Milkshake

by Matt Hammond

  He breathed out, moved across the shop doorway, and looked in. Turner made his way to the electrical department just inside. He watched as he bought two mobile phones, using cash. The transaction completed, Brent crossed the street and stood in the doorway of a furniture shop, his position obscured by the constant flow of people walking past.

  Turner came out and continued up the street. This time, Brent allowed him to get ahead before following from a safe distance, on the other side.

  The man who came into the car rental office matched the description Moana had been given. An English accent confirmed his identity. She glanced over his shoulder and saw through the blind the familiar figure of Brent Piri on the opposite side of the street, looking towards her.

  Fifteen minutes earlier she had entered the office with a police sergeant and persuaded the manager one of his hire cars had been used in an armed robbery, and he had to accompany the police officer to give a statement. Moana said she would stay behind checking all the vehicles’ documentation. She would still be there when he was brought back.

  The confused manager was driven away, protesting his ignorance. Moana disconnected the existing credit card swipe machine and connected the one supplied by the Tech Department. She logged into the NZSIS intranet and began downloading the software to run the swipe machine alongside the rental company’s own software. Hopefully it would capture the details on the card if she could persuade Turner to use it.

  She watched anxiously as the loading bar on the screen crept slowly towards one hundred per cent. The door opened and in walked Turner. The download was still at only eighty per cent. The car they wanted him to take was still being fitted with a tracking device and not yet in the yard at the front of the office. She would have to try and stall him. “Hi, how can I help you?”

  David asked about hiring a station wagon for a one-way trip to Wellington. The download was now on ninety-five per cent. Moana pretended to search for a suitable car. Finally the message Installation successful flashed on the screen.

  “What about one of those?” he enquired, pointing to the three cars already on the lot. Moana knew none of them had been ‘prepared’ by the Department. The car with the tracking device would not get into the city for at least another half an hour. She made an excuse. All three cars were due out in the next few days but a suitable station wagon was due back in shortly.

  Her objective was to get an imprint of the credit card. David took out his wallet, pulling a wad of banknotes from it. It was clear he had no intention of using the card for this particular transaction. She hoped the hardware now connected to the computer in front of her would quell any doubts Turner had about using the card.

  “You can save your cash if you like and use a credit card for the bond. I can just swipe it through the old fashioned zip-zap here. It just puts an imprint of the card on paper. When you return the car in Wellington, the office there just lets us know and we tear up the slip. Not a problem.”

  Moana carefully positioned the card handed to her onto the metal plate of the swipe machine, and then placed the paper docket over the top. She held the machine steady with her left hand and gripped the roller mechanism with her right hand.

  David did not see her press a small red button on the roller with her left thumb before she slowly pushed it across the paper and credit card, checking as she went that the red button continued to glow. The details on the card were being successfully captured and transmitted back to the team sitting expectantly in Commander Dalton’s office.

  She smiled and handed back his card and copy of the docket. “If you can bring your passport back about six, for I.D., we’ll have your car valeted and all good to go.”

  As soon as he left, Moana disconnected the machine and deleted the software from the rental company’s computer. She was about to leave when the door opened and in walked Brent;

  “Hey Mo, how’s it going?”

  “I’m good, Brent, yourself? I didn’t expect to see you here. Aren’t you going to make sure he makes it back to the motel?”

  “Nah, he’ll be right. Anyway, do we have a copy of that card now? The Tech boys will be able to do their stuff. I’m gonna wait here for the car to arrive - should in about five minutes. You can go if you like.”

  Brent closed the shutters on the office door, turned the sign on the window to CLOSED and moved behind the counter to the computer. He quickly located the email address of the office and texted it back to Waiouru. An email with an attachment arrived. It was the first page of a report he had seen earlier in the day whilst surfing the net, looking for clues. He printed it off, deleted all reference to it and the email, and then folded the printed sheet neatly into one of the rental company’s brochure wallets before adding some other items he had brought with him.

  A blue Subaru station wagon had pulled up outside and was being neatly reversed into a space at the end of the line of three already there. The driver got out, shut the door, walked off down the street and was immediately lost in the crowd. Brent’s phone beeped and he read the message;

  Keys are in it. Beacon in place. All yours.

  He returned the sign to OPEN and went out to the car. Opening the passenger door, he placed the brochure wallet in the glove compartment, then pulled on the hose hanging on the wall behind him, turned on the tap, lightly sprayed a film of water over the entire bodywork and walked back into the office.

  When David Turner walked back in just before six o’clock, he had no idea the man behind the counter was a New Zealand agent who had followed him across the world, unravelled a plot against his own country and was now protecting him from agents of the most powerful country in the world.

  “Mr Turner?” Brent gestured to the keys on the counter. “She’s all ready for you. There are maps in the glove box. Just replace any fuel you use. Have a safe trip.” He watched as Turner drove off back towards the motel.

  He texted Moana, She was in position, parked on a motorbike just down the street from the Cedar Stars and ready to tail the blue Subaru once the Turners made their next move.

  David and Katherine drove south, unaware they were being pursued. Moana kept enough distance to avoid her headlight appearing in the rear view mirror of their car.

  At three in the morning, exhausted and cold, and with the bike’s fuel tank running on reserve, she finally pulled over and made a call confirming the targets were continuing south on State Highway One and that she was abandoning the pursuit. Brett already knew they were heading for Wellington. Moana’s job had been to watch for other interested parties rather than follow the pair all the way to the capital.

  She had seen the blue Ford driving between her and the Turners within fifteen minutes of leaving Central Auckland and called in its registration plate for checking. It was a hire car, rented to Wayne Jameson. A check with Immigration showed Jameson was an American citizen, A cross reference with the tax department confirmed he was on the payroll of Cowood Industries, undoubtedly a US agent and together, with his unidentified passenger, likely to be in pursuit of the card in David Turner’s pocket.

  Chapter 17

  Brent stood solemnly, hands clasped, as the plywood crate descended slowly from the hold of the plane onto the flat deck truck which would take it to the NH90 waiting to fly northwards.

  The tines of the forklift withdrew and Brent draped the national flag over the simple wooden box. It had been identical to all the other wooden crates secured in the hold of the plane. The flag suddenly distinguished it, unmistakeably, as Maaka’s coffin. Brent stepped back, bowing his head. “Welcome home, Brother.”

  Brent knew according to custom, the tupapaku of the deceased shouldn’t be left alone at any stage. The nature of Maaka Tehane’s untimely death and the fact that it occurred on the other side of the world, made this difficult.

  His family were informed he‘d died down south in a vehicle accident. It was vital to get his body back home as quickly as possible. Delay in releasing it to the family would not only raise su
spicion but also be deeply disrespectful to their beliefs. Brent consoled himself with the thought that on his final return to New Zealand, Maaka had been under the guardianship of both the national airline and the four hundred people seated above him, many of whom were also returning home.

  * * *

  The mournful cries from Maaka’s female relatives were broken by a shriek as his youngest nephew pointed excitedly upwards. The faint speck of a helicopter had appeared in the sky to the south of the Marae. “Look, Uncle Mak’s coming!”

  Immediately the women moved as one down the steps of the meeting house, across the manicured lawn and out through the ornate carved archway marking the entrance.

  Once the down-draft had subsided, Brent beckoned them forward. Gently lifting the coffin, the procession slowly made its way back up the slope to the marae. They began to call out a plaintive Karanga, summoning others onto the marae. Brent followed at a respectful distance, aware that for now at least his part in this extended funeral ceremony had been played. The mournful lament of the pall bearers was answered as other family members gathered on the steps awaiting their brother’s final return.

  Brent looked on, tears welling at these reminders of his cultural heritage. He was an officer in a classified unit of the New Zealand military, delivering the body of his fallen comrade back to his family in a multi- million dollar state of the art helicopter. Yet, as soon as he had stepped on to the lush grass beneath his feet, it was as if he had stepped back five hundred years; back into the comfort of the rituals and protocols of his forbears.

  The last few days; the surveillance of David Turner, the imminent risk to national security, none of that mattered at this moment. This time belonged to Maaka Tahene and his whanau,. Brent understood that. As he followed through the archway, he felt as if he too had come home.

  Maaka’s body was inside the meeting house. The formalities of his welcome had been completed. Brent couldn’t help counting fifty-five people excluding small children and recognised Maaka’s Uncle Peter. The pair greeted each other warmly with a hongi. “Kia Ora, how are you, Brent?”

  “I’m good, Peter, yourself?”

  “Same. We’re happy it was you who brought Mack home to us. Tell me, are you staying for the next couple of days? I’d like for you to say a few words at some point.”

  Brent expected to be asked, had even hoped that he would be invited to speak during the funeral. The fact that a close family member had made the request was a signal that he was not being held responsible for Maaka’s death, or at least the version the family had been given.

  Behind him, beyond the marae, beyond the realm of his own culture, there was a large grey helicopter waiting to fly him south once more to continue something he’d promised Maaka he would finish. “I need to get back to work, Peter, but I promise I’ll try and make it back in a few days' time. I’d be honoured say something then.”

  He mixed brief greetings with goodbyes and excuses of work. He would be back.

  The powerful engines screamed at full power. The helicopter rose up slightly, the wheels dangling momentarily in mid-air. Then, confident it could support its own weight, the machine moved swiftly up, banked left and headed south once more. The small crowd gathered to watch and protect their fearless youngsters, instinctively turned away as dust and loose grass blew over their heads and back towards the marae. By the time they felt safe to turn back, Brent was half a kilometre away.

  The helicopter headed out to sea. Commander Dalton had given Brent permission to use the chopper for the duration of the mission on the understanding he didn’t advertise its presence any more than was absolutely necessary. It was, after all, only on loan from the manufacturer and, officially at least, only in New Zealand for evaluation. It wasn’t supposed to be on active service. If American Intelligence picked up on the fact it was flying regular missions, they might pay closer attention to it.

  * * *

  Three hundred kilometres above the Cook Strait, a sensor on a KH13 surveillance satellite passing overhead had already picked up the distinctive heat signature of the NH90 idling on the perimeter of Auckland International Airport, a commercial, not a military, facility. Its high resolution digital camera had also recorded the distinctive image of a New Zealand flag on the back of a nearby truck. The flag was missing its edges.

  The National Reconnaissance Office quickly interpreted the image. Within ten minutes, the CIA had hacked into Auckland Airport’s CCTV system to get a better look at the helicopter from the ground. They concluded the aircraft was being used to transport a member of the New Zealand military, hence the image of the flag draped over a coffin. A cursory internet search found the story of the vehicle crash in the Canterbury high country a few days earlier.

  By the time the KH13 satellite had encircled the earth, the helicopter was in the air, flying low fifteen kilometres out over the Tasman Sea. It seemed to be practising an evasive, anti detection manoeuvre, following the coastline of one of the least populated countries in the world. The duty officer at the NRO watched intently as the feed from the satellite showed the helicopter darting left to right as it made its way south.

  The American and Chinese intelligence services regularly positioned their surveillance satellites over New Zealand and Australia to test and calibrate their electro-optical digital imaging systems. The clarity of the atmosphere over this part of the globe throughout the year allowed engineers to achieve stunningly sharp images.

  New Zealand didn’t possess the technology to detect the spies stationed hundreds of kilometres above.

  Neither superpower protested to the other. The outer atmosphere above a country’s designated airspace isn’t within its territorial borders. Protesting too loudly would have aroused China’s suspicions. America’s true reason for focusing its celestial gaze on the Islands below remained secret.

  New Zealand had no idea it was being watched with the same intense fascination a small boy gazes at a crane fly moments before he starts to pull its legs off one by one.

  Twenty-two minutes flying time from Waioru, Brent radioed ahead for Phillips and Omaki to be ready and waiting to board. They climbed in, the door slid shut, and the helicopter was airborne once more. “Can we track the Subaru? We need to get about fifty ks ahead of them and then try and find a logging operation.”

  Lieutenant Bridges banked due east, locking onto the signal from the car. Brent gave instructions. “Hone, I need you to eliminate this blue Ford that’s been tailing the target. My idea is maybe for you to create some kind of road accident using whatever we can find down there. You up for it?”

  “Hell yeah, Bro’!”

  “Good, then I need you to bring them back to Waioru where we can debrief them. Have you got the cards?”

  Moana had swiped David Turner’s credit card through the machine at the car rental office. The details on the magnetic strip had been sent to the Ops Room where technicians had deciphered the information and recreated it onto two copies, one of which Hone was now waving about in the back of the helicopter.

  Lieutenant Bridges interrupted. “Excuse me, Captain. Just thought you’d like to know we’re being tracked.”

  “How? Who the hell knows we’re up here?”

  ‘Actually, sir, it looks like we are not up here, but down there.”

  “What do you mean, down there?”

  “I switched on the tracking software and set it to trace the security device attached to the car. It’s the first time it’s been used on this aircraft, so it carried out an initial security scan. There are no other aircraft in the air within a seventy kilometre radius. The signature looks like its coming from a satellite directly overhead. I can run another check if you like, but I’d say in this part of the world it’s pretty accurate. The external skin is absorbing the faint trace of a laser tag from a US military satellite approximately three hundred kilometres above us.”

  The three KMP officers sat in silence for a moment. “It’s OK, they can’t actually hear you. T
he onboard comms are shielded.”

  Up until that point, they’d simply been involved in the airborne pursuit of two cars, across open country. Now there could be international implications for what they were about to undertake.

  “Lieutenant, I need you to patch me through to Commander Dalton at Waioru.”

  “Not a problem, sir. Just trying the connection for you now. By the way, ETA three minutes to the target. I’ll stand off two kilometres north, below the horizon. We’ll still be able to track them but they can’t see us. The Commander’s on the line now, sir.”

  “Something’s come up. Bridges has activated some of the new equipment on board and we’re being tracked by an American military satellite. As far as I’m concerned that’s confirmation of US Government involvement in all this. I need your formal authorisation to eliminate any perceived threat to national security, sir.”

  “You have my authorisation, Piri. I’ll get on to the Prime Minister’s office right away. There’s going to be diplomatic fallout that’ll need dealing with in the next few hours.”

  The helicopter flew parallel to the road, skimming the vast swathe of pine forest. Bridges signalled the location of a logging camp, and flew over it checking for any sign of activity before moving out and hovering just above the main highway. Dropping momentarily to ground level, Hone leapt out and ran to the side of the road.