The Mark of Halam Page 4

  “Okay,” Cunningham said. “So where is the explanation of how this Akbar is in New Zealand when supposedly he was captured and in the hands of the Yanks? How is it he is free? The American special forces aren’t in the habit of losing people.”

  “That’s a question I can’t answer but I assure you I’m going to find out,” Jeff said.

  “You’re not in the squadron anymore, Jeff. You’re a civilian. If you have any information, pass it on to the police. There is also an Intelligence Service that would probably want to be informed,” Cunningham said, an edge to his voice.

  Jeff stood and moved closer to Cunningham. Now the civility was dead and the two rutting stags were locking horns again.

  Jeff grinned. Not friendly.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t get too far ahead of ourselves. This is all conjecture. It might be I’m wrong and Akbar is just hiding out in New Zealand and the attack on Mary is nothing more than attempted murder.”

  “Maybe,” Cunningham said. “But I’m not convinced.”

  “I’ll let you know when I have the information, Brian.”

  “I’ll be waiting. But I won’t be waiting long.”

  Jeff went through to the crime room and spent the next hour briefing Sergeant Te Kanawa and her team on Zahar Akbar and his older brother Halam and the man they worked for, the Kosovan criminal mastermind, Avni Leka.

  After the meeting at the police station Jeff and Quentin walked back to Quentin’s office.

  “What is it between you and Brian Cunningham?” Quentin asked. “I’m surprised the two of you didn’t come to blows.”

  “We were in Afghanistan together. Things happened. I can’t talk about it.”

  “Things happened. You can’t talk about it. Are you shitting me? I’m your friend, Jeff. We share.”

  “Not this, Quentin.”

  Quentin made to protest. When he saw the set of Jeff’s jaw he thought better of it.

  “Look, Quentin, there is something you need to think about. If Akbar is out to harm anyone close to me he may come after you,” Jeff said.

  “I’m a lawyer, Jeff. Even the bad guys, well especially the bad guys, need representation. Why go after me?”

  Jeff shook his head, mouth open. He closed it before words came out. Getting angry with Quentin would resolve nothing.

  “Why don’t you leave this to the police, Jeff? Cunningham is right. You’re not in the army now. They could provide you with protection.”

  “When it comes to self-preservation I’m much happier looking out for myself. And, if Akbar is going after my friends then I need to stop him.” He put his hand on Quentin’s shoulder. “Listen to me, Quentin. You need to take precautions.”

  “Okay I’ll take it seriously. I’ll call my security firm. I’ll have a 24-hour-watch and double the security on the house and office and my family until this guy is caught.”

  “That’s a good boy,” Jeff said, slapping Quentin on the back. “It’s only money and you’ve got plenty of it.”

  Jeff’s attempt at playful humour belied his true feelings. He could never live with himself if anything happened to Quentin and his family because of his actions. It was bad enough facing the Shala family every time he went to the vineyard after what he had done to their father and husband without Quentin added to the list.

  Firstly, he needed to find out why Zahar Akbar was walking the streets of Auckland and not burning in hell. He knew who had the answer to that question. It was time to make the phone call and find out.

  10.

  Arriving home, Jeff dropped his mail on the bench. The dishes he had left in the sink had been washed, and looking through to the sitting room, he saw that magazines had been neatly stacked and clothes tidied off the floor. A note taped to the microwave door reminded him his housekeeper had been, and he hadn’t left her fee. He inserted a cheque for two payments into an envelope and placed the envelope in the arranged place on top of the refrigerator. He debated phoning and apologising, but it wasn’t the first time and if Sarah needed the money urgently she knew how to reach him. He hated that he had forgotten. She kept his house livable.

  He retrieved a can of beer from the chiller and a bag of crisps from the larder and made his way down the hallway to his office. He ripped the crisp bag open and scoffed a handful. A few gulps of beer washed away the saltiness. He pushed the manila folders atop his briefcase onto the floor then searched through the satin pockets of the case until he found the business card.

  Caldwell had said if I ever need him, call.

  “Okay, Caldwell, I need you so I’m calling.”

  He sank into the leather office chair and dialled the number.

  The answering voice was American and drowsy. “Caldwell.”

  “Caldwell, it’s Jeff Bradley.”

  “Jeff. Don’t you people sleep in New Zealand?”

  “It’s only early evening here and I’m not sorry to wake you.”

  “Aha . . . this is not a social call.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Give me a minute, Jeff. I need to turn on a light and use the bathroom.”

  Jeff took another sip of his beer.

  He had worked with Caldwell in Kosovo. Caldwell wasn’t CIA but whoever it was he worked for had enough clout to allow Caldwell access to any US government department, including Embassy staff when needed. He considered their relationship standoffish with a mutual respect for the other’s sense of duty. The reason Caldwell hadn’t hung up the phone on him was that the American would know he wouldn’t be phoning to gossip and waste his time.

  He would take the time to clear his head so he could fully focus.

  “All right, Jeff I’m back. What have you got?”

  “I have reason to believe Zahar Akbar is here in Auckland.”

  Silence.

  “Why do you believe he’s there?” Caldwell asked, his tone weighted with caution.

  Jeff gave the details of the attack on Mary Sumner and her flatmate.

  “Could be a coincidence, maybe you killed someone else’s brother and can’t remember?”

  Jeff almost smiled at Caldwell’s attempt at humour.

  “One of the women who survived the attack was able to help with an identikit picture. And guess what? Barry Briggs identified him as Halam’s brother.”

  “I see.”

  “Bloody hell, Caldwell, I thought you had this guy under wraps.”

  “We did. Then we let him go.”

  Jeff slammed his can down onto the desktop. Beer splashed through the ring pull hole and sprayed over his jeans. He flicked away the droplets with the back of his hand.

  “Until now I’d been hoping I was wrong. For Christ’s sake, what idiot made that decision? Please don’t tell me you had anything to do with it. If those two women had not been so lucky a couple of mothers might have been asking me why they were burying their daughters instead of attending their weddings. And one of them was a close friend. I would have been demanding answers myself.”

  “Okay, Jeff, I get the point. Unofficially, it was a classic fucked-up operation, now classified with a security clearance level no one will ever be ranked high enough to read. The incompetence has been buried under a mountain of red tape. You know the routine. Anyway those involved were hoping like hell Akbar had gone into hiding and been blown up by one of his own bombs. They won’t be happy you found him.”

  “How did he get away?”

  “Between you and me, decisions made higher up on the food chain decided Zahar Akbar was no use to us sitting in a cell. He was let go under surveillance. They even implanted a chip. What can I say? The baddies are just as smart as we are these days.”

  “Everyone’s smarter than you guys,” Jeff gulped down some more beer. “I was half hoping you’d tell me I was wrong, that Zahar could not possibly be in my city.”

/>   Caldwell said, “I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll text my flight details once they’re confirmed.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid before I get there. You got lucky once but luck runs out.”

  Jeff put the phone down.

  Caldwell was on his way. That was bad news for New Zealand. Caldwell only ever made visits to trouble spots. And people always died.

  He walked through to the sitting room, picked up the remote from the arm of his leather recliner and switched on the television. The six o’clock news had started. He watched the headlines, the same as they had been for the last few nights; the protestors and the nuclear submarine visit. The government was under siege, vilified by the press, savaged in parliament by opposition parties and battered by an endless stream of expert opinion from academics on the dangers of nuclear energy.

  The USA and Australia must have been overwhelmingly forthright – you are either with us or against us. In 1984 the New Zealand government had passed legislation declaring New Zealand nuclear free. There would be no nuclear power stations, no visits by nuclear-powered warships and certainly no visits by nuclear submarines. All that had now changed. Jeff had no doubt the government had had little choice but to accept the visit. Weekly briefings during his years in the SAS had taught him you cannot legislate your country safe.

  The argument Australia and the Americans had put to the New Zealand government was that New Zealand was making no commitment to defence. No money had been spent on upgrading their armed forces. The air force had no airstrike capabilities, no combat jets, only a handful of helicopters mostly used for training. The army had a few tanks and some pieces of artillery but no mobility. The navy had a couple of frigates but these were used mostly to seek out illegal fishing boats. If an enemy ship entered the harbour the air force would have to throw mud at it and the navy would need a few days to return home. If New Zealand faced an invading army there would be little resistance.

  The debates in parliament had been heated and two parliamentarians had come to blows but in the end the government carried enough votes for their legislation to pass. Nuclear energy, nuclear-powered ships and nuclear weapons could again enter New Zealand waters. New Zealanders were good people and saw only good in others. It was a naivety that made New Zealand the special place it was. But, it also made the country vulnerable. Now, at least with the new alliance any attack on New Zealand would bring an armed response from Australia and the United States of America.

  Jeff switched the television off. His thoughts turned to the Shala family. He should have gone out to the vineyard. Kimie would be cooking a tasty dinner and she would have certainly invited him to stay. Anything would be better than the frozen pizza now thawing on the bench. Should he tell them of Zahar Akbar? He would think on it. However, he would need to think about their security.

  Zahar Akbar studied his image in the mirror. The clean-shaven face and glasses had the desired effect. Even his own mother, were she still alive, would not recognise him. There was nothing yet in the papers giving his identity.

  He had been lucky with the two women. A narrow escape. Bad planning. If Halam were here he would have scolded him. Halam never missed a detail. He certainly would have known the other woman would be home. Would Bradley know about the note? He would give the police another few days. Sometimes they played games and kept details to themselves. He would find where Bradley’s blonde lover was and this time he would kill her.

  11.

  The last bottle of wine was placed on the rack and Jeff stepped back to admire his handiwork. Kimie stopped what she was doing and came to stand beside him. He placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “I think it looks like a wine shop. What do you think?” he said.

  “I think it looks like a very successful wine shop. Now, many people will come to Boundary Fence Winery and your wine will be known all over.”

  “I wish. But for now, it will do.”

  “Arben would have been so proud,” Kimie said. “He would have been so grateful for what you have done for his family.”

  Two sets of eyes were drawn the framed photo of her dead husband hanging on the wall behind the counter. Kimie had chosen this spot so that all who entered would see that her husband, Arben Shala, had been a very important man. Arben had brought his family to New Zealand under a refugee programme after they had become displaced when Serbia invaded Kosovo. He had worked in the wine industry in the former Yugoslavia. At the same time Jeff inherited his Grandmother’s vineyard, Quentin was processing the residency papers for the Shalas. Quentin, aware Jeff knew nothing about wine, recommended he hire the new immigrant from Kosovo. Jeff agreed. Together they had built Boundary Fence into a successful business.

  It was moments like this when he most missed his friend and mentor. Whenever he and Kimie talked of Arben, awkwardness followed. Arben had returned to his former country at Jeff’s request to find bulk wine for Boundary Fence. The journey had ended in his death. Jeff made a promise to Arben as he stood at his graveside that he would take care of his family; Kimie, Marko his son and his daughter Drita. The three lived in Jeff’s grandparents’ house on the grounds of the vineyard he had inherited.

  Marko was now the winery manager. Drita still went to school.

  For Jeff they were his family and he would never think of them in any other way. Kimie, at fifty, was an elegant, attractive woman. She could remarry, but he doubted she would. Sadness had consumed her and he guessed it would continue for many years. Kosovan women draped sorrow round their shoulders like a comforting shawl.

  Jeff had difficulty with emotional moments; he’d prefer to drown them with a cold beer. Usually he fobbed it off with silly quips as he had just done. But then Kimie’s eyes would water and that would be an end to him. He would start coughing and find a reason to make his way outside.

  Kimie touched the hand resting on her shoulder.

  Jeff searched for the right words. Found none. Instead he said, “Too soon to thank me, Kimie; after a few days of working this place you might want to strangle me.”

  “How was the meeting with your lawyer?” Kimie asked.

  “It could have gone better.”

  “Is the vineyard going to be sold? I can find somewhere else for us to live. Please do not worry for us. We are not your responsibility. You have done so much already.”

  Jeff put his arm round Kimie’s shoulder.

  “We’re not anywhere near leaving, Kimie, and if I get my way it will never get to that point.”

  Kimie nodded.

  “But you will let me know if it does.”

  “You will know as soon as I do. But stop worrying.”

  Jeff hoped to hell Quentin knew what he was doing.

  “I have put the carton of wine for the competition in Whangarei by the door.” Jeff looked, saw it and nodded. “You will not forget to take it with you, will you?”

  “No I won’t, I promise. I know how important a gold medallion on our wine bottles is.”

  Kimie kissed Jeff on the cheek and set about picking the empty cartons up from the floor.

  His mobile rang.

  “Jeff Bradley.”

  “It’s Brian Cunningham, Jeff. Can you come into the station? We need to chat.”

  “Something wrong?”

  “Yes, there is something wrong. There is a terrorist in town and he’s after you. It’s against the law for me to stake you to a peg in an open field and use you as bait to lure him out but I can keep an eye on you. It would help if you cooperated and allowed us to put you under surveillance.”

  “You know that’s not going to happen. And don’t try it. I’ll suss out a tail easily enough. You know I will. But it does lead to an interesting question, Brian. What part are you playing in this investigation?”

  “I’m the police.”

  “Don’t
bullshit me. Te Kanawa is the lead. From her body language she dislikes your presence more than I do. I take it you’re stepping on toes. Whose shoes are you wearing?”

  “You know I’m with the Special Tactics Group. We’re the police anti-terrorist unit.”

  “Are you? I thought that was still the SAS role, D Company to be precise. I thought all you guys did was act like a SWAT team. Lay siege to the bad guys when the police have them holed up somewhere,” Jeff said.

  It didn’t surprise Jeff that Cunningham, having left the Special Forces, had ended up in charge of the police Special Tactics Group. The STG had been established by Special Forces officers and its members often trained with their Special Forces counterparts. The police would have gratefully accepted a special forces trained officer. Jeff’s first thought was that Cunningham had gone rogue. He and his STG team were probably sitting in a room somewhere twiddling their thumbs. Along comes Akbar and leaves the note and Cunningham jumped to the right conclusion. He would have easily convinced his superiors that as Akbar was a known terrorist the STG needed to be kept informed and then insinuated himself into the investigation. The best way to be kept informed would be to tag along after Moana Te Kanawa, who he was following round like a bad smell.

  “Have you confirmed from your source that this guy is Zahar Akbar?” Cunningham asked.

  “I was about to phone you,” Jeff lied. “It’s confirmed. Now you know for certain, will you bring in the Squadron?”

  “Not yet. At the moment this guy is just a violent offender. Nothing to indicate terrorist activity. My bosses will not willingly hand over the investigation to outsiders. It would be admitting the department failed. Not a good career move.”

  “And your STG group?”

  “On standby. For the moment I’m an observer working alongside Sergeant Te Kanawa, that’s all. Let the detectives do the detecting, I’m no Sherlock Holmes. Te Kanawa doesn’t like it. I wouldn’t either. A big career-building case and an asshole like me stepping on toes.”