The Mark of Halam (24 page)

Barbara had put in a half day in the office then made her way home via the supermarket. She bought mince, pasta and fresh herbs. In her larder cans of tomatoes and tomato concentrate clogged the shelves. Italian was her comfort food. A glass of wine and bolognese at her balcony table was a treat she rarely indulged. Today was to be one of those days.

The door buzzer went off. Barbara, wooden spoon in one hand and a teaspoon of pasta halfway to her lips in the other, turned her head to the door and fought the urge to answer it. She blew on the spoon to cool it and nibbled a sample.

The buzzer went off again. This time the finger pushing the button held it down.

“Damn it.”

She let the spoon slide back into the sauce.

Jeff Bradley, expecting her to look through the peep hole, waved back.

“I was in the city,” he said. “Called in on the off chance you might like lunch. And here you are. So what do you say? Want to come to lunch? That promised meal? Hmmm, something smells yummy.”

Barbara smiled. “I was making Italian, and you’re just in time. I hope you like spaghetti?”

“I sure do and it will make a change from having to cook for myself.” He sat on one of the stools at the breakfast bar. Barbara poured him a glass of wine.

She asked, “Any news from your friend in Kosovo?”

“I haven’t checked. Can I use your computer?”

She turned the knob on the oven to low. “Let’s do it.”

Barbara followed Jeff to the computer. She leaned on his
shoulder and watched as he logged onto his email address. Barbara
leaned closer, her cheek almost touching his. A whiff of her perfume attacked his senses, made him want to spin round and pull her onto his knee. Jeff clicked on the icon and his mail page opened. The name Sulla Bogdani was fourth on the list of emails in the inbox. Jeff clicked on the line and Sulla’s email opened. Jeff quickly scanned the message. Sulla said he had read through the Albanian language documents and all that caught his attention were a few email communications. It wasn’t that they said anything in particular, Sulla added, but that the messages had been so vague. They appeared to say nothing at all. Not even hello. In his opinion, within the sentences was a coded message. It was all he could think of that would make sense of it. Either that, or these are two very boring men and you would not wish to invite them to dinner. Jeff smiled as he remembered Sulla’s sense of humour. Sulla wrote that the communications were from one man. He had written a name across the page in twenty-four font size and in bold black lettering.

Ibrahim Mustafa.

40.

C
unningham and Caldwell caught the noon ferry across the harbour to Devonport. Cunningham had decided against driving. Traffic on the harbour bridge was down to a crawl, and once across, driving the length of the peninsula to Devonport would be impossible. The ferry was the best option. From the Devonport ferry terminal to the Naval Base entrance was a pleasant walk along the foreshore. Protestors crowded the entrance and although the two men had worn casual clothes to avoid standing out, the crowd had no difficulty in recognising outsiders. Smiling eyes turned hostile as Cunningham nudged bodies aside as he made his way to the base entrance. Caldwell followed in his footsteps.

In front of the entry gate, a barrier of traffic cones and concrete blocks placed thirty metres out marked no man’s land. A ‘No Entry’ sign sat on a pole looking every bit like a traffic stop sign. From Cunningham’s observation the crowd had kept its distance. He had little doubt from the officious, stiff-backed stance of the military police charged with enforcing the directive that there would have been arrests if the protestors had not kept their distance.

As Cunningham moved past the stop sign, two burly military policemen moved forward to meet them. Caldwell produced his invitation from the submarine commander and one of the MPs took it and their IDs to the small glassed office. The second MP remained standing in front of them blocking their path. Arms folded. Silent. The protestors, now having someone other than sailors to hurl abuse at, turned their venom on Cunningham and Caldwell. Ignoring them brought on a tirade of obscenities.

“Don’t you just love an affectionate public?” Cunningham said.

The MP returned and gave them back their ID cards, but kept the invitation. Cunningham was about to ask for it but thought better of it. Caldwell didn’t seem too concerned. Their officiousness reassured him.

“Follow me, gentlemen.” They were led through the gates to a waiting Jeep. The MP instructed the driver to take his passengers to the officer’s mess. Outside the mess an orderly waited on the steps to greet the guests then ushered them through to the restaurant. Two American naval officers in white dress uniform sat at a table by a window.

“Commander Robert Mann and my executive officer Sean Flynn,” Mann said, not bothering to stand. “Sit down, gents.”

Mann asked the orderly to bring some coffee. They exchanged small talk until the drinks arrived.

“Now, Mr Caldwell, what is this all about? You have very nervous friends in high places who insist I speak to you. What can be so urgent?”

“How aware are you of events taking place in New Zealand over the last couple of weeks?” Caldwell asked.

“If you’re referring to the protestors, we’d expected that. We of course know about the so-called terrorists shooting up the countryside and then of course the bombing. We have received intel that all this might be because of us, but nothing confirmed. There has been talk of a torpedo. But again nothing confirmed. It’s all speculation as far as I can tell.” Mann leaned forward and picked up his coffee. He rested it on a napkin in his left hand and peered at Caldwell over the top of it. “Is that why you’re here? To tell me otherwise?”

“More than a month ago,’ Caldwell started, “we’re not certain of the date, a man named Zahar Akbar entered New Zealand. Akbar is part of a terrorist group that was previously led by his brother, a man named Halam Akbar. Halam was recently killed in Kosovo. It appears Zahar has taken over from his brother. When he came to New Zealand he brought a bunch of friends with him. We don’t know how many but enough. Inspector Cunningham’s people have been responsible for killing four of them and capturing one. There have been a couple of others killed by Akbar himself. They’re reduced in number but of course we have no idea how many there were in the first place. In any case I doubt the losses have decreased their effectiveness. My best guess is there are plenty more of them out there.”

Caldwell continued, “In a warehouse they used as a hideout we found empty weapons crates. They had shipped them in by container then hijacked the truck on its way to a bonded warehouse to be cleared through customs. We now know the crates held hand guns and automatic weapons and plastic explosive. I also think a couple of missile launchers, maybe stingers, and my gut tells me two torpedoes.”

Mann leaned forward. “There is no doubt they are torpedoes?”

“There is always doubt, Commander. We did not physically see the torpedoes and they may well have used the packaging for something else, but I think it is safer to assume that these guys have come to town to do your submarine some damage. The timing is just too coincidental for it to be anything else.”

“We aren’t sitting ducks.” Mann turned to his executive officer. “Sean has nets in place supplied by the New Zealanders. As we speak, ships are being anchored between the
Ulysses
and the outer harbour.”

“No chance of just leaving?” Brian Cunningham asked.

“None at all,” Mann replied. “It’s taken a long time for New Zealand to accept a nuclear vessel into their country. We have assured them it is safe to have us here. Can’t turn and run now, can we? No we will leave as scheduled. I will expect you two to stop these guys.”

Both Cunningham and Caldwell smiled. They liked Mann’s attitude.

“There is something you can help us with,” Cunningham said. “We’ve spoken to our military leaders but would really like your opinion. If someone wanted to fire a torpedo at your sub, how would they do it?”

“In this anchorage it would have to be a boat. No other way. The boat would need to be a reasonable length. At least forty to fifty feet. It would need to have launch chutes attached and of course the electronics to fire it. Unfortunately all too easily done.”

“Could they have had time to convert a pleasure boat in the last month?”

“Plenty of time. Someone who knew what they were doing could do it in a night. Maybe two.”

Cunningham nodded and turned to Caldwell. He had all the information he needed. If they were to convert a boat it could not be done in the open. It would attract too much attention. They couldn’t truck it to the water later for the same reason. They would need a boat shed that was on the water. He had something to look for but this was Auckland and it wasn’t called the city of sails for nothing. There were boat sheds spread all along the fifty kilometres of coastline that made up the Auckland harbour.

“I need to get choppers in the air,” Cunningham said. “We have a large area to search. I’ll ask the air force for help. Anything that big we should be able to spot easy enough.”

“You do that, Mr Cunningham. I’ll make sure our defensive shield is effective.”

He passed Caldwell a card. “Here is my cellphone number. Please keep me informed.”

Jeff looked through the phonebook but there was no listing for Ibrahim Mustafa. That didn’t really mean anything though – it could be that he was living with somebody else, using another name
or just plain unlisted.

“We need to talk to someone in the Kosovan community,” Jeff said.

“What about Brian?” Barbara asked. “Shouldn’t we be giving him this information?”

“Yes, we should.”

“But we aren’t going to?”

“No, we are not. Not yet,” Jeff said. “Let’s find the guy first. Then we can go to Brian. Back out if you want.”

She gave him her best pissed off look.

“Okay. I won’t ask you again.”

“Where do we start?”

Jeff opened the phone book again. This time the business section, “No matter what, new immigrants from the same country usually gather together and try to create a little bit of home. Like the expat bars in Third World countries. If you want to find a lost soul, that’s where to go. The Kosovans and Albanians will be no different. The men love to sit in cafés and drink coffee and cognac. Aha, here we are, four Albanian restaurants. Let’s see if we get lucky.”

Jeff phoned the first name. No answer. “An answer phone,” he said. “They don’t open until 5pm.”

The second number rang twice. “Tirana restaurant, how can I help you?”

“Good morning. I was supposed to meet a friend for lunch and he said he had booked a table at this restaurant, but I can’t remember which time and I can’t make contact with him.”

“Do you have a name, sir?”

“Ibrahim Mustafa.”

“One moment,” a pause, “I’m sorry, there is no reservation under that name.”

“I’m sorry, my mistake. Do you know Mr Mustafa? Maybe I have the wrong day?”

“No, sir, the name is not familiar.”

Jeff hung up and phoned the third number.

“Skenderberg restaurant.”

“Hi, I just want to check a booking time, it is under the name Ibrahim Mustafa.”

“Just one moment. I cannot see anything but then Mr Mustafa wouldn’t normally book. He is a regular.”

“He said to come for lunch but did not say a time.”

“Usually he will come in at one o’clock.”

“Then I will come at one o’clock. Thank you. The Skenderberg Restaurant on Ponsonby Road,” Jeff said, hanging up the phone. “One o’clock. I say we go there for lunch. Ask some questions and see what happens.”

“Okay,” Barbara agreed. “Are we sure this is the right thing to do? Brian was angry last time we ran off on our own.”

She could see Jeff was in a determined mood and knew what that meant.

“I’m not comfortable he would make the right decision. Not the one that works best for me, anyway. If I’m looking out for my own skin and probably yours for that matter then I’m going to do whatever it takes. This is about self defence. I’m not prepared to sit back and leave my fate and those close to me, as Akbar’s note in Mary’s kitchen stated, in someone else’s hands. Especially Brian’s.”

“Right then. Let’s go find Ibrahim Mustafa.”

Jeff dismissed Barbara’s SAS escort and drove her car himself to the Skenderberg Restaurant. The restaurant was named after the legendary Albanian hero who fought off the Ottoman hordes trying to invade Albania in the fourteenth century. Jeff had seen a statue of Skenderberg on a horse, sword drawn, in the city of Prishtina.

“Take any spare table you wish,” the waitress told Jeff. “There are no bookings. Not for lunch.” A corner table afforded the best view of the door and the rest of the interior. He pulled a chair out for Barbara.

“What a gentleman. Thank you.”

There were twenty other diners but it was the table near the door into the kitchen that caught Jeff’s interest. Five men sat round it, in front of them espresso coffees and cognacs. It reminded him of Kosovo. A scene he had seen many times.

“We at least know who the Albanians are,” Jeff smiled.

“Where?” Barbara asked, looking around the room. Jeff grinned.

The waitress brought menus. She was in her early twenties, a pretty girl with a friendly manner and noticeable accent.

“Is this restaurant owned by Albanian Albanians or Kosovan Albanians?” Jeff asked.

“We’re all Albanians,” the girl replied.

“Sorry,” Jeff said. “I wasn’t trying to be smart. It’s just that my wife and I were in Prishtina not so long ago.”

“Really?” the girl said excitedly. “That’s where my family comes from. What were you doing in Prishtina?”

“Looking at business opportunities. Did some sightseeing.”

“I haven’t been there for so long. I miss my friends. We write each other over the internet but it’s not the same.”

“Maybe you will go back one day.”

“Not if my father has his way. He will never return. He loves New Zealand.” She put the menus on the table. “Can I get you drinks?”

“Two orange juices,” Jeff said. “One more thing.” She paused.
“I phoned earlier and was told I might find Mr Ibrahim Mustafa here?”

“You’re a friend of Mr Mustafa’s?”

“Business acquaintance.”

“He will be in any time now. Those are his friends over there.” She indicated the group of men at the table by the kitchen.

“Good. I’ll look out for him.”

She turned away.

“Very smooth, Mr Bradley.” Barbara said when the waitress had gone. “I think it helped a little that she was pretty. I think she was upset to find out you were married.”