by Matt Hammond
David listened intently, trying to guess the sounds the house was making. Two people were moving around. There was a rattle as a door opened, the glass jarring in its frame as the door was unstuck with a forceful tug. Someone had gone into the back garden. There was a hissing sound which turned into splashing. They were taking a shower.
This was his chance. The bathroom sounds were masking all the others the house made. David could not tell when the person who had been in the garden might wander back into the house. Slowly he sat up, aware that for every movement someone made in this house, it appeared to make a corresponding one, generating a creak or a groan.
Collecting his bag, he put his weight on both feet and slowly stood. The longer he took to creep out, the more likely it would be that his escape would be discovered.
It was four carefully placed steps to the bedroom door. He pulled on the handle. For a moment he thought Ed had locked him in. The door was old. A keyhole would have gone right through to the other side. There was no keyhole on his side. There was no lock. He pulled harder. The top of the door moved away from the frame but the bottom quarter was wedged against it.
He took a breath, pulling the door forcefully but continuously, trying to avoid wrenching it. He would close the door behind him so they would still think he was in there, asleep.
He took three steps to the front door, two down the concrete steps then, increasing the pace down the drive, turned right, back down the street.
He had run fifty metres before realising he had left the front door open. This was a heck of a long street. If the car drove back in the next ten minutes he would easily be seen. .
The purposeful run slowed to a puffing jog. He continued on, carefully admiring as many gardens as possible, trying to keep his face turned away from the sight of any oncoming car drivers.
He came to a junction. Ahead of him the busy main road that ran along the base of the cliffs and around into the city centre. He could either take the footpath next to the road or walk down the steps to the beach below and continue, hidden from the road.
Luckily, the tide was out. He left the footpath and made his way down onto the solid tidal sand.
From here it looked as though he could safely walk all the way along to the port. He could see cars on the road above. Any driver looking down would be looking straight into the late afternoon sun and see him only in silhouette.
The beach gave way to jagged slippery rocks and his gentle jogging became two handed clambering. Finally the rocks fell away into gently lapping waves. At this point, even at low tide, the sea came all the way up to the wall beneath the road.
He looked for a path through but there was no way of telling how deep the water would get as the sea wall curved around a gentle bend. A concrete staircase led back up onto the road. There was no other choice. He would have to make his way back up and walk as quickly as he could to the dock gates.
As his head reached the level of the pavement above, his heart sank. By now it was the start of the afternoon rush hour. On the other side of the road, the traffic heading out of the town was creeping slowly home, nose to tail. With their vehicles travelling at walking pace, the drivers had little incentive to concentrate on the road ahead. They were texting, talking, staring out into the bay or watching people walking along the beach.
There was no way he would be able to walk past without being spotted. They could casually step from the Hilux, drag him kicking and shouting back across the road, and bundle him into the back before the car in front had even moved forward.
Two joggers overtook him. David decided to match their pace, staying close enough behind so, from the road, they appeared to be a trio. He kept pace and managed to make up a hundred metres before, without warning, they crossed over and disappeared up the driveway of one of the expensive-looking houses that nestled at the base of the cliff.
Head down, not daring to meet the gaze of any driver coming the other way, the jogging continued, The path curved more sharply now. David knew this meant he was near the port. He could clearly see cranes and shipping containers. Finally, with the sea wall now behind him and the town centre within sight, a sign pointed to the next road on the left, PORT ENTRANCE.
He slowed, catching his breath, hoping to appear casual, not bright red and wheezing, before asking the gate keeper for directions to the shipping company who had handled their container of possessions.
“Third building on the right,” he said, looking slightly perplexed as the pedestrian ducked under the barrier that he usually had to raise to allow people through.
David felt the need to apologize having denied him the chance of performing this most important task. “Sorry, just arrived, no car yet.”
“How are ya?” enquired the young lady behind the reception desk of Alexander Shipping.
“Um, I’m fine.” He hesitated, realising he had no paperwork or means of proving who he was. “My name is David Turner and I think my container may have arrived. Your company is handling it for me. The thing is I need to get into it quite urgently. There are some bits and pieces I need and … ”
Whilst he had been talking, the receptionist had scanned her computer screen. She interrupted him. “Yes, David, your items were landed three days ago. We needed the container for another urgent shipment, so all your stuff has been checked by Customs and it’s sitting in our secure warehouse in Tahuna.”
“Where?”
“You drive round Rocks Road and the warehouse is just off Parkers Road.”
“But I don’t have a car. “ The thought of retracing the walk that had just taken him half an hour was not appealing and the warehouse would be closed by the time he got there.
“Not a problem, David,” she said. “It’s on my way home. Just let me call John the warehouse manager to let him know you’re on your way and then I can finish up here and drop you off. I’m Debbie, by the way.
David waved appreciative thanks to the mystified-looking gatekeeper. A few minutes ago the guy had no car. Now Debbie from Alexander’s was driving him around.
As he made his way along Rocks Road for the third time that day, David carefully explained how they had arrived earlier in the week, flown down from Auckland and were staying in a motel.
“Which one?” Debbie was trying to make polite conversation, little realising that David was making the whole thing up as he went along.
“The one near the airport.” He had seen several large passenger planes come in low over the beach whilst making his way to the port and, not having heard a thunderous crash behind him, could only assume they had landed safely. There is always a motel near an airport. So that, he lied, was where they were staying.
“Cool, so are you planning on living in Nelson?”
His mind raced with images of what had happened in the past week - murder, international intrigue, the future of the world’s fuel source. All she needed to know at that moment was that, yes, they were planning to buy a house in Nelson.
Debbie’s car joined the queue of slow moving traffic. She pointed out Tahuna Beach, the plantation of pine trees half way around the bay and the mountains, silhouetted in grey-blue between the sea and late afternoon sky, the Western Ranges, which in turn joined the Southern Alps as they snaked their way southwards.
“You certainly picked a good spot in the world.”
If only you knew.
They pulled into the car park of an industrial warehouse unit. The warehouse manager greeted them and Debbie drove off.
David was taken across the large, cold empty warehouse to a gloomy corner. He could make out packing cases and cardboard boxes of various sizes. There were shapes wrapped in brown paper that were comfortingly familiar. A lampshade, a wheelbarrow and, propped up against a wall, the package he was looking for.
David began pulling at the stiff corrugated cardboard, searching for a loose edge to tear. Even though he knew exactly what to expect, it still felt like Christmas morning.
Finally the last piece of brown
tape was carefully removed. His motorbike was unwrapped and gleaming like new, even in the dim half light of the warehouse.
The warehouse manager helpfully checked down the manifest. “Your helmet should be box number thirty four …. there you go.” He plucked the box from the top of a pile of similar sized boxes. David bent down and reached beneath the rear mudguard until he found the spare ignition key exactly where he had taped it weeks previously. He put the key in the ignition and turned it to unlock the handlebars, then pushed it off the centre stand and wheeled it away from the rest of his belongings. He stood back admiring it.
“Shame you can’t just ride her away.”
He was right. In his eagerness to reclaim his independence, David had completely overlooked the fact that in order to ship his bike safely, he had removed the battery and drained every last drop of petrol, oil and brake fluid.
In her present state, she was useless. The warehouse manager must have seen the look of disappointment on his face. “Not to worry, Dave, I’ll give Greg at Lightning Bikes a call if you like. They’re only just up the road. You can wheel it up there and they can have you back on the road in a day or so.”
A day or so was not soon enough. David needed to be able to ride her away now. Escape was not really a viable option if he had to push 160kgs of motorbike around with him.
“Greg says take her over and he’ll have a look at her now for you.”
David walked the bike to the other side of the warehouse where he opened a large sliding door leading out onto the street. He signed for his bike. The signature matched the one on the original manifest that David had completed himself as the boxes were packed into the container, back in the UK.
“Take a right at the end of the street. Lightning Bikes is about three hundred metres down. Greg’s expecting you.’
As he walked his machine towards the line of perfectly parked motorbikes, another problem dawned on him. David had ridden this bike overseas many times before - in France, Belgium and Germany. But here, in New Zealand, he could not ride on his British plates. They would be plainly obvious and eventually he was likely to be stopped by the police. As he had permanently imported the bike, he would have to register it. That would involve getting a new set of plates. It could take days. His carefully considered plan to regain his freedom was looking worse by the minute.
By the time he reached the bike shop, Greg, a short rotund, bald Englishman, was already waiting to greet him. As he rested the bike on its stand and offered his hand, another plan had just about formulated in David’s head.
There were two things about Greg that helped to crystallise plan C. He was obviously a passionate biker, and the Union Jack above the shop doorway, together with the Triumph dealership sign, indicated their shared heritage.
David explained he had collected the bike straight from the warehouse as soon as he had arrived in Nelson and he needed it urgently. His wife was still in the North Island with the ownership papers. Greg gave the bike a cursory check over. “Well, she’s certainly survived the trip alright. Nice bike. Don’t see many of these over here. If you ever want to sell her, let me know. Give us a call in three days and she’ll be good as new. I’ll get a WOF done as well.”
“A what?”
“Warrant of fitness, like the MOT back home, shows she’s safe and roadworthy.”
David feigned his best startled look, He was familiar with the warrant, having checked all the red tape before even considering bringing his beloved Triumph with him, but he had to fake complete ignorance if the plan was to work. “Any chance you can lend me a bike? Sorry, I didn’t realise I needed to do all this and, to be honest, I completely forgot the bike wouldn’t just be ready to ride away straight out of the container. The thing is I promised my wife I would sort out some sort of accommodation by the time she arrives tomorrow, so I need a set of wheels to get around. No point hiring a car when there’s a perfectly good 650 straining at the leash.”
David had successfully pushed all the right buttons. There was no hesitation from Greg in agreeing to lend him a late model Suzuki for three days.
David signed the paperwork and Greg directed him to the nearest filling station. He sped away, exhilarated. On a New Zealand registered bike, the helmet and borrowed leather jacket completing the cloak of invisibility, for now, he was free.
* * *
The official website of the New Zealand Security Intelligence Service states:
Established in 1956. Prior to that, national security was taken care of by a branch of the police, except for a brief period during the Second World War.
During the period 1939 to 1945 the British Government took a lead from their American Allies. It’s now widely known the United States recruited native speaking Indians into special units within the army and navy, using their language and tracking skills to run covert operations within both Europe and the Pacific regions.
At that time there had been very little study into these unique and obscure dialects, and the American Indian soldiers were able to freely transmit important intelligence about enemy movements and send coded messages from the battlefront back to their commanders, simply by speaking to each other in their own language, using their field radios.
The British searched their dwindling Empire for subjects with similar skills and soon realised they enjoyed the loyalty of the native New Zealand Maori people. They too possessed a fierce warrior spirit, legendary tracking skills and a spoken language largely incomprehensible to the rest of the world, and in particular the axis powers of the northern hemisphere.
The skills of the American Indians were used in the South Pacific islands, geographically New Zealand’s closest neighbours. Here Japanese commandos were known to be landing by submarine in order to gain intelligence necessary for any potential invasion which may be launched against Australia or New Zealand.
Suitable Maori soldiers were recommended by their commanding officers, to join the elite Z Force. Nowadays this sounds more like a creation of Marvel Comics. In reality It was a joint British, New Zealand and Australian commando force which carried out over 280 covert operations in the South Pacific theatre during World War Two.
When the war ended, the Intelligence Service was once again absorbed back into the New Zealand Police. An exclusive unit of fifteen Maori marines, highly trained, highly motivated and a valuable asset, were retained as a solely Kiwi version of Z Force; a secret unit, within the Army.
When the NZSIS was established in 1956 Z Force changed its name to Te Kowhiti Matauranga Tuke, roughly translated as special knowledge service, or KMT Division. The use of the Maori language was unusual in the white 1950s New Zealand, but reflective of the strong tradition which had already built up in the Division.
To this day, the KMT has only ever operated with a maximum of fifteen personnel at any one time, recruiting its elite membership, by discrete invitation only. Their skills are exploited in covert operations around the world and their cultural knowledge and appearance helps them blend in, when required, on their home soil. Since 1945, the KMT have been involved in operations in both the Korean and Vietnam wars, as well as back home, most notably during the now infamous Springbok tour in 1981.
This tour by an all white South African rugby team took place at a time when apartheid was still an integral part of South African society, yet reviled by the majority in the western world. Despite international condemnation, New Zealand allowed the whites-only team to tour the country, sparking a fury of protest never before seen in this small pacifist island nation and catching the Government of the time off guard, badly misjudging the mood of its people, misinterpreting tolerance for acquiescence.
During the tour, the KMT had one of their own in the New Zealand All Blacks rugby squad, acting as a clandestine liaison between the hapless players and the security forces trying to protect them.
The KMT takes great pride in the fact that their small elite division number just fifteen, coincidentally the same number as in a rugby team,
the beloved national game of New Zealand.
The Acronym KMT is recognised in Egyptology as the shortened version of ‘kmet’ the name the ancient Egyptians gave to Egypt. Literally translated it means ‘Black Earth’ or ‘Black Land’.
As much as they love their country, and their rugby, the KMT take quiet satisfaction in this happy linguistic coincidence. They consider themselves to be the true All Blacks, protectors of all the people of New Zealand/Aotearoa, whether Maori or white ‘pakeha’, and the soil beneath their feet.
* * *
Captain Brent Piri joined the New Zealand Army straight from Auckland Boys College where he captained the first fifteen rugby team and excelled academically.
His forebears had fought against the first European settlers in the so-called musket wars. His great-grandfather, Maui Piri, had been part of the Maori Pioneer Battalion Force and fought at Gallipoli in World War One. The Maori fighting spirit was in his blood. He was proud of his heritage and fiercely patriotic. Brent’s superiors had recognised the young soldier’s mana tangata, his leadership skills, early on and knew that, given the right nurturing, he would have a future in the KMT.
So he was more than a little surprised some years later when his first overseas assignment as a Captain found him in the northern hemisphere summer of 2002, a stinking mop in his hand, cleaning the restrooms in Terminal Four at Heathrow Airport.
The briefing at Waiouru Army Camp had been concise. Fly to London; make your way to the safe flat in Earls Court, then liaise with the contact in the personnel department of Airclean Services. They would provide work for two cleaners at Heathrow. He would be given a file of photographs. The aim would be to confirm the identity of each of the targets as they moved through the Terminal.
