The Mark of Halam (A Jeff Bradley Thriller) Page 20

  Cunningham used the coffee table to lever himself from the floor. Moana had rolled onto her back. Blood ran down her forehead from a cut above her left eye.

  Cunningham looked down at her. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She nodded. He took her outstretched hand and pulled her to her feet. “In case you were wondering, that was a bomb.”

  “Really? Now I know why you can be such an asshole sometimes. Spending half your life in the military putting up with that crap would stuff anyone’s brain.”

  Cunningham smiled. “Good girl. You really are okay.”

  The explosion shattered the window panes from their frames launching a thousand barbed-glass missiles. They embedded themselves in the plaster board walls and flesh. Red appeared in the doorway, a constable peering over his shoulder.

  “What the hell happened?” he asked, banging the side of his head. “I think I’ve gone deaf.”

  “You’ll live.” Cunningham stepped to the window and looked out. “Fucking hell.” He turned back to Red. “A bomb has exploded and there are casualties. Take care of things up here and you,” Cunningham said, pointing to the constable, “start on this floor and check all the apartments. If there is no response kick the door in and check. I’ll send help if and when available. Weapons drawn. Our killer might still be in the building but I’m guessing he just opened himself a doorway and has scarpered.”

  Mary emerged from the bathroom.

  “Mary, are you okay?” Cunningham asked.

  She nodded, a little shakily.

  “And where the bloody hell is Jeff?”

  “Right here.” Jeff stood in the doorway. He walked across to Mary and put his arm round her. “I’m taking her to my place. If you need to talk that’s where we’ll be.”

  Cunningham nodded. “All right, Jeff, for now it’s best you’re both out of the way. And Jeff, Mary has a gun. Know anything about that?”

  “No, she hasn’t, Brian,” Jeff said, taking the weapon from Mary and pushing between his belt and shirt. “Can we go now?”

  “Yeah, get out of here.”

  “Moana, we need to get on the street and coordinate emergency services.”

  “What about Zahar Akbar?” Moana asked.

  Cunningham didn’t answer. He was already in the corridor. At the bottom of the stairwell Moana paused in front of a body, a hand to her mouth. She shut her eyes. Cunningham touched her shoulder. She shrugged it off. Looked at him then straightened. Cunningham understood. Now was not a time for weakness – they had a job to do.

  The walls and door of the bottom floor were now rubble. Looking through the gap Cunningham saw into the kitchen of a ground floor apartment. A woman lay, unmoving, on the breakfast bar top, a man bent over her weeping. He stepped outside. In the small piazza surrounded by apartments the dead and dying were entangled and amongst the debris lay severed limbs from those closest to the blast. The fire chief knelt, beating down on the chest of one of his men. A few metres away a woman sat, hair darkened and matted, moving her head side to side muttering incomprehensibly. Her pyjamas were shredded and her legs bleeding. The bloodied bundle in her arms was a baby.

  The acrid smell of the explosives hung heavy in the air, now mixed with smoke from the smouldering buildings and burning cars.

  Ambulances, police cars and fire trucks were descending and in the distance were more sirens.

  “All right, Moana, you take the top of the street, I’ll take the other. We’re not equipped to help the injured but we can coordinate the emergency services. Get a flow through going. Reinforcements are on their way.”

  As Cunningham stepped over bodies his gut wrenched when he recognised a police uniform, but he didn’t stop. Jeff was right, he was nothing but a callous asshole. Did he have no feelings? He gnashed his teeth and kept walking.

  At least the rain had stopped.

  When Cunningham was finally relieved he stepped away and sat on a small wall where the media crews had gathered. He saw Barbara Heywood standing in front of a camera, a mic in her hand. She was giving a report. Then the cameraman swung away to film the carnage. Barbara saw Cunningham. She passed her mic to an assistant and made her way to him.

  Cunningham waited, readied himself for the onslaught. Barbara leaned forward. Her face barely inches from Cunningham’s.

  “You get those fucking assholes, Brian. I don’t care what you have to do but you hunt them down. Get them. Kill them. I don’t give a shit.”

  Before he could respond Barbara spun on her heel and strode back to her team.

  Sami Hadani eased his car along the lane. He accelerated when he saw Zahar step out of the shadows. When he stopped he reached across and pushed down on the passenger door handle.

  Zahar climbed in and slammed the door behind him.

  “Get me the hell out of here.”

  “You’re soaked. There’s a blanket on the back seat.”

  Zahar reached back and took hold of the blanket. He wrapped it round himself. It would stave off the chill until they made it back to Sami’s house.

  Red lights flashed past as they turned onto the main road.

  “What happened?” Sami asked.

  “Somehow the police knew I was there.”

  “How could they. No one knew where you were, only me.”

  Sami felt the killer’s eyes narrow on him. He quickly spun on him.

  “Don’t even think that, Zahar. And don’t even think of threatening me. I’m not one of your minions.”

  Zahar smiled.

  “The New Zealand police are clever,” Sami said. “Not like the shit we have to deal with in our countries. Somehow they found out. Found the van.”

  More sirens.

  “Something’s happening. What have you done?” Sami said, worried.

  “I was trapped. No way out so I detonated a bomb I’d placed in the van. It worked. Nobody tried to stop me. I just walked away.”

  Sami pulled over. Turned to face Zahar. Confused.

  “Were there any casualties?”

  Zahar nodded.

  Jeff and Quentin sat in the reception area of Quentin Douglas and Associates. The door was locked. An unopened bottle of whisky sat on the small coffee table. They were surrounded by Mary’s bits and pieces. Her pot plants, a print, some small ornaments. Her desk was laden with paraphernalia that neither Quentin nor Jeff had noticed before, but now everywhere they looked they saw Mary. In the short time she had been with Quentin she had made this her domain. She now lay on the settee. Jeff’s hand rested on her leg. Reassurance that allowed her to sleep.

  “We’re going to stay here tonight, Quentin. He won’t think of coming here.”

  Quentin poured two whiskies. He was shaking. Jeff reached across and held his friend’s hand and extracted the glass of whisky, half of which had splashed onto the table.

  “I’d better get home to Jeannie and the kids,” Quentin said quietly. “It’s not fair to leave them alone.”

  “Quentin, you are to go home and pack whatever you need and take your family away from here tonight. Stay away until this is over,” Jeff said firmly. “Go to Wellington or wherever. The further away the better. But get the hell out of here.” Quentin made to open his mouth, but Jeff held up his hand. “No arguments. This is pure vindictiveness. Aimed at me. No one I know will be safe until these guys are caught. I do not want anything to happen to you, Jeannie or the kids. I could never live with that. I’m having enough trouble coping with the fact there are bodies in an Auckland gutter because of me.”

  “I’m not going to argue with you, Jeff. I had already been thinking along those lines. What about you?”

  “I’m going to hunt the bastards down.”

  Quentin said, “Jeff, you do know you’re not to blame for what these people have done, don’t you?” But he knew his words had fallen on deaf ears. �
�I’m leaving. I’ll let you know where we are.”

  “No, Quentin. No contact until this is over.”

  Quentin nodded.

  He threw Jeff a key. “Lock up when you leave. And for God’s sake be careful.”

  35.

  How are we doing on the warehouses?” Cunningham asked Moana.

  His team was still in shock. He knew the signs. All soldiers in war zones went through it. The first attacks, the first time being bombed and shot at and the first time they had lost comrades. Three of the team had been killed and another seriously injured, but just like in war soldiers needed to keep going. The enemy was still out there and was still determined to kill. Akbar had escaped their trap. But they needed to keep moving. The terrorists weren’t resting and neither could they. He was getting more manpower. He had been told every spare cop in the country was on their way to Auckland, but the key word was spare. They wouldn’t be bringing the expertise he needed. The tactics team was on permanent standby as were units from the SAS but they had been deployed to secure government buildings and key personnel. It made his job that much harder but at least he was still in control. The investigation would be split into specialist teams now. New squads with their own team leaders would be talking to witnesses, gathering information, forensics, media control and so on. He would keep his own team as a roving squad with one objective: to follow the leads and find Akbar and his men.

  Moana said, “It’s slow work but we are more than halfway through the list. Some of it is access. Locked doors, etc. Especially at night. Then trying to contact owners takes time.”

  “Okay, I understand. From now on you carry bolt cutters and sledgehammers. Cut the chains and smash the doors down. Do not leave the building until it is cleared. Anyone hassles you, you direct them to me.”

  “Is that legal?” Red asked. “What about warrants?”

  “I will take the heat for it. You may suffer a little but this situation is not normal. More people are going to die and I’m not going to have that happen because I couldn’t enter a bloody warehouse. Anyone have a problem with these methods, please say now. I’ll allow you to leave the team. No hard feelings.” Cunningham scanned the faces but no one replied and no one moved. “Okay, thank you.” He sat in his chair. “Now anyone else have any thoughts?”

  “I have something that has been bothering me.” It was Red.

  “The floor is yours, Red.” The rest of the team looked up from their doodling.

  “There is a group of men, international terrorists, moving about our city and the countryside. We don’t know how many but I think we can assume from the mattresses we found in the warehouse not less than six, probably more. Let’s make it a round figure and call it ten.” Everyone nodded in acceptance. “We can also assume, I believe, that for all these men or at least most of them it is their first time in New Zealand.” Again a general nod of agreement. “We now have a city in a complete state of paranoia reporting all suspicious movements of anyone who looks remotely like they might have come from the Middle East yet these guys have remained unnoticed.”

  “I think we agree with everything you say, Red. Is this going anywhere?”

  “Yes. Hear me out.” Red was not to be put off so Cunningham sat back. “They must be getting help from locals. Think about it. Ten men. Living in accommodation or a factory somewhere. They have to be fed. They have needs. But they are not being seen coming and going. Someone is doing it for them. Jeff Bradley uncovered Esat Krasniqi because of the link to this Avni Leka. We now know that Leka set him up in New Zealand when he came here as a refugee. We’ve assumed Esat was the end of it and we’ve been screening the Kosovan Albanian community for anyone who might know Krasniqi and might be working aiding him to help the criminals. But what if it wasn’t like that. What if Krasniqi is not the only businessman? What if Avni had helped others establish businesses? Bradley said he had lots of money.”

  “Jesus, Red, you just earned yourself a bottle of scotch.” Cunningham jumped to his feet. “Get onto immigration. I want a list of all Kosovan refugees that came here around the time of Krasniqi and then give the list of names to the tax department. Look for export businesses. I want current addresses and I want it yesterday.”

  Red ran from the room.

  “As for the rest of you, Moana split up the warehouse list. I want it cleaned up today. Any more questions?” No one answered. “Right then. I have to go upstairs and give a report. You all know what to do. Let’s meet back here at 4pm.”

  36.

  Jeff sat, grim faced, while Barbara made coffee. When he had arrived at her apartment she had welcomed the distraction.

  “So much violence and death and more to come,” she said.

  Jeff nodded. He found the brandy on the top shelf of Barbara’s kitchen cupboard and poured a splash into the two cups he placed on the coffee table.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I’ll be fine. My first husband said I had no sensitivity, especially when I chose to ignore his whining. But I can tell you the scenes at the bomb site have left me numb. These people aren’t civilised, Jeff.”

  “No, they aren’t.”

  Barbara wiped her eyes. She gave Jeff a fleeting smile. “So tell me, why are you here?”

  “I needed someone to bounce some ideas off,” Jeff said. “I don’t expect you to get involved but I have to find these murderers and bring it to an end. I will be taking no prisoners, Barbara. I want you to understand that right from the beginning.”

  Barbara nodded.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Well, for a start Brian and I agreed these guys have local help. People like Esat Krasniqi.”

  “Other Kosovan Albanians?” Barbara said. Jeff nodded. “There must be a few hundred families. Where would you start?”

  Jeff said, “I need to get into Esat’s office. See if I can find anything in his computer files.”

  “The police will have already have searched the computers, won’t they?”

  “No, they haven’t. Brian made a point of telling me they had been left in Krasniqi’s office. I was slow on the uptake and thought he’d had too many whiskies. But he was giving me a message. They’re short staffed and the Brian Cunningham I know will prioritise and he knows I will use my Kosovan connections. These guys are operating in cells. They all work independently of each other and usually are not aware of the other cells until show time. Brian will certainly believe that checking out Esat Krasniqi’s computers needs to be done ASAP but he will also know it’s a dead end for anyone who doesn’t know what to look for. I have the Albanian contacts so he’s using me by putting bait on the trail. He can’t just hand them over to me. He expects me to go in there and take them. That’s how I’d do it. I know it’s not good policing but then Brian’s not really a cop in spirit, even if he thinks he is. We’re both SAS and we do what needs to be done.”

  “Won’t the police be guarding the compound?” Barbara asked.

  “Just the gate. But it will be a private security company. They won’t expect the terrorists to return. We can get in from behind.”

  “So what is it exactly I might be agreeing to here?” Barbara asked, already knowing it involved breaking the law.

  Barbara had persuaded Jeff to use her car and she was driving. She slowed as they passed the entrance to Esat Krasniqi’s warehouse; as Jeff had said, a security guard sat in his car parked in front of the gate. She followed the side streets as memorised on her map and parked directly behind the warehouse. It was a no-exit street with a small children’s playground backing onto the wall Jeff was to climb over. Approximately fifty metres of grassed area to cross. Opposite were private houses and either side of the park more homes. A strategically placed street lamp ensured the play area was lit. Trees ran down the fence line.

  “Not the best place to stay parked without arousing suspicion, is it,” Jeff
said.

  “That’s a high fence. We should have brought a ladder.”

  “I used to scramble over fences that high when I was a kid.”

  Barbara patted Jeff on the chest. “Yes, well you’re not a kid any more.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll get over it. I’d better get moving.”

  Barbara watched Jeff until he disappeared into the trees. She unscrewed the cap off a bottle of mineral water and took a swig. Then she remembered the neighbourhood she was in and locked the doors.

  Jeff was gone twenty minutes. She was relieved when she finally saw him scrambling back over the fence. The lights of an oncoming car caught her attention. It was moving slowly. She could just make out it was a police car.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” Barbara muttered to herself.

  The door opened and Jeff climbed in beside her.

  “That’s a police patrol car. Someone must have reported us.”

  “Well, we can’t just rush off.”

  “Quickly. Cuddle up to me,” Barbara said, moving closer.

  “Are you sure?’

  “For God’s sake, Jeff, you do know what to do with a woman don’t you?”

  Jeff shook his head, laughed then took her in his arms. As the patrol car drew alongside he kissed her. Barbara responded.

  A torch was shone through the window and they pulled apart. Barbara waved and smiled. The policemen talked to each other. Jeff tried to look relaxed. Barbara stroked his hair and nuzzled the top of it. Jeff kissed her again until the light switched off. He ran his lips across her neck. Barbara let out a soft moan. They stayed locked in each other’s arms longer than necessary. Long after the patrol car had disappeared into the night.

  “Well, there goes my reputation,” Barbara whispered as they slowly untangled themselves. “I’m sure they must have recognised me. By tomorrow the whole city is going to know I have a new lover.”

  37.

  Jamil Khallid had no idea what time it was, or what day for that matter. There had been no respite from the discomfort of the cold, hard, damp concrete floor. Every bone poked against his flesh and had gone from a dull ache to agony. Every few hours someone removed his hood and a water bottle was placed on his lips. He gulped water until he coughed. Still spluttering, the hood was replaced and he was left alone. In the dark, images of his childhood merged with the faces of those he had killed. He tried to sleep but whenever he succeeded in escaping into slumber he was woken by his captors.