The Mark of Halam

by Thomas Ryan

  Amy discovered Agnew had managed to sleep with two of the girls. There was no accounting for taste, was all she could think. She found him repulsive, and couldn’t imagine how anyone her age could climb into bed with a 60-year-old man. She had caught him eyeing her more than once. One of the women warned her he preyed on the new faces. Let him try, Amy thought. However, today was payday and if she uncovered the identity of the money-man she would not be back tomorrow. Word had gone out that the cash was on its way and a crowd had gathered in the office. Amy asked Lucille when the paymaster would come. She had been with Agnew the longest and was a kind of de facto office manager. Not that there was much to manage, but she was experienced enough to know the answer to most of Amy’s questions.

  “The money man never brings the wages to the office,” Lucille said. “Agnew is phoned and then collects it.”

  “I haven’t seen him with a car,” Amy said.

  “He doesn’t drive. Always walks. He’s usually gone for about an hour. When he gets back we get paid and it’s off to the pub. How cool is that?”

  “You don’t care where the money comes from?”

  “Why should I? It’s just a job. When I worked at McDonalds I never met the owners,” Lucille offered. “Same thing isn’t it? Don’t get too serious, Amy.”

  “I’m not. Really. I’m like you. I love this job but I lost my last job months ago and now I’ve finally found employment I’m really keen it lasts.”

  “Me too.”

  Amy set off in search of a hot drink. Arguing against Lucille’s logic would only give her a headache. As she stirred two sugars into her coffee she caught sight of Agnew reaching for his jacket off the deer antlers screwed onto the wall. Amy prepared to follow. She rubbed her right breast. The police microphone in her bra had moved and pinched her skin. Turning her back she made a quick adjustment. Now she worried her fiddling had disrupted the transmission.

  She checked her watch. It was 2.30pm. Time to check in with Barbara. Agnew had wrapped a scarf round his neck, and whispered something into Lucille’s ear. Amy slid the strap of her bag over her shoulder, her eyes not leaving the aged hippie. As she pulled her phone from her bag Agnew walked through the door. She let the phone drop back. The protestors milling about paid her no attention. Once the boss had left the office, work gave way to coffee and coke and lounging on the tatty sofas. As Amy made her way across the office a conversation on the best suburb in which to buy a house had begun.

  Outside pedestrian traffic had increased but Amy quickly picked out the striding figure of Agnew making his way down Symonds Street towards the university campus and a meeting with the man funding the protests. Until he reached the intersection of Karangahape Road and Grafton Bridge there were no side streets. Amy could stay back and still keep him in sight. She gripped the strap of her shoulder bag. As she set off there was a spring to her step and a smile of anticipation lit up her face. This was a great adventure.

  Detective Jessica Andrews and Detective Red Dawson sat in the unmarked police car. They had seen Agnew leave and waited for Amy to follow. Her conversation with Lucille had recorded clearly. The wire she wore working as it should. Agnew was off to meet the paymaster. Red started the car and pulled out. Amy was walking quickly to keep up with Agnew but Red let her get well ahead. She had instructions to give a commentary of her movements. If they lost her they would find her again quickly enough.

  Sami Hadani watched from the café opposite. After the fiasco in Waipu, he was taking no chances. No more mistakes. He wanted to make certain no one followed his man making payments to the protest group. They might not make the connection between Zahar and the protests, but the protestors had caused chaos and young people talked. If the cops found out someone was paying to create the demonstrations they might come looking and arrest his man dealing with Agnew. That could cause him a headache.

  Sami had seen Agnew leave as soon as he received the phone call. He waited and watched, and his caution had paid off. At first he thought the girl might be chasing after him because she had a message. But no, when she kept her distance no doubt lingered in Sami’s mind she was tailing Agnew. Amateurs, he thought to himself.

  The second tail surprised him though.

  He had noticed the car parked in the bus stop opposite but thought nothing of it. There was nowhere else to stop as the bus stop ran the length of the street. He had seen a number of cars drop off or pick up passengers and assumed this to be another instance. When the female passenger got out, the mousy-haired girl following Agnew turned and gave the woman a thumbs-up signal. The car trailed but kept its distance. Police, he surmised. It could only mean they knew about the payments.

  Well, it wasn’t that much of a secret. These kids were getting drunk every night and bragging about being paid. Sooner or later it was bound to happen. It was improbable they would link the protests to Zahar and his men but if they caught the man making payments he might talk. For Sami the security of the mission came first. This part of the operation had run its course anyway. With the submarine due any day the flashpoints had filled with veteran protesters, with more coming. Paid teams were no longer a necessity.

  He found his man’s number on his mobile and dialled it. No answer. Lenny must have his phone switched off. There was no need to follow Agnew and the others. Sami hailed a taxi. He knew the meeting place and would get there ahead of everyone.

  Charlie Agnew knew the man he was to meet as Lenny. He knew it wasn’t Lenny’s real name and had labelled him Lenny-No-Name. He didn’t care why Lenny wanted to remain anonymous as long as he paid the money. He also didn’t care why Lenny supported the protest as long as the money allowed him, Charlie Agnew, to make a statement. He hated the idea of anything nuclear coming into New Zealand and prided himself that his past activities had helped bring about the nuclear ban. Over the years, for most of his friends, their youthful idealism waned as life took over and family and mortgages took precedence. Not for him. He had stayed active, joined Greenpeace and the countless other conservation groups that came and went over the decades. But none of these other causes had brought the passion that nuclear weapons and nuclear power evoked. That Lenny had sought him out was flattering. Agnew had promised at the first meeting he would not let him down. That Lenny’s money had brought a side benefit of women and booze, Charlie considered a well-deserved reward for long service to the cause.

  The meeting place was always different. This time they met in a café off Wakefield Street. Lenny was already seated at a corner table when Agnew entered.

  “Hey, Lenny,” Agnew said. “Good to see you again.”

  “Mr Agnew. You are on time as always. This is good,” Lenny replied.

  Lenny noted the greed in Agnew’s eyes. In another few hours, after a bout of heavy drinking, the eyes would be glazed over. He had watched Agnew for the first week to see if he could be relied upon to be inefficient. True to character, Agnew had turned out to be nothing more than a lecherous drunk. He had chosen well.

  “Can I get you a coffee?” Agnew asked. “I’m having a cappuccino.”

  Lenny shook his head. Agnew ordered then sat down. “As you asked I have added more people to the group.”

  “Yes. This is good. I have been watching. You have done a good job. I am pleased.”

  Agnew smiled, then his eyes dropped to the upper portion of Lenny’s jacket. The money envelope would be lodged in the inside pocket. Lenny noted the shift of focus and it pleased him. Agnew ogled his chest like he would a woman’s breasts. The perfect subservient.

  Lenny took the envelope from his pocket and slid it across the table. Agnew grasped it with both hands and subconsciously felt the thickness before pushing it into his trouser pocket. Lenny almost laughed, and then his mouth fell open when he saw Sami Hadani enter the café. Something was wrong. Sami would never show himself like this. His boss nodded towards the toilets then walked through the door.
r />   Lenny waited a moment, “Excuse me a moment my friend. I need the toilet.”

  Sami turned on him as soon as Lenny closed the door.

  “Where is your phone?”

  “I left it at the warehouse.”

  “You’re an imbecile.”

  Lenny grew cold. It felt like insects were crawling over his skin. He knew Sami’s moods and now the big man’s grey eyes revealed he was on dangerous ground.

  “Sorry, Sami. But the business is now concluded. No harm done.”

  “How wrong you are,” Sami spat at him. “Do you think I am here for pleasure? Your man Agnew has been followed. By the police. They have found out about you.”

  “We had discussed that this might happen. I will just disappear.”

  “It is too late for that, the police are outside.”

  Lenny wiped his brow. He needed a towel. There was no back way out of the toilet block. He had little option but to re-enter the café and be arrested. Sami smiled and patted him on the shoulder.

  “Okay, Lenny. Everyone makes mistakes. But be careful. No more. Understand?”

  “No. I will be careful. I promise, Sami.”

  Sami smiled assurance and Lenny noticeably relaxed. “Get back in there and finish up then walk out with Agnew as if nothing has happened.”

  “What about the police?”

  “They’re only watching. They will probably tail you, I’m betting. Trying to find out who else you are working with. Slip them as soon as you can and make your way back to the safe house.”

  “Sure thing, Sami.”

  As Lenny turned to re-enter the café Sami shot him in the back of the head with a silenced handgun. He spat on Lenny’s body as he stepped over.

  Amy watched Agnew through the window. Her hippie boss kept looking about him but it wasn’t nervousness. The man he had been sitting with had gone to the bathroom and Agnew was probably wondering what was taking him so long. Amy was wondering the same. Finally Agnew stood up and walked to the toilet door. He hesitated a moment. Embarrassment, Amy surmised. Men don’t go chasing each other into toilets. She watched as he pushed the door ajar, enough gap to poke his head through. He jumped back and continued the backward steps to the door. Odd, she thought. Then he spun round and ran outside.

  As he ran off up the hill Amy spoke into the microphone in her bra. “Something is wrong, I’m going in to have a look.”

  There was no two-way communication. Red cursed and leapt from the car. Jessica, already chasing after Amy, was right behind her when Amy pushed the toilet door open.

  Cunningham and Moana were sitting at the table in the crime room drawing up a new duty roster when Moana’s phone rang.

  “Jesus,” Moana whispered under her breath. She nodded as she listened then closed her phone.

  “The protestor’s paymaster has been murdered.”

  Cunningham frowned. Rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What the hell happened?”

  Moana related the information.

  “Jesus bloody Christ.” He threw the documents he held across the table. “This is way out of control.”

  “What makes it worse,” Moana said, “is that the killer must have walked out right under our noses. I’m going down there to check it out for myself.”

  She stopped in the doorway.

  “Look, Inspector, I’ve had a thought. It might lead to nothing but right now we’re scratching at dirt and only getting grubby fingernails.”

  Cunningham nodded. “What are you thinking?”

  Moana stepped back into the room. “This Esat Krasniqi must have organised new premises for these guys before they killed him. They’re hiding whatever it was in that container somewhere.”

  “Apart from stating the obvious, Sergeant, do you have a point? We’ve checked all his documents and found nothing.”

  “I worked in fraud for a while. I had to find things. People go to great lengths to hide ill-gotten gains. You’d be surprised how many trust funds there are out there hiding money. Trusts are difficult to trace.”

  “Yes, and you have pretty much answered your own question. Where the hell would we start?”

  Moana stiffened, locked eyes with Cunningham.

  “I apologise, Moana. This is your investigation. I was a bully at school.” He offered a conciliatory smile then stooped and picked up a document from the floor. “Too used to having my own way. An officer and all that.”

  “I’m thick skinned. Don’t worry. You are still the senior officer,” Moana said. “My guess is that the new premises must be in the same area as the other one. Not too far anyway. They couldn’t risk moving gear and equipment, especially weapons, too great a distance. More chance of discovery. Some dumb-ass cops, like us, might pull them over for a broken tail light. Krasniqi has only been in New Zealand four to five years. There are only so many real estate companies that deal in commercial properties. They might not have Krasniqi’s name on an agreement but they might be able to tell us how many properties were bought by trusts. Then it’s a matter of elimination.”

  Cunningham looked interested.

  Moana shrugged. “I think it is worth pursuing.”

  “So do I.”

  “After I’ve checked out the café I’ll have someone follow up on the warehouses.”

  Cunningham sat back in his chair and kept his eyes on the sergeant as she left the room. She had impressed him. Smart, capable and not unattractive. If they weren’t colleagues and she wasn’t married he might be tempted to ask her to dinner. He shrugged and dismissed the thought. It wasn’t going to happen.

  He phoned Barbara Heywood and outlined the incident at the café, then ordered a car to deliver Amy to the television station. The shock of seeing a dead body for the first time was not a pleasant experience; he still remembered his own first time. Amy would be traumatised and would probably be much better off in a crowd than at home on her own. He would call by later to talk to her but doubted she would have anything further to add to what they already knew.

  Agnew would be picked up but other than being able to identify the body he doubted he would have any useful information either. Zahar Akbar was smart. Nothing led to anything. Typical terrorist operation. Work in cells. No connections. Kill off the links when compromised.

  But it did lead to an interesting question. Without the paymaster the financing of the protestors was at an end. His gut told him it no longer mattered. And that worried him to hell.

  His phone rang.

  “Cunningham.”

  “Inspector, I’m Area Commander Galbraith’s secretary. Can you please come up to his office? He apologises for the short notice but wishes me to assure you the matter is urgent.”

  Cunningham closed his phone. He had known this time was coming. It surprised him it had taken so long. Someone else was about to take over. It irked him but what could he do? The newcomer would not have the experience he had dealing with these types of criminals but his superiors would believe a more experienced and higher-ranking police officer would be more capable of leading the investigation.

  The secretary waved him on in to the commander’s office. He didn’t think he should push his luck and ask for a cup of tea. There were three men seated together on one side of the small meeting table. He recognised Galbraith but not the other two. A lone chair sat opposite for Cunningham. Jesus, he thought, a bloody inquisition.

  “Sit down please, Inspector,” the commander said quietly, forced politeness. No hint of a smile. Not that the commander ever smiled. Always the same stony-faced exterior, no one ever knew what he was thinking.

  “Thank you, sir,” Cunningham said.

  “Any new developments, Inspector?”

  Cunningham nodded. “Yes. Another killing. An hour ago.”

  “And this is to do with the case Sergeant Te Kanawa is leading or the shootout in the n
orth?”

  “Both, really. A suspect was under surveillance. A good lead. Unfortunately they must have twigged we were onto him.”

  “I see,” the Area Commander said. “One might be forgiven for believing we were at war. Are we at war, Inspector?”

  “Not yet but we’re close.”

  The commander glared.

  “Perhaps you might bring us up to date,” said one of the two men sitting next to the police chief.

  The commander made no attempt to introduce his guests. Two sets of stranger’s eyes studied him like two scientists looking at a microbe in a petri dish. It pissed him off.

  “And you people are . . .”

  “You’ll find out soon enough, Inspector Cunningham. Just answer the question.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cunningham spent the next twenty minutes going over the details and the chain of events. How seemingly isolated incidents were slowly linking together. The connection Jeff Bradley had made to Kosovo and Barbara Heywood’s theory that the idea was to stretch police resources. He did not however mention Barbara by name. He knew his bosses well enough to know that allowing the press to have unrestricted access to the inner workings of a police investigation might not go down well.

  “And do you have any theory as to what the real purpose of these people is?”

  “Guesses only, I’m afraid. This man Akbar and his brother liked big crowds to plant bombs in.”

  The commander frowned.

  “I see. But for the moment you have no reason to believe this might be about to happen.”

  Cunningham shook his head, “No, sir. The counter argument is, why come to New Zealand to blow up a bomb?”

  The commander looked down at the documents in front of him and then back at Cunningham. Here it comes, Cunningham speculated, I’m about to be replaced. Cop to scapegoat in the time it took to draw a line through his name.

  “You realise of course I’m under enormous pressure from almost everyone,” the commander said. “Understandable of course. Citizens are being killed. Gun battles in the north. Now you tell me of another murder downtown. To say that chaos reigns might be an exaggeration but you can understand these are the words being bandied about. Not good, is it, Inspector?”