The Mark of Halam (A Jeff Bradley Thriller) Page 8

  “You look great,” Jeff said, and meant it.

  “I’m better. I’m getting back into training next week. Starting slow, but I need to get back to normality. Going to join me?”

  “Let me know the times. Not too early,” Jeff said.

  If Mary was running he would be there right beside her. He was not letting her out of his sight in public. The security man he had hired to look out for her stood just inside the door. They exchanged nods.

  She had her smile back. The blackness around her eye was barely discernible behind the makeup. The police had offered Mary the sanctuary of a safe house until Zahar was caught but she had refused. She was not going to let some asshole tell her how to live her life. Her reaction was no more than Jeff would have expected.

  “Top athletes are a tough bunch,” he had said to Cunningham. “And none tougher than Mary.”

  Jeff had decided that if protecting her meant training with her then he would train with her even if he had to ride a bloody bike. She didn’t blame him for the attack even though the note showed otherwise. Her graciousness didn’t make the guilt go away.

  “Have you heard from Ann?” Jeff asked.

  “Yes. She’s not coping so well,” Mary said.

  Jeff nodded. She put her arm through his.

  “What do you think of Quentin’s club?” Mary asked.

  “I think Quentin might just make a go of it. But in the end Jeannie will make him sell.”

  The band switched to a more sedate tune.

  “How about a dance?” Mary asked.

  She lifted her chin and her blue eyes signalled she wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Jeff had spent a good two years wanting to hold Mary in his arms and for two years he had shown great restraint. But, now he wanted to hold her for different reasons. He wanted to make her safe. Hide her from the world.

  He allowed Mary to lead him onto the dance floor.

  As they moved to the rhythm of the music she moulded her body into his and Jeff wrapped his arms around her. She rested her head on his shoulder. Her hair brushed his cheek. He inhaled aromas of shampoo and perfume that intruded on his imaginings, heightened anticipation and stirrings of arousal. He fought a full- pitched battle with his feelings. Then the music stopped and the silence impacted the moment. Jeff let his arms fall and stepped back.

  The band announced a break. Jeff shrugged. “Sorry, looks like no more dancing.”

  Mary pouted and feigned disappointed. The spontaneity had passed but they stayed standing close to each other almost touching.

  Mary stroked Jeff’s arm, “Was that so painful?”

  Jeff smiled back. “No pain at all.”

  “Good, so we can have another dance?”

  Quentin and Jeannie joined them. Quentin was all smiles.

  “Hey, Jeff. What do you think of our nightclub?”

  Jeff leaned forward and kissed Jeannie on the cheek. “What does Jeannie think of ‘Jeannie’s’?”

  “I think I’ve been conned, Jeff,” Jeannie said resignedly. “I have a husband who can’t have a normal hobby like model trains or golf. He has to live in the past.”

  “Anytime you want to leave him I’m always available,” Jeff said.

  “Can I bring the kids as well?”

  “Are they house trained?” Jeff said, with a grin.

  “I’m going to sit down,” Mary said.

  She squeezed Jeff’s arm. A gentle reminder she was ready to dance as soon as the band started up again.

  “I’ll come with you,” Jeannie said.

  Over Quentin’s shoulder Jeff saw Brian Cunningham enter. He recognised the woman with him, dressed in the charcoal trouser suit and navy blue blouse, Barbara Heywood. She was taller than she appeared to be on television. The television presenter had been leaving him messages; another journalist wanting an interview him. Barbara Heywood was a notch above the normal jeans and holey sweater brigade. At some stage through the evening she would no doubt corner him.

  “Jeff, come to the bar, there’s someone I want you to meet,” said Quentin.

  Jeff followed.

  “Mr Esat Krasniqi,” Quentin said, introducing the man he tapped on the shoulder. Jeff shook the offered hand. “Esat is a client of mine. He’s from Kosovo. Esat, Jeff was in Kosovo not so long ago.”

  “Really? Which part may I ask?”

  “Prishtina.”

  “I hope it was not too difficult for you?”

  “I coped,” Jeff said. “How long have you been in New Zealand, Esat?”

  “Some years now. I was fortunate enough to come to New Zealand as a refugee.”

  “You have a business here?”

  “Exporting mostly. Back to the Balkans and also the Middle East. I have many contacts in these parts.”

  “Exporting is a difficult business. I do a bit myself. Do you work on commission?”

  “No. I mostly buy and sell. I have more control that way.”

  Jeff was thoughtful. Buying product and exporting would require a great deal of capital. Not bad for a refugee who would have arrived in New Zealand with only a few dollars in his pocket.

  “How did you achieve refugee status? Did you have family here?”

  “No. The New Zealand government said they would take one hundred and fifty Kosovans. I was one of the lucky ones.”

  “And you like it here?”

  Esat placed his hand on his chest, “I love New Zealand. It has been very good for me.”

  “And now Kosovo has gained independence, will you return?”

  “No. I have no desire to return. Not now. Before, maybe. A sense of patriotism and all that but politics in the Balkans will always be unreliable. My future is here so I will stay. I have a good life.”

  “You have a family?”

  “My wife and children were killed by the Serbs. I never remarried.”

  “I’m sorry. I heard many similar stories during my visit.”

  “It is in the past and I have come to terms with it. I have women of course.” He laughed. “I am not going to become a priest. But another family? No. Not again.”

  “Well enjoy the evening Esat.”

  Jeff had put it off long enough. He crossed the floor to where Cunningham and Barbara Heywood were sitting. Cunningham was speaking into his mobile. He whispered something into Barbara’s ear. She nodded.

  “I’ve been called back to the office,” he said to Jeff. “You and I need to talk.”

  “When you’re ready.”

  Cunningham disappeared through the doors. Jeff looked down at Barbara Heywood.

  “Hi, Brian forgot his manners. I’m Jeff Bradley.”

  “I know who you are, Jeff. Take a seat. You’ve been ignoring my phone calls.”

  “I’ve been busy. Besides, I’ve nothing further to add to what you probably already know.”

  “You destroyed a terrorist cell in Kosovo. Pretty big news, Jeff. You’re a hero. The people want to know. Hear your story.”

  “The people have already moved on and so have I. I’m a winemaker.”

  “So I’ve heard. And yet a close friend of yours was almost murdered a few days ago.”

  Jeff raised an eyebrow. “Cunningham has been telling tales out of school. Are you and he together?”

  She laughed.

  “No, we’re not an item. Quentin sent an invite to our network’s food critic. It landed on my desk. I needed a partner and Brian was the last male I spoke to. I made my own way here and Brian waited for me at the door. The perfect gentleman. So are you going to give me an interview?”

  Jeff smiled.

  “Did Mary Sumner fight off her attacker?”

  “Why don’t you ask Mary? She’s sitting over there.”

  “I’m an old-fashioned journo. I have scruples. I’ll leave her be u
ntil she says it’s okay to talk. Brian told me mostly everything. Left out a few small details no doubt but I know enough. My viewers would love to hear how a beautiful Olympic medallist beat up on a killer.”

  “Brian has been chatty.”

  “We have a pact. He tells me all and I keep my mouth shut. He said you had identified the killer as a terrorist. Someone from Kosovo.”

  Jeff scratched the back of his head.

  Mention of Mary’s attacker had him turning his attention back to Esat Krasniqi. He looked over his shoulder. The Kosovan was still standing at the bar nursing a bottle of beer. He seemed decent enough but he was Kosovan. Could the world really be that small?

  “You’re not being very sociable, Jeff,” Barbara said breaking into his thoughts. “You’re meant to be talking with me, not looking at other women. A girl could get offended.”

  “Sorry. Not another woman. I was talking to the man standing at the end of the bar earlier. The one in the grey jacket. Something is not right with him.”

  “Not right. How not right?”

  “I’m not sure. Just a feeling. Can I get you another drink?”

  “My glass is still half full,” Barbara said.

  Jeff reached across and tipped the contents of Barbara’s glass into the ice bucket.

  Her mouth dropped open.

  “While I’m getting you a drink I’m going to talk to him. See if I can get a reaction. If I do and he leaves, follow him into the foyer, see what he does. If he leaves the building don’t follow, but I think what he might do is go into the foyer to make a phone call. If so, I need to know what is being said, okay?”

  “This is a pretty poor attempt at making an impression. A bit too macho for my liking.” She forced a laugh. “But what the hell, I’m a journalist. You’ve got me hooked. The restaurant you take me to when I interview you better be top class.”

  “If I agree to an interview you get to choose.”

  “What if he speaks Kosovan or whatever language they speak?”

  “It would be either Serbian or Albanian. But if he is speaking to who I think he might phone then he will speak English; the common language between the two. However I could be wrong and nothing will happen, in which case I apologise for tipping out your wine and acting like an asshole.”

  Jeff walked off towards Esat Krasniqi. He placed the glass on the bar and waved to the barman.

  “Hi, Esat. Standing alone. Would you like to join our table?”

  “No. Thank you. I’m fine. I enjoy my own company.”

  “As long as you’re having fun.”

  “I am enjoying the evening very much but I must go soon. Business to attend to. Exporting is never ending.”

  “There is something I meant to ask you earlier. When you were back in Kosovo did you ever come across a local prosecutor named Avni Leka?”

  There was a flicker of the eyes, quickly hidden but there all the same. Jeff saw it and knew he had hit the mark.

  “No, I am sorry. I do not know this name.”

  “How about Halam Akbar or his brother Zahar? Do these names ring a bell?”

  “No, I am sorry, I do not know either of these men.” Esat licked his top lip. His eyes flicked left and right. “Kosovo might be a small country but there are many people. If you will excuse me for a moment I need to use the bathroom. It is in the foyer I believe.”

  “Sure, go ahead. I’ll catch you later.”

  Jeff didn’t turn to watch Esat leave. He was confident Barbara was too much the professional to not be on his tail. The barman passed Jeff a fresh glass of wine and he carried it back to the table. He smiled when he saw Barbara’s chair was empty. She waved from the door. Jeff put the glass of wine on the table and crossed to her.

  “He’s meeting somebody in fifteen minutes,” she said. “He’s gone.”

  “Damn. I used the ferry to get here tonight. I don’t have a car.”

  “We can use mine.”

  18.

  There he is,” Barbara said, pointing toward the swiftly moving Esat Krasniqi. “That’s my car opposite. The grey Mercedes sports parked outside the pharmacy.” She tossed her keys to Jeff. “You can drive. If you get a ticket for speeding or crashing a red light it’s on you.”

  Jeff smiled. Barbara had spirit.

  He fumbled the key into the ignition, pulled out and u-turned. Esat had climbed into his car but as yet had not driven off. Jeff pulled over. Esat’s brake lights flashed. He moved forward. Jeff let two cars pass then gave chase.

  “A white car should be easy enough to keep sight of,” Jeff said.

  The white Toyota turned into Queen Street and then right onto Customs Street and was soon making its way up Parnell Rise.

  “Luckily, for a Saturday night the traffic is light,” Jeff said.

  Traffic lights opposite the Anglican Church turned red. The two cars between Jeff and Esat turned left on the green arrow signal. Jeff had little choice but close the distance, almost touching the bumper of Esat’s Toyota. He held his hand across his face. An instinctive reaction but he doubted Esat could see anything more than a dark outline in his rear-view mirror.

  “He’s heading for Newmarket,” Barbara said.

  Jeff kept to the inside lane. Fifty metres before the century-old Jubilee building, now housing the Parnell library and community centre, the Toyota’s right blinker flashed and Esat turned into Maunsell, an entry street into the Domain.

  “I don’t like the look of this,” Jeff said, more to himself.

  He glanced across at Barbara; her eyes were fixed on the Toyota. She didn’t acknowledge she’d heard his comment. Lucky, he thought. He didn’t want to worry her, not yet, anyway, but the Domain was a perfect spot for an ambush. In his military days he’d had to study prominent features of Auckland city. As he remembered it the central city park covered more than seventy-five hectares spread out across the crater of the extinct Pukekawa volcano. Not that you’d ever know it was a volcano. Like all Aucklanders, he had been in the park hundreds of times. As a kid he played football on the many sports fields, even been to a concert. He’d been in the winter garden, the cricket pavilion, duck ponds and small copses of trees, but he had never seen the volcano. The crater walls were now camouflaged by trees and housing and further-out roads and commercial buildings.

  The one spot Jeff would rather have steered clear of was the kilometre of forest and bush on the seaward side. This was close to where Esat Krasniqi had driven and was now slowing.

  Jeff turned off the Mercedes’s lights and pulled over. He left the motor idling. Esat moved forward at walking pace.

  “What’s he up to?” Barbara asked.

  “Looking for someone I’d say.”

  “I guessed that, Jeff. I’m not an idiot. Surely they would have a rendezvous point?”

  “Maybe the contact is being cautious. Looking to see if anyone like you and me is following.”

  “That makes sense, I suppose, but I’m nervous.”

  Jeff inched closer. Esat pulled over in front of a palm tree. The only one as far as Jeff could see. It was an easily identifiable landmark to use for a meeting spot. Jeff kept his distance. Lights off.

  Esat remained in the car.

  “Why don’t we just call the police, Jeff?”

  “Firstly, he hasn’t done anything but go for a drive. What would you say to Brian? That you followed a man in a car and you think he should be arrested? Secondly, if these guys operate the way I think they do, individually they will know bits and pieces but no one will know everything. That’s how terrorist cells work, but right now I don’t know for certain that Esat belongs to one. Anyway, we can always find Esat later but we might never find the man he is meeting if this encounter goes awry. If the contact doesn’t get in the car I’m going after him.” Barbara touched Jeff’s arm. Concerned.

  “It’s w
hat I’m trained to do,” he said.

  Barbara’s mobile rang. “Barbara Heywood.”

  “Barbara, its Brian.”

  Barbara glanced across at Jeff and mouthed, ‘Brian Cunningham’. “How can I help, Brian?”

  “My call back to the station came to nothing. I was wondering, if you’re still at the nightclub and in the mood I might come back, have a drink. What do you think? If you want we could go somewhere for dinner.”

  “Someone’s coming,” Jeff whispered.

  “Just a moment, Brian.”

  A stocky, overweight figure emerged from behind the palm tree. Barbara barely dared to breathe.

  “If that’s not Akbar, it’s an associate of his. I’d stake my life on it,” Jeff whispered. “And if that’s true then I was right all along. Akbar has a reason for being here and he’s brought men with him.”

  “Barbara. Are you there?”

  “Please, Brian,” Barbara whispered into the phone. “One moment.”

  She watched as the man moved to the driver’s window.

  “He’s not getting in,” Jeff said. “Esat’s car is still running. Fuck it.” He turned to Barbara. “Stay with the car.”

  Jeff pushed the door open and climbed out.

  “If anything goes wrong get the hell out of here.”

  “Barbara. Talk to me,” Cunningham said. Voice firmer.

  Jeff walked at a steady pace towards the white Toyota. Barbara slid across into the driver’s seat.

  “Jesus. He’s going after him,” Barbara said into the phone.

  “After who?” Cunningham yelled. “Barbara!”

  “Sorry, Brian. Jeff and I followed a hunch and it’s paid off. Jeff believes a man working for your potential killer-come-terrorist is not more than a hundred metres away. He’s gone after him.”

  “He’s bloody well what? Where the hell are you?”

  “Maunsell Street. The last street on the right before the Newmarket library. We’re parked at the entrance to the Domain where Maunsell cuts across Titoki. Outside the Parnell tennis club. The man came out from some trees.”

  “I’m on my way. Do not move!” Cunningham screamed and rang off.

  Barbara dropped the phone onto the passenger seat. She held her right hand over her mouth. Holding in her breath. Eyes wide. Fearful that the slightest sound might alert the men Jeff was closing in on.