The Mark of Halam (A Jeff Bradley Thriller) Read online

  “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.

  Jimmy 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.

  “A loose cover. Some new locks on the door.”

  “All right, Jeff, I’ll take care of it. Have a good night. And be careful.”

  27.

  Amy Monroe stepped off the city link bus at the top of Symonds Street and walked down the slope to her new place of work. Her third morning as a professional protestor. The buildings that ran from the intersection of Newton Gully and Symonds Street to the motorway overpass had been preserved by the city council as historic. The facades of the once shiny, glossy, retail stores sat neglected, their paint peeling, corrugated roofs rusting and walls covered with posters promoting band tours, a day at
the zoo and Cirque du Soleil.

  Word had it that the council had denied the landowners the right to bulldoze the two-storey wood constructions built in the early years of the twentieth century. The owners in turn refused to pour money into upgrading useless retail edifices in the wrong part of town that would only ever offer cheap rental returns. The cheap rentals were ideal office space for the ‘Keep New Zealand Nuclear Free’ campaigners.

  By the end of the first day she had learnt all there was to know about her new boss and protest leader, 66-year-old Charlie Agnew. Sporting a grayish ponytail sliding from a balding head, Agnew regaled anyone in the office interested enough to listen with tales of the halcyon days of street marches and sit-ins and was ecstatic that once again his time had come. He constantly bemoaned, to anyone that would listen, that modern youth had lost their way, and that nowadays the student populations of university campuses were only interested in building careers instead of a better world.

  As the protest organiser, he supposedly coordinated the making of banners, printing leaflets and making sure all his people were on the streets at their allotted times. Mostly though, he drank at the student pub and ogled the younger women lured into joining his group. There was always the chance a naïve, idealistic, drunken student might allow themselves to be bedded by an aged mentor. Amy made sure she extricated herself as soon as Agnew’s head sagged and a hand crept its way onto her knee.

  After two days the initial excitement of nightly parties and waving banners on the wharf had given way to boredom. Sitting in a musty, damp old building all day had brought on sniffles. Amy’s bag bulged with tissues. The group in the office had little depth to their discussions. Tired old anti-nuclear clichés, learned from literature handed out by Agnew, fell easily off the end of tongues, but lacked passion. The cold war and nuclear catastrophes were a generation ago and held as much interest as a couch potato holding a remote flicking through channels. In fact none had had any idea a visit from a nuclear submarine was imminent until they joined the group. They were there for the money. Minds focused on studies and maintaining scholarships, and discussion topics centred around careers and potential incomes. Even worse, many of the protesters actually seemed excited by the visit and not in the slightest bit angry. As one put it, “A giant sub in the harbour, how cool is that?” For the students, protesting was more fun than working at McDonalds, better money too, and the general consensus was that life did not get much better than it was at the moment.