty much indestructible. No one is ever going to get close enough to put a bomb on board. Rockets need heat to target them. Handheld rockets need to be fired close up. Difficult to make an effective hit because of the sub’s shape. Hell, I’ve fired a handheld and could never hit anything a hundred metres away. These guys would never get that close. Anyway, a handheld might bring down a helicopter or destroy a tank but would do little damage to a sub. Let’s face it, 90 percent of the damn thing is under water, and the hull is several feet thick. I’m guessing it will be a bomb in the city or some shit like that. Make a big statement and kill a few civilians.”

“A little scary, isn’t it,” Carlyle said. “I’m glad I’m just a small city cop and all we need worry about is traffic control on market day.”

Cunningham raised his eyebrows.

Carlyle smiled. “Well, okay, we do have the odd bit of violence but you know what I mean. Nothing like your metropolis.”

Jeff turned the hire car into his driveway then slammed his foot on the brake. Barbara had been dozing and the jolt flashed her eyes open.

“Jesus,” Jeff whispered. “My front door is open.”

“You didn’t leave it open by mistake?”

“No. Not a chance.”

“Why aren’t the police watching your house?” Barbara asked.

Jeff laughed. “Well, firstly they’re not a security company and secondly I can look after myself. I could add they don’t have the manpower but even if they did Brian wouldn’t send anyone. Now let’s get out of here.”

He backed across the road and stopped in front of his neighbour’s garage.

“If anyone is inside hopefully they’ll think I was turning round. They won’t recognise the car that’s for sure. Come on, get out.”

“What are we going to do?” Barbara asked, worried.

“I’m going to walk you into the neighbour’s backyard.”

“You know them well?”

“Only to say the odd hello but they seem nice enough.”

“Great. What if they’re having dinner?”

“If you’re hungry I’m sure they’ll feed you.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

Jeff led Barbara down the side of the house. He recalled that the woman of the house was a fashion designer of some sort and her husband a well-known yachtsman. He hoped they wouldn’t be home. As long as he could hide Barbara somewhere safe until he cleared his house. The dining room was a glazed addition to the back of the house. The family sat round the table, easily seen by Jeff and Barbara and the backyard intruders easily seen by the family. No backing away now.

The door opened. The yachtsman eyed him then smiled when he recognised his neighbour. His wife came up behind him.

“Good evening. I’m Jeff Bradley, from across the road. This is Barbara Heywood. I’m sorry to barge in on you like this but I might have intruders in my house. Can Barbara stay with you until I check it out? It won’t take long.”

“Larry Connors,” the man said, holding out his hand. “This is my wife Donna and these two are Daisy and Maisie.”

The infant blonde twins clung to their mother’s legs, eyes firmly fixed on Jeff and Barbara.

“Please, come in, Barbara,” Donna invited. “You’re most welcome.”

“Thank you, guys. I won’t be long.”

“Should I come with you?” Larry asked. He followed Jeff to the corner of the house.

“No need for that, I can handle it. But in case a problem does develop better you’re here with your family.”

Larry nodded. Once Jeff had disappeared he went back inside the house.

“Darling, will you get Barbara a glass of wine?” his wife asked.

“So we finally get to meet our famous neighbour, if only fleetingly,” Donna smiled. “Jeff has been in the news but not as much as you, Barbara. Can I say, I enjoy your show. An objective journalist. A rare breed these days.” Larry returned with a glass of wine. “I was just telling Barbara we’ve been following Jeff’s exploits.”

“Yes. He’s certainly an adventurer.”

“He is that,” Barbara said.

“Well, don’t go north at the moment,” Donna said. “Have you seen what’s been happening in Waipu? Well of course you have, your station will be all over it.”

“I’m afraid I’ve seen it first-hand.”

“You were involved in that?” Donna asked incredulously. “How exciting.”

“Donna, I assure you it was far from exciting, Jeff was almost
killed. Then I was caught up in the media frenzy, mostly dodging
interviews then working with a crew to film a segment for this week’s show. Thank God the nightly news team sent a journalist otherwise I might still be there.”

“You poor thing.”

“Sailing is all the excitement I want in my life,” Larry said.

“Oh, you’re that Larry Connors. I follow your yacht races, Larry. My father was a boatie. I was brought up on sailing.”

Larry smiled.

“Cheers.”

Barbara lifted her glass then took a sip. She cast a quick glance through the window. Darkness. For just a moment she reflected on the warmth of Larry and Donna’s family home. A little enviously if she were honest. Her career filled the gap left by broken relationships, but every so often, occasions like tonight triggered her maternalism. A husband, children, a home, it would be nice.

Jeff slipped inside his house. He reached for the light switch then pulled back. The darkness was his security. He stayed in the hallway, eyes glancing sideways until his night vision adjusted to the dim light. His ears strained for the slightest sound. Nothing but the groans of hundred-year-old timber as his bungalow settled after a day of sun. The bathroom tap dripped, a reminder he needed to call a plumber.

He stepped forward using the balls of his feet, his body now loose, prepared to fend off any would-be assailant.

It took fifteen minutes. Satisfied his house was clear he switched on the lights.

Papers strewn across the floor of his office appeared to be the only evidence of home invasion. He re-checked each room. All was in its place. He dialled Cunningham’s number.

“Brian Cunningham.”

“Brian. It’s Jeff. Someone broke into my house. I’ve cleared it.”

“Could it have been burglars?” Cunningham asked.

“Unlikely. Nothing seems to have been taken. There’s even a laptop in the office. Someone messed up the office and that’s it. I think the mess is a message. ‘We know where you live and we can enter at will’. That sort of thing.”

“Do you need help?”

“No. But I’ve still got Barbara here. I’m about to send her on her way. It worries me that Akbar’s people saw her with me.”

“You’re telling me I should look out for her?” Cunningham asked.