Milkshake

by Matt Hammond

  He scrolled the recording back two minutes. Even at ten-thirty in the evening, Heathrow was a noisy place and there was a lot of background noise. Vehicles and air traffic made it hard to distinguish what was happening in the immediate vicinity of the microphone.

  Heavy breathing, the click of a car door, a thud and a cry of pain. Then silence. The night watchman clicked on the images folder, enlarging and enhancing the most recent file. A blurred figure, silhouetted against a bright yellow light. It looked like it could spell trouble. The previous image, sent ten seconds earlier, showed two back-lit figures looking out over a low wall into the brightness beyond.

  Maaka’s head smashed against the protruding edge of the wheel arch for the third time, He could barely focus. Caught completely off-guard, he was now in the worst possible position. Two large men loomed over him as he crouched, shocked and in pain on the cold concrete between two parked cars. “The bastard took the bait.”

  It was a London accent. Even in such a perilous position, training kept his brain alert, analysing, considering his options.

  “Fucking idiot. As if a cleaner would park in the long stay car park.”

  Pulled out from between the cars, Maaka felt the momentary relief of a cooling breeze against the throbbing pain below his eyes. Dragged face down along the hard concrete, he tried to regain his balance and fight back.

  Hands gripping his shoulders tightly on either side let go. He slumped to the ground, his nose taking the full impact. He lay still, breathing deeply, desperately trying to overcome the pain. Then the kicking started.

  * * *

  Brent Piri had finished his shift five hours earlier and been watching the late evening news when his personal phone rang. He had already pressed answer before the second ring. The message was short and to the point:

  “The mission has been compromised. We have a man down. Report as cabin crew on flight NZ200 departing Heathrow for Los Angeles 00.30 hours.”

  Brent knew this meant only one thing - urgent and immediate evacuation.

  Maaka’s contorted face was an horrific bloody mess. Swollen eyelids were split as cleanly as a defeated boxer’s. He could barely distinguish light from dark through them. His head pulsated with the searing pain from the multiple kicks. His ran his tongue around his gums. Jagged edges where moments earlier there had been teeth. Fragmented shards floated around his blood-filled mouth.

  He felt himself being dragged to his feet, arms held tightly behind his back, unable to defend himself against the sudden painful intrusion as he struck a solid object in front of him. The air felt different, a stiffer, cooler breeze. The beating had been so severe he could no longer stand. His face, already swollen and with so many teeth shattered in his bloodied oozing mouth, couldn’t even contort into a scream. He tried. Hot blood dribbled down his chin and his throat. He started to choke.

  Now he was being lifted up, the breeze on his face cooling the terrible wounds momentarily. He realised the truth too late. He was on a thin ledge. His knees had no hope of balancing. With his eyes beaten closed, he had no reference point. As he lost his centre of gravity and fell forward, he braced for the impact. Only the sudden rush of air allowed him to sense the distance in his final seconds. As he flailed, desperately reaching out to protect himself from the inevitable, unable to see the rapidly approaching ground, he thought of his parents, his brothers and sisters, and revenge.

  Brent grabbed his passport, phone and wallet, the small empty travel case from under the bed, shut the apartment door, and hailed a cab to the airport before Maaka had hit the ground. The rest of their belongings would find their way home in a diplomatic bag.

  The cab was on the M4 motorway, heading west, when Brent’s phone rang again. From twelve thousand miles away, the familiar voice needed no introduction. “Brent, g’day. Did you get the message? Where are you now?”

  “I’m in a taxi, sir, heading to Heathrow to get the late flight to LA. What’s the story with Mak?”

  “Doesn’t look good. London is monitoring the emergency frequencies for us. It sounds like some kind of incident on the roof of one of the airport car parks. The report is one casualty at the moment.”

  Brent sensed Commander Dalton was down-playing the situation. The fact an emergency evac had been ordered meant that Mak’s situation was likely to be more serious than just ‘casualty’. “Mak, managed to confirm details of a target. London has cross-referenced the wireless cam snap with recent residency application photos, and checked these against names on the airlines’ booking systems. The target and his partner are flying east, via Singapore, en route to Auckland. Lucky for us they have a twenty-four hour stopover booked, which means as you’ll be flying west, virtually non-stop, you’ll be back ahead of them. Make sure you get some rest on the plane. I’ll speak to you again when you land here.”

  The cab dropped Brent outside Terminal Four. At the Air New Zealand check-in desk, a solitary employee checked details on a computer screen as Brent approached. He had received a call from the Embassy at 10.50pm asking him to keep the desk open and delay the flight. A recognised code word signalled an urgent diplomatic passenger on the way, Brent’s emailed passport photo the only proof needed to identify who now approached the desk.

  Brent knew the drill, offering his passport for the benefit of the airport security camera fixed to the wall over the clerk’s shoulder. “You have a reservation for me?”

  “Yes sir. Please place your hand luggage on the weighing scales.”

  Brent lifted the empty bag onto the scales. The clerk, positioning himself between the camera and the scales, lifted Brent’s empty bag off and replaced it with an identical one. He smiled and winked at Brent. He knew he was likely to be an agent of the New Zealand Government and couldn’t resist a moment of kinship. “There ya go, Bro’, plane’s waiting for ya. Have a good trip.”

  Brent kept his composure - “Thanks.” - before lifting the heavier bag and walking away .

  “Sir!”

  Brent froze as the voice echoed through the empty check-in area. Shit! This guy is determined to blow me, he thought.

  “The plane’s holding on the gate for you. The Captain has requested your urgent embarkation. He needs to make his twelve thirty slot.”

  Brent waved his free hand and continued. He knew pilots disliked it when NZSIS, or in this case, the KMP effectively commandeered a commercial flight. They had to make up excuses for cabin crew and the passengers. Poor service made the captain and the airline look bad.

  In the deserted restroom, Brent unzipped the bag and changed into the Air New Zealand co-pilot uniform which had been neatly folded in the case, together with perfectly fitting black shoes. The bags were kept in a large crate airside, marked Diplomatic Luggage and protected from scrutiny. Agents on active service had a tailored set of clothing complete with ID tag in a small case in the crate.

  The immaculately dressed Maori airline pilot pulled the small case with the official New Zealand Diplomatic Seal past the few remaining passengers and was waved through.

  Airport Security staff were aware of the status of people like Brent. The disguise was for the benefit of the agents from non-friendly countries who kept a close watch on all departures. Brent walked swiftly past deserted duty free shops towards the departure gate. As he stepped aboard the Boeing 747-400, he was greeted by the chief purser. “Kia Ora, good evening, sir. Good to have you aboard. Please follow me.”

  He was home already.

  Senior cabin personnel never asked questions, never presumed the reasons why these men and women in company uniforms always boarded last. But the instructions were clear - escort them to the upper deck, then to the back of the aircraft and into the galley area. There must be minimal contact with passengers and other flight crew. A small maintenance panel adjacent to the galley allowed the VIP passenger access into the rear bulkhead of the upper deck and then into a small, self-contained module secreted behind.

  The small compartment was illuminated by the
dim red haze of a single emergency light. He was inside a Jumbo Trunk, the nickname for this tiny self-contained cabin.

  There was a Jumbo Trunk located in at least one 747 in each of the fleets operated by the majority of the airlines of the western world. He had spent half a day during his KMP training in a hangar at Auckland International, familiarising himself with the layout and facilities of the Trunk.

  He instinctively put out his hand and pulled on the auxiliary power switch. A small generator in the belly of the aircraft jolted into life, and the red glow flashed into a stark white light as three small fluorescent tubes spluttered into life. More electrical devices powered up - the timer on the wall-mounted microwave oven began to flash green, the coffee machine heated up, and a gentle hiss indicated the water heater in the tiny shower cubicle at the far end of the small cabin had started up.

  A gentle zephyr of fresh air was the only indication the independent pressurization system had also been activated. Connections to the main electrical systems of the aircraft were for safety reasons only. Transmissions from the cockpit to the passengers were relayed into the Trunk as was the signal illuminating the seatbelt sign.

  The Jumbo Trunk had been designed into the 747-400 at the request of the American Government who funded the construction and installation. Whenever an airline from a country friendly to the United States expressed an interest in purchasing its first 747-400, the manufacturer had to apply for an export licence. This would prompt the Government to contact the authorities in the purchasing country about the possibility of a ‘free’ upgrade of one plane, with the addition of this special secure compartment.

  The majority of foreign governments understood the potential benefits of being able to transport people around the world covertly using commercial aircraft. Some had subsequently adapted the trunks to little more than on-board cells for bringing back escaped criminals who previously had considered themselves safe overseas.

  The Americans were also adapting this use of the trunk, enabling them to move al-Qa'eda suspects across international borders, and via United States international entry points, to a new facility at Guantanamo Bay, without the knowledge of, or risk to, the flying public, safely seated only a few metres away .

  Air New Zealand had one Jumbo Trunk in its fleet. The Americans thought it prudent to have one installed on an aircraft that regularly flew the Hong Kong-Auckland-Los Angeles route.

  As the plane bumped across the apron, Brent made himself comfortable for take- off in the business-class leather seat located in the back right corner of the trunk. Fastening his seatbelt, he tuned into the large flat panel screen on the bulkhead in front of him. This was the other piece of electrical equipment patched into the main services of the plane - the on-board entertainment system.

  Ensconced in this small sound-proofed windowless box at the back of the aircraft, Brent could only sense the aircraft’s readiness for take-off by its motion across the ground and the almost imperceptible drone from the four Rolls Royce RB211 engines. Another slight jolt, then, even through the sound-proofing, the engines’ rumble began to vibrate through the fuselage. He felt the rapid forward motion pushing him back into his seat. There was a loose metallic rattling as the coffee machine, designed to stand motionless in a domestic kitchen, hurtled across the ground at 250 kilometres an hour towards London’s orbital motorway.

  His seat inclined gently back as the plane rose into the summer night sky. By the time it had finished a spiralling ascent to cruising altitude, he was already snoring.

  Turbulence over Northern Canada, according to the bulkhead screen, woke him six hours later. Unclasping the seatbelt, he leant forward, pushing a small bi-fold door. A light came on, revealing a tiny lightweight plastic cubicle - his personal toilet and shower unit. This would be useful in about eighteen hour’s time on the final approach to Auckland. In the meantime, he made a strong coffee, attempted some stretching exercises, and stood to watch a movie.

  As the flight neared Los Angeles, he tuned the arm rest console to the same frequency used in the cockpit, another feature not available to the public, and listened as the pilot guided the plane into LAX.

  Brent had to sit tight for the three hour stop-over, enjoying the temporary lack of motion as he sat still in his box. He had to also minimise his own movement during this time as the ground crew moved around the aircraft and baggage handlers entered the hold, moving and adjusting the cargo. He knew at some point a Federal Agent would step on board with a sniffer dog. He knew the Trunk was sealed, his odour vented down and forward into the main passenger area, away from the spaniel’s sensitive nose.

  A fresh crew came on board and the new purser was briefed on the special cargo at the back of the plane. Soon NZ200 was in the sky once more, heading south-west, cruising above the Pacific Ocean at nine hundred kilometres an hour.

  Brent showered and put on the uniform he had discarded shortly after sealing himself into the Trunk, before fastening his seatbelt once more for the descent into Auckland International.

  As the plane reached the gate, he listened as the engine note wound down to silence. The captain instructed the cabin crew to disarm the doors. This was his cue to return through the hatch which the purser had already unlocked..

  Cabin crew who knew something was going on were always amazed at how these people seemed to emerge apparently refreshed and unruffled from their enforced stowage somewhere deep inside the aircraft. They had no idea of the facilities and comparative comfort in which these VIPs travelled.

  As Brent made his way along the deserted aisle, down the stairway from first class, and through the door, the other passengers were already in Arrivals waiting for their luggage.

  He pushed open the thin plastic door to the left of the aircraft exit door. The rush of cool, kerosene-laden air invigorated him. At the base of the ladder, a yellow airport Landrover waited to speed him across to the far side of the main runway. Away from public gaze, an army helicopter was waiting to transport him south on the forty minute flight to Waiouru Army Base.

  Commander Dalton greeted him with a salute and as warm a hongi as his superior rank would allow. “Kia Ora, welcome home, Piri. Bad news about Captain Tehane, I’m afraid. We’re working on getting the body back to his family as quickly as possible. You’ll want to attend his Tangi, I take it?”

  This was the confirmation he had been expecting, but dreading to hear, for over twenty-four hours.

  Brent took a deep breath and turned to survey the horizon. An Army Iroquois helicopter floated low over the grass, its distinctive deep, thumping, rhythmical pulse kept time with his own heart beat, wrapping itself around his thoughts. These old workhorses had been flying for nearly forty years, becoming a symbol of his profession the world over. But to Brent at that moment, it symbolized his own duty - the defence of his country and his people.

  He felt a lump blocking his throat as he recalled the name again – Iroquois, a confederacy of Native American Indians formed five hundred years before the white man had set foot on the American continent. The ancestor’s of Brent's own Iwi had probably arrived in New Zealand around the same time.

  Staring through moist eyes at this marvel of twentieth century invention named after an eleventh century Indian alliance, he sensed in the beating of the rotor blades the spirits of his ancestors calling him.

  When Maaka Tehane was returned to his marae, he would be with friends and family once more, the evil and brutality that had taken his life replaced with love and kindness. His superiors would pay their respects and the entire KMP, temporarily reduced to fourteen members, would be withdrawn from service for one day, to perform a ceremonial haka at his graveside. The most fitting way for these tough, strictly disciplined soldiers to mark their respect and grief would be in one spine-tingling, blood curdling display of reverence for their ancestors, their traditions, and their fallen comrade.

  Brent sniffed, turning back to Commander Dalton who was already ten metres ahead, striding towards his office.
“The body is due back the day after tomorrow, London is arranging everything. It’ll be flown up north and his family will be there to meet him. Because of the covert nature of this operation, we’ve had to come up with a cover story. He was on a training exercise in the Canterbury high country, A Unimog slid on ice and rolled down a ravine. We’ve got stock photos for the press. Unfortunately such an horrific crash is the only way we can explain his injuries to his family. As you know, the Tangi requires an open coffin.”

  Both men knew it was against Maori tradition for a body to be left alone. Brent decided to meet the coffin, accompany it to the marae, and pass the Tupapaku to the family. But that was thirty-six hours away.

  In the intervening time, he would look over the files of the case he and Maaka had been assigned to. In London, their role had simply been surveillance and reporting. Now back home, and with his partner dead, Brent was determined to finish the work they had both started.

  Chapter 15

  Brent read notes and computer files, learning about the impending threat to national security. The New Zealand Government had possibly uncovered a plot to destabilise the economy using something called migration manipulation theory. He googled the phrase and found himself reading:

  Economic Invasion - how to create and influence a migrant influx and thereby manipulate the economy of a nation.

  Was this why Maaka had died?

  The source of the manipulation theory appeared to be the United States. Why would a friendly nation want to influence New Zealand immigration? His hands cupped over his mouth as he sat inhaling his own warm breath, staring at the computer screen. Surely America was too embroiled in the war on terrorism to even contemplate action towards such a small peaceful country that had done absolutely nothing to provoke such a move?

  He flicked through the photos taken by intercepting the film company’s camera images. The most recent showed a man being carried apparently semi-conscious from a rest room. Maaka had acted on the basis of these images and lost his life as a result. Another file caught his eye: ‘Singapore Transcript’. It was timed only hours earlier. He clicked it open. The contents shocked him.