The Mark of Halam (8 page)

“Okay. Get it over with.” Then he thought, “Not in the face. My wife will have to identify the body.”

“You are a brave man,” the speaker said. “I respect that but do not worry. We are not going to kill you. I want you to turn around and walk back the way you came. Do not turn around and do not do anything stupid. I know you will be insured for your truck and your load, so there is nothing here worth dying for is there?”

“No,” Wiki whispered feeling a little weak in the knees. Then he repeated the word a little more clearly.

“Good. It is good we understand each other. Now on your way.” Wiki hesitated. Maybe they would shoot him in the back. “Go on.” The speaker repeated. “It will be okay.”

Wiki began walking slowly at first and then a little quicker but careful not to run. At any moment he expected to be propelled forward by the blast of two barrels. As he passed the end of his trailer he increased his pace. He heard the sound of his truck motor revving. He kept moving forward. He was not going to turn round even though he could now hear the two vehicles moving away. He started to run. He was going to run all the way home. He wanted to water the flowers. Yes, he thought, when he got home he would water his flowers. Marama would think he was mad but who cared. He was still alive. He was even looking forward to talking to her mother.

Brian Cunningham walked into Moana Te Kanawa’s office, a coffee in each hand. He placed a cup on the table and holding onto the second sat in the chair against the wall.

“Barbara Heywood phoned last night,” Cunningham said.

“Looking for a story?”

“No. With information.”

“Really?”

“One of her staff was at the Chelsea Bar drinking with a crowd of protesters. The anti-nuclear lot.”

“I wondered where most of them disappeared to at night. Now we know,” Moana said with a wry smile. “Mind you it does surprise me. It’s not cheap drinking in any of the city clubs these days.”

“Drinks loosen tongues. Some of them started boasting about how they were being paid to protest.”

“Really?” Moana looked interested.

“It seems that less than a month ago our fledgling anarchists hit pay dirt. Someone not only gave them a lot of money to hire and equip an office but for salaries as well. Apparently they are not alone. There are a number of these groups across the city.”

“Who’s funding them?” Moana asked. “Did this assistant get a
name?”

“No, only that the man paying out the money is foreign but they don’t know where from.”

“Professional protesters are not uncommon, Brian. The nuclear issue is a hot topic. It’s not beyond the realms of possibility that someone with a pocket full of money and strong feelings on the subject would be prepared to spend to ensure the message to government was clear. Anyway, it really hasn’t much to do with us. Pass it on to someone else. No crime is being committed. Not as far as I can assess.”

“Normally I’d agree, but after talking with Barbara my gut is telling me it’s all just a little odd. Her assistant found out that the money comes from a guy with an accent. I can’t help thinking it’s too much of a coincidence that someone is paying for protests at the same time as Zahar Akbar lands in our city. I know it seems a long shot, but after Jeff Bradley confirmed our wannabe killer is an international terrorist it might not be that far-fetched. The protestors blocking the main roads in and out of the city at rush hour is pissing drivers off. Fights are breaking out. It’s bound to get uglier and it’s tying up police personnel.”

Moana frowned and said, “I hear you but that’s still a big jump.”

“Jeff Bradley knows this terrorist and he’s adamant this guy Akbar is up to something. It worries me that he might be right, which is why I’m here getting under your feet. What if the protests are covering up something else? Distracting us from the real goal.”

“You know Bradley well enough to accept this theory has merit?”

“Yes. I trust his judgment.”

“Fine. But what would be the point of it all?”

“That I can’t get my head round as yet. But police resources are stretched. Once the public knows we have terrorists in town it will be impossible. And remember this guy and his brother blew up city squares. Killed lots of people. What if their purpose is to grow larger and larger crowds? That has been pretty much achieved hasn’t it?”

Moana paled. That was a scary thought. She had two sons at university. She would make sure they kept well away. “One question, though, why come to New Zealand and blow people up? The rest of the world is a damn sight easier to hide in and escape from.”

Cunningham nodded and said, “That’s the argument I’ve been tossing around in my head. It might be I’m way out on the wrong limb and the theory collapses under me. There is an old saying, better to be perceived a fool than do nothing and remove all doubt. Look, exploding a bomb in a public place might not be Akbar’s prime objective but that doesn’t rule out the possibility he might do it just for the hell of it . . .”

Moana was thoughtful.

“Tonight I’ll send Jessica and Red up to the Chelsea to play the happy couple. See if they can make a connection and find the money man.”

17.

J
eff gave a wry smile when he saw ‘Jeannie’s’ in large neon lights above the entrance to Quentin’s new nightclub. A cunning plan to mollify his wife, but he doubted it would be enough. Jeannie loved her man child but Quentin clubbing the night away was never going to happen long term.

The music was vibrant and bouncy. Not too loud. Jeff couldn’t quite work out if the ambience worked or not. But the band was live and in his opinion, pretty good. Not that he considered himself an expert when it came to music but he knew what he liked and the dance floor was full of bobbing heads so he guessed others thought so too. Quentin had managed to gather a sizable crowd to enjoy the free food and booze. Ice buckets sat on tables holding magnums of champagne and extra staff walked between patrons holding plates of neatly displayed finger food in one hand and paper towels in the other. Open bottles of Boundary Fence wines sat on the bar and in the refrigerator behind more wine and more than a dozen varieties of beer and soft drinks.

Mary sat alone in one of the cubicles. She looked cheerful enough. She waved when she saw Jeff and made her way across to him. Her blonde hair was not in her usual ponytail but down across her shoulders. She gave Jeff a hug.

“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 mur
dered 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
until 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.”