by Matt Hammond
The town was twenty-five minutes behind them. For much of that time the highway had cut through a large forest, not natural forest, a man–made one of tall, identical pine trees. The road undulated gently, laid in a perfectly straight line as far as they could see. Trees bordered either side behind a small wire fence.
In his severely sleep–deprived state, David found it difficult concentrating on the monotonous, unswerving road. He thought for a moment before discounting as ridiculous that this particular road suggested the Romans may have colonised these islands long before the Maori.
The car swept past countless rows of perfectly planted trees. Each one had been planted many years before, exactly evenly spaced, row upon row, hundreds of thousands of identical trees. This was not a forest; it was a crop, a slow growing one, but clearly a harvestable resource.
As he drove, Katherine asleep next to him, David reached across for the glove compartment. Carefully steering one–handed, he again read from the neatly typed sheet how America was supposedly covertly investing millions of dollars in alternative energy using trees and cows. Suddenly he brought the car to a stop. The engine whined as he reversed a short distance back down the deserted road.
The change in momentum woke Katherine up. “Why are we stopping?”
“I want to read that sign.”
At the entrance to a gated track was a large white wooden board. It read, 'This forest is managed by Cowood Industries. Private Property. Keep Out.' It listed the number of successive plantings, beginning in 1980, the most recent in 1996.
“So, here’s the thing. Over the past few years the American Government has secretly invested in all this forestry, using it for normal industries like building and furniture, but all this time they have also been buying up the land beneath the trees and using it to plant their own future fuel source. It’s so simple and perfectly legitimate. You don’t have to invade anyone for it. You don’t even have to buy it from anyone else. In fact the people who used to own the land, or manage it for them, are probably grateful for the investment.”
“So what’s wrong with it, then?”
By now they were out of the car and standing by the side of the road, the almost imperceptible ticking of the engine drowned out by the exotic call of bellbirds somewhere deep in the forest. The smell of fresh pine wafted gently on the cool air.
This was the epitome of the clean, green image which had attracted them to New Zealand in the first place. David gazed around, breathing in the crisp clean air, trying to convince himself there was something wrong with this picture. He lifted his head higher and took a deep breath. “It’s because of the secrecy. Have you ever heard of this as an alternative fuel source?” His wife, the science teacher, the one who was meant to know about these things, shook her head, still looking puzzled.
Katherine stood admiring the scenery but David was already back inside the car, this time in the passenger seat, looking through the tourist literature that had been placed, with some apparent forethought, in the glove box. He had already scanned over the maps but now they drew his attention, not for the tourist destinations, but for the amount of land, according to the legend, given over to trees. Ten per cent of the entire land mass of the North Island alone was forestry. He dug deeper. Motel leaflets, a mobile phone recharge card, and clipped to the inside of the small card folder containing all this paper, five one hundred dollar notes. “Look at this,” he said, holding up the money, “Somebody is helping us avoid using the card. This isn’t a usual car rental perk.”
A distant hum made him look back down the road. Through the haze shimmering above its surface, David could see a shape, equally liquid in the late morning warmth. It was a car moving swiftly towards them. They had been on this road for thirty minutes and had passed two other cars, both travelling south. The sight of another one, coming up behind them, made David nervous. They had two choices: stay put or move off now, at high speed, along a dead straight road, with no opportunity to turn off, according to the map, for many miles. It would turn into a speeding pursuit, with the following car eventually catching them up. David moved urgently back round to the driver’s side and got in, motioning Katherine to get back into the passenger seat.
“What’s the matter?”
“There’s a car coming up behind us and I reckon there’s a good chance it’s the one following us.” He put the Subaru into gear and moved off. “I’m just going to drive normally and wait and see what happens.”
He quickly accelerated to the speed limit. Once again there had been no opportunity to think his actions through. He had no idea what would happen in the next five minutes. All he knew was the car behind was making steady progress towards them. The driver was certainly breaking the speed limit, which in turn meant either he was just in a hurry or was pursuing them.
By now he could see it was a small blue saloon with a driver and passenger, less than a hundred metres behind. The driver indicated to overtake. As the car cruised past, David turned his head enough to see the passenger to his right was looking straight ahead, completely ignoring him. The blue car pulled back into the lane, maintaining its speed.
“So far, so good.” David whispered under his breath. Katherine did not reply. Glancing to his left, he noted her look of determined concentration. Years of marriage had honed their mutual body language–reading skills. He knew she was trying to conceal an inner terror.
Neither expected what happened next.
The rear window of the car in front began to flash blue. David braked and the leading car did the same. Before David realised what was going on, the manoeuvre had successfully slowed both cars to a graceful halt. All four sat motionless in silence, except for the faint burble of their engines. The occupants, two smart but casually dressed fit looking men in their mid thirties, opened their doors, stepped out and were standing beside David and Katherine’s doors, blocking their exit. David fumbled for the button to lower the window on his side. As he did so, the man standing next to him lowered himself to meet the space left by the glass.
“Mr David Turner?” The last time someone had said his name in that tone had been in the airport in Singapore. The man did not wait for confirmation. “New Zealand Police.”
For a split second David considered asking for proof; a badge or an ID card, but decided not to. He did however notice that he had introduced themselves as New Zealand Police as if any other police force would operate in New Zealand. David thought it wise to defer, at least to begin with. But something about the man’s voice was not right
“Could you step out of the car, please?”
He felt safe in the car. The engine was still running and the door was locked. The officer could sense David’s reticence and tried to ease the situation; “Look, I’m standing here on the road with my back to the traffic. It’s a lot safer if we stand over there on the grass verge,” he said, pointing to the parched area between the car and the densely packed trees. David and Katherine both got out of their car and the quartet walked in silence over to the fence. The other police officer spoke. “We understand you have entered the country in possession of a substantial amount of money in the form of a credit card, and that you are being pursued so the card can be re-instated to its rightful owner.”
David already knew this much for himself but he was not sure how much more the police knew, so he decided to test them. “Do you know who the card belongs to?” Finally the opportunity presented itself on a lonely road in the middle of a forest. “Do you know the reason why huge sums of money are being brought into New Zealand? Because I think I do.”
The two police officers looked at each other, then back at David; “Tell us what you know, Mr Turner.”
David relaxed. No longer feeling intimidated, he decided to ask a few questions of his own. “America?”
“No comment.” This meant they knew.
“Alternative fuel?”
“Sorry, we can’t discuss any of this with you.” They were getting restless.
&nb
sp; “Ok, why exactly have you stopped us, officer?”
“Because we believe you may be able to assist us in our enquiries into the death of a New Zealand national in London and we would like you to accompany us back to town to answer some further questions.”
Now David felt sick. For two days the police must have been playing this waiting game, tracking their every move, perhaps waiting for the owners of the card to intercept them, before finally pulling them over on a quiet country road. “Please get back in the car, turn around and drive back into town. We will be following right behind. A marked police car is on its way. They will meet up with us and escort you to the police station.”
David did as he was instructed, performed a careful U-turn on the deserted road, and headed back the way they had come. As they settled in for the thirty minute escorted drive, Katherine and her husband spoke again for the first time since they had been stopped:
“So what happens now?” she asked.
‘Well it looks like what finally happens now is the truth and, in the end, after racking my brains for the last few days, I can’t see we have actually done anything wrong.”
David’s phone suddenly rang. Katherine picked it up from between the two front seats and read the text.
Accelerate HARD!
David checked his rear view mirror. Ahead of him, a shimmer of yellow in the far distance came into view through the heat haze. Gripping the steering wheel, he pushed his foot flat to the floor. The gap between the Turner’s and the car behind grew as, checking the speedometer, David coaxed the Subaru past 110kph. He had presumed the text had come from the police behind them but their car was not matching his speed and there was now a gap of nearly a hundred metres between them.
The next twenty seconds happened very fast.
The yellow blur which had been travelling towards them suddenly came into focus as a large truck and trailer carrying logs. No longer shimmering, instead small puffs of blue smoke swirled around its tyres. The cab was rocking violently, and despite the road, the driver appeared to be having trouble keeping the huge vehicle in a straight line as it hurtled towards them.
David and Katherine were now speeding at 120kph towards it. The Subaru and truck whooshed past each other with barely a metre between them, the turbulence swaying the Turner’s car from side to side. Glancing to his right, David could see the trailer was already leaning in towards the other side of the road. There was a thud as the steering wheel was wrenched from his hands. The back end of the trailer had clipped their car. He wrestled with the steering and managed to pull the car back onto the left side of the road, trying desperately to decelerate.
Katherine was leaning over her seat, looking back up the road screaming; “Oh God! Oh Shit!”
The trailer was now across both lanes of the road and, between its wheels, now at right angles to the direction they should have been facing, David could see in the mirror the front of the police car, smoke also coming from its tyres as all four of its wheels appeared, in silence, to leave the ground, as the trailer unit careered into it. David braked hard and the Subaru screeched and shuddered to a halt.
The accident was about 200 metres behind them. David turned the car around and sped back up the road, stopping where the wreckage on the road made it impossible to continue. The cab of the truck was stationary; sitting upright, facing the right direction, on the correct side of the road. Behind it, the articulated trailer was also still upright but almost unrecognisable as a piece of road–going machinery, a twisted mass of metal and wood, devastated by the combined impact of the police car hitting it and the logs rolling onto the car and surrounding road.
They were both trained in first aid and instinctively ran towards the carnage, noticing as they got closer, a combination of burning rubber, petrol and fresh pine infused into the blue smoke which lingered in the swirling air. There was a ‘clunk’ and David saw two tree-trunk legs emerge from the driver’s side of the truck. Their owner ducked under the mangled trailer and strode over towards them. A large bear of a middle-aged Maori cracked a smile across his swarthy features, wiping sweat and oil from his glistening brow.
“Shit, that went a lot better than I expected.”
David and Katherine were speechless.
“Kia ora, I’m Hone Hemiate. How’s it goin?” He held out a huge brown muscled tattooed arm and gripped David’s nervously outstretched hand with some force, “’S'pect that scared the shit outa you’s fellas. Sorry ‘bout that. I ain’t got the hang of steering and texting yet. Guess I’ll have to get the kids to give me some lessons, eh?” Hone laughed loudly at his own humour. It felt out of place in the circumstances.
Neither of them could think of a suitable response after what had just happened. The two policemen still lay trapped in the wreckage beneath tons of metal and logs. Katherine made to go towards them. Hone stopped her, gently but firmly grabbing her arm. “Wouldn’t go near there if I was you, ma’am. Don’t worry ’bout those fellas - died instantly, I could see from up in the cab. Log straight through the windscreen and the top sliced off like a sardine can”.
She took exception to the fact he still had hold of her arm. “Mr Hemiate, you don’t seem too concerned that you’ve just killed two police officers in a horrific traffic accident.” She excused his jovial mood as some bizarre post-traumatic reaction.
His mood lowered. “Sorry folks, it wasn’t an accident. We needed to get those Yanks off your tail.”
“Yanks?”
David’s suspicion about the Kiwi accent he had heard minutes earlier was confirmed
“Yeah, they were American agents. Followed you’s all the way from Auckland. They were probably going to run you’s off the road in the next couple of minutes if I hadn’t got to them first. Did you give them the card?” He knew about the card.
“No.”
“Good, I’ll just go over and put this one in the car, then. Wait here. It’s a bit gruesome eh?”
He pulled a credit card from his jeans and walked back under the battered trailer. David could only see his legs as Hone wrenched open the door on the driver’s side. Then, moving quickly, he went round to the passenger side which was obscured by the wheels of the trailer. David could make out he was dragging the inert body of the passenger round the back of the car. Perhaps he was alive? He appeared to haul the body upright and took a step back, allowing the limp, lifeless body to collapse face down on the road. Hone turned, walked back and reached up, opening the truck’s driver–side door. There was a plume of black smoke as the engine choked into life. Once again he ducked under the trailer and ran towards them.
“Quick, get in the back of the car. We’ve only got a few seconds.” Hone got into the driver’s seat. Without questioning, they ran to the car and clambered into the rear. He started the engine and drove forward, bumping over bits of wreckage, steering onto the grass and around the truck cab. As they passed the front of the truck, the full horror of the scene this large Maori stranger had seemingly engineered moments before unfolded in front of them.
Now he accelerated, the back wheels screaming as they tried to grip the still hot tarmac. David and Katherine looked back as the scene quickly receded. Flames were beginning to emanate from under the front of the truck.
Hone spoke. “Another ten minutes and all she’ll be is a charred mess. By the time the local fire guys piss water and foam all over it and the cops have done their bit, all they’re gonna find is one dead truckie and a dead American tourist. The report back to their Embassy will confirm the car driver was carrying the card supposedly retrieved from you guys, and all the media will get will be a fatal traffic accident involving a logging truck and another foreign tourist who crossed the centre line.”
The big guy not only looked intimidating but had also just murdered two people in gleeful cold blood, and was now, quite literally, in the driving seat.
David leaned forward, trying to catch Hone’s eye in the rear view mirror; “So, who exactly do you work for, Hone?”
“Well, Dave, let’s just say I am working for the interests of my country. That’s all you need to know for now.”
“So what can you tell us about a company called Cowood Industries?” David could see Hone’s shoulders gently shaking as he laughed silently to himself.
“Jeez, you fellas don’t waste any time, do you? Where did you get that one from?”
“Well, their name was written on a big sign back there.”
Hone was now casually driving at 120kph single–handed. His left hand waved around and his eyes constantly looked into the mirror, alternately checking the view behind and his passengers as he talked. “Cowood was set up by the Americans in the late nineties as a front for its long term plan to buy Aotearoa.” He paused, looking at David, who knew full well from reading his immigration pack supplied by the New Zealand Government that this was the Maori name for the country. Hone’s stare implied David’s ignorance of this fact and invited a question he was not about to give Hone the satisfaction of being asked.
“Go on.”
“Well, so the story goes, the Yanks realised as far back as the sixties that oil would only last for another hundred years or so. They started to look at different sources of energy. It’s no secret that over the years breakthroughs have been made but the raw materials needed to make commercial quantities of these fuels is massive. So the Yanks started to make some quiet investments in overseas industries which they knew they would need in future years. So Cowood has made huge investments in forestry and dairy in this country as well as places like Canada and Norway. With these investments comes power and influence. That’s why you don’t see any of these countries as big movers and shakers on the world stage, because basically America, through Cowood, more or less owns them.”
David was taken aback by Hone’s knowledge and eloquence on the subject. The words didn’t quite match the weather–beaten, unshaven pugilistic face. There was more to this man than the initial impression he gave.
