by Thomas Ryan
“Go ahead,” Jeff yelled back. “Get them here pronto.”
The angry motorist, puzzled by the answer, gripped his steering wheel and drove off.
Jeff ran faster downhill, his stride lengthening. Ibrahim Mustafa was now only twenty metres in front. Then Mustafa ran into school grounds. At the end of the sports field, a slope covered by thick bush offered an escape. Mustafa was running straight towards it. If he made it he might evade capture.
“That ain’t going to happen, Mustafa,” Jeff yelled.
It was lunchtime at the school and the sports field was full of children. Some were kicking footballs, others throwing balls and others in groups talking. As Mustafa rushed between them the first child flung aside screamed. The cries alerted the duty teacher and he hesitantly moved forward. Jeff reached down deep for the reserves he knew were stored somewhere in his energy banks and gave a supercharged spurt. Half way across the field he dived and tackled Mustafa around the legs. Both men hit the ground hard. The impact broke Jeff’s hold and they scrambled to their feet.
Neither heard the helicopter overhead. Neither noticed the duty teacher gathering the children together and leading them to a safe distance.
As they eyed each other Jeff could sense the discussion going on inside Ibrahim Mustafa’s head. To escape he would need to get rid of Jeff. Jeff could outrun him. The only option left was to fight. Mustafa adopted a karate stance. Jesus. Jeff remembered from his Kosovo trip that Bruce Lee was a hero in the Balkans. All the men watched his movies and martial arts was a favoured sport. It appeared Mustafa was a student. Jeff hoped he wasn’t a master. Then again he didn’t really care; he had already decided Mustafa wasn’t going anywhere.
As Jeff stepped forward he took a blow to the head. It came from nowhere. Painful barbs shot through his brain from his sore nose, still tender. He needed to watch the little shit’s legs as well as his fists. A blow to his chest. The wind knocked out of him, Jeff sank to his knees as he sucked in air. He sensed rather than saw Mustafa moving in for the kill. Jeff could hear his boxing coach somewhere in the recesses of his mind; when in trouble, clinch. He needed to get Mustafa on the ground.
Jeff flung himself forwards, arms outstretched, and collided with the advancing Mustafa. He wrapped his arms around the Kosovan’s waist then pushed forward like a prop in a rugby scrum. The force propelled Mustafa backwards. He lost his balance, then Jeff had him on the ground. Mustafa writhed about like a snared hyena and kicked out, but Jeff managed to hold his grip. A fist smashed into the side of Jeff’s skull. Flashes of light followed. He shook his head. A few more blows like that and he knew it might be over. And then he had had enough of Ibrahim Mustafa. He released his hold on Mustafa’s waist and grasped two fistfuls of jacket front. Mustering his last reserves of strength, knuckles whitened as he pulled the Kosovan towards him and then smashed his forehead across the bridge of Mustafa’s nose. Mustafa screamed like a castrated pig.
Jeff rolled away and climbed to his feet. Mustafa holding his face, looked up at the big man towering over him. Eyes wide open. Uncertain now. Jeff reached down and yanked the shorter man from the ground. He tightened his fist and swung. Mustafa reeled back as the force of the punch buried into his chest, then another under his rib cage and one more into the side of his head. Jeff swung again but this time hit air. Mustafa lay on the ground. Unmoving. Then Jeff felt arms holding him. He twisted his body to break free. The arms held strong.
“Jeff, it’s okay. It’s me, Brian. Relax. It’s over.”
Jeff let his arms fall to his side. “Where the hell did you guys come from?”
Then he saw the helicopter. The school children were watching from a distance. The teachers gathered behind them having given up trying to shoo them inside to the classrooms. School had never been this exciting. The sound of approaching sirens meant more fun was about to begin. Jeff looked down at the unconscious form.
“Ibrahim Mustafa,” he said. “He’s one of Avni Leka’s men.”
When Barbara arrived Cunningham gave her a look that would turn most mortals to stone. He walked off toward the arriving police cars. Barbara bit her lip.
Zahar Akbar stood silently and listened. When he closed his phone he fought to control the urge to throw it against the wall. When this mission was over he was going to cut Jeff Bradley’s throat.
41.
I think we’re in a great deal of trouble,” Barbara said, stating the obvious, still smarting from the look Cunningham had given her. “How is your head, Jeff?”
“Like I’ve just stubbed my big toe, throbbing like hell.”
“Maybe you should consider hiring yourself out to a gym, as one of those punch bags they hang from the ceiling.”
“Not funny, Barbara,” Jeff scolded, then smiled, and then rubbed his jaw. “Ouch.”
Cunningham had sent them to the station in a police car and ordered them to wait until he returned. A constable had brought two tablets and a glass of water. The pain killers had helped but not a great deal. Two untouched coffees sat on the table, going cold.
The door opened.
Cunningham and Caldwell walked in. Jeff noted Caldwell must have decided that protecting his identity from Auckland Police Department personnel needed to be put to one side. Cunningham sat, fiddled with some papers then looked up. Glared. Barbara wilted; Jeff locked eyes and remained unmoved.
“I really don’t know what to do with you two. Maybe I should lock you both in a cell until this is over.” He paused for a moment. “I thought we had an agreement. You find anything, you tell me. Wasn’t that the agreement?”
Barbara nodded.
“So tell me, Jeff, why were you chasing this man?”
“We thought he might lead us somewhere.”
“And what made you think that?”
“We had information.”
“And where or how did you come by this information?” Jeff looked quickly across to Barbara. Cunningham noted the conspiratorial glance. “Come on, out with it. You might as well tell me everything.”
“We got the information from Esat Krasniqi’s computer files,” Barbara said, coming to Jeff’s defence.
“How the hell did you get access to those?”
“We sort of broke into his warehouse and took them,” Barbara replied timidly.
Caldwell burst out laughing. Cunningham jumped to his feet and threw his pen against the wall.
Jeff watched the performance. He knew Cunningham was tired, frustrated. Losing men can do that to a leader. Maybe he had forgotten about the computers. But no, Jeff quickly dismissed the thought. Cunningham never forgot anything. The anger was play acting for anyone who might be eavesdropping. Jeff knew what was really pissing Cunningham off was that he expected the information, once found, to be handed over. Cunningham wanted to play lead.
“Look, Brian. These people are after me and anyone who is close to me. I am going to do everything I can to get close to them. I’m not going to apologise for that. Yes we should have come to you first, but we weren’t certain our information was right. I just acted on a hunch. Like a bull in a china shop. Make some noise and see what happens. What happened was totally unexpected.”
Cunningham sat down again.
“Unfortunately, Jeff, this is exactly what happens. The unexpected. This is not a movie. These people are real.” He was calming down.
“Do you want to stop these guys or not? You know I have the skills to fuck these guys. So let me be out there and do what I was trained to do. There could be another bomb.”
“How were you able to get this name from Krasniqi’s files?”
“Many of the files were in Albanian. I sent them to a friend in Kosovo. This was the name he came back with. We checked the phonebook and found no listings. Then we decided to go to an Albanian restaurant.”
Cunningham nodded.
“I saved you a shit l
oad of leg work,” Jeff said. “How about a pat on the back?”
Cunningham shook his head. “That’s not going to happen.” He turned to Caldwell who nodded back to him. Tell them everything see what happens, was the silent message.
“When we raided Krasniqi’s warehouse we found crates. Mr Caldwell has identified them as packaging for torpedoes. We have every reason to believe they are going to try and torpedo the Ulysses.”
“Jesus,” Jeff blurted out. “Has the Ulysses been warned?”
“We were at the naval base this morning.”
“They’ll leave immediately, won’t they?” Barbara asked.
“No. That’s not possible. Too many political implications. They are putting together a defensive shield at the moment. It still comes back to finding the terrorists before they can act.”
“Ibrahim Mustafa might help there,” Jeff said.
“Yes. But his capture might also force their hand.”
“How can they launch a torpedo? Won’t they need a boat or plane or something?”
“We discussed this with the submarine commander. He dismissed the plane idea. Too difficult. He felt a converted forty-foot launch or bigger would be more likely. But to convert it they would need to keep it hidden. That was why Caldwell and I were in the helicopter. Flying along the coastline looking at boat sheds. Know how many boat sheds there are in the Auckland Harbour? Lots. But I figured they needed to be inner harbour so we identified sheds and teams are checking them right now.”
Cunningham walked to the window. “It will be dark in a few hours. If they try tonight . . . we aren’t ready.” He turned back to the table. “Barbara, I’ll organise a car to take you home. Jeff wherever you’re going you can walk.”
Cunningham’s mobile rang. He turned to Caldwell as he hung up. “They’ve found the boat shed. Beaumont Street.” Then back to Jeff and Barbara. “Go home. Both of you. This is a job for the Special Tactics Group. They can handle it, Jeff. Even without your help.”
“Come on, Jeff.” Barbara said. “I’ll buy you a whisky.”
“My sore mouth will thank you if you do.”
This time Cunningham was taking no chances. He called in the STG. They would lead the raid. This was what they were trained for and Cunningham was happy for them to do it.
“This is a good find, Inspector. How did we get on to it?” asked Moana.
“From the phone around. Seems there’s a real estate company specialising in renting boat sheds and moorings. The agent said that a month ago someone paid six months up front. The tenant said he needed the space to upgrade his launch, a forty footer. The agent didn’t think much of it but from his shop in Westhaven he can see the waterside of the shed. The tenant had hung tarpaulins so it couldn’t be seen into. He thought it strange at the time and couldn’t work out why anyone would want to do that. Anyway, he dismissed it until this morning. When asked if he’d rented a shed to anyone unusual this shed came to mind. A few neighbours were questioned. Four or five men had been coming and going. Olive skinned, a witness said, could have been from the Mediterranean. Then an hour or so ago ten to twelve men were seen entering. They have not come out. The tarpaulins are still in place.”
Moana nodded. “I heard you caught one of the guys looking after the terrorists?”
“We have someone in custody, yes.”
“Another piece of good police work.”
“Nothing to do with me, Moana. Jeff Bradley and Barbara Heywood decided to play detective. They found him. I’ll tell you all about it later.”
Lee Caldwell moved up behind Cunningham.
“I’ve spoken to Commander Mann. There are boats and barges lined up in front of them but he can’t close all the gaps,” he said. “The sea is the sea, tides and waves move boats about and that is one big area of water we are trying to cover.”
Cunningham saw the curious look on Moana’s face. An American in their midst. He would leave her wondering. He turned his attention back to the anti-terrorist squad.
Jeff bought a bottle of Glen Fiddich on the way back to Barbara’s apartment. She brought two glasses into the lounge and they crashed on the leather chairs. Jeff spun the cap off the bottle and poured. He passed Barbara her drink then went to the computer to check his emails.
“There’s a letter from Sulla.”
Barbara forced herself to her feet. She took two paces and leant on Jeff’s shoulder.
Jeff
I have been approached by a man in Kosovo on behalf of a Kosovan living in Auckland. His name is Demi Myftari ph 695 4320. The man in Auckland knew we knew each other from the newspapers and asked his friend to contact me. I have spoken to him. Demi knows a lot of what is going down. He is too frightened to go to the police but says he will talk to you. Be careful.
Sulla
Jeff reread the letter. He walked over to the telephone on the counter and dialled the number.
“Mr Myftari. My name is Jeff Bradley.”
“You are Sulla’s friend.”
“When can we meet?” Jeff asked.
“Meet me at O’Hagans Irish Bar in the Viaduct. You know it?”
Jeff turned to Barbara and covered the mouthpiece, “Do you know O’Hagans Irish Bar in the Viaduct?” he whispered.
Barbara nodded.
“Yes, I know it,” Jeff said into the phone.
“I will meet you there at 6.30pm.”
“How will I recognise you?”
“Do not worry. I have seen you on the television. I will come to you. Just be there.” He rang off. Jeff put down the phone and turned to Barbara. “I’m meeting him at 6.30pm.”
“We’re meeting him at 6.30pm,” Barbara said. “What about Brian?”
“Sulla said no police, and besides, Brian has enough on his plate. He found the boat.”
“All the same he was pretty mad at us earlier,” Barbara said.
“All that earlier was play acting. For your benefit and anyone else who might be listening. He left those computers there deliberately knowing I’d go there and hoping I’d find something, which I did.”
Barbara stared at Jeff, wide eyed. Not convinced.
Jeff walked to the window and looked down into the city.
“I’m getting closer, Zahar. I hope you’re sweating.”
The Special Tactics Leader, Peter Colville, said to Moana, “The good news is it’s an industrial area so there’s no concern for residents, but there are marine and factory workers within the danger zone. Most of these buildings round here are dilapidated and many back into the water. There are entrances and sheds all over the place; a regular rabbit warren. Anyone could walk out from anywhere at any time. Can I use your people to spread yourselves outside the frontages? Anyone who pops a head out send them back inside.”
Moana gave the street a quick scan. She had enough people to cope.
“All of this side of Beaumont backs on to St Mary’s Bay,” Colville went on. “The police launch Deodar is on its way to block the marina entrance. If the terrorists get out into the harbour in the dark we’ll never find them. You know what it’s like out there, the size of a small country. Well, maybe an exaggeration but big enough to make searching difficult. With the hundreds of craft already on the water it’s bordering on impossible.”
He turned to Cunningham, “I take it you want to stop them here if you can?”
“You got it in one, Peter,” Cunningham replied. “Good luck.”
Moana waved to her team and gave orders for Beaumont Street to be cordoned off from Gaunt Street through to Silo Park. Vehicles to be rerouted down Dalby Street.
“Into formation everyone. Let’s move it,” Colville ordered.
There were thirty of them, all dressed in black fatigues, wearing protective vests and assault weapons held at the ready. As they moved off it occurred to Cunningham how futile and
misguided the attack on the warehouse had been. They had been so very, very lucky. Emotion ruled his head. Lately he had begun to question his ability to lead a police unit and had decided he wasn’t cut out for it. He had no future in the police force.
Colville assembled his men in front of the compound that had become the graveyard for redundant America’s Cup yachts. Their target, the boat shed opposite, had once existed as a fish-processing plant but the two-storey building now covered in rusting sheets of corrugated iron had recently received a coat of gunmetal grey paint. The attempt to spruce it up had failed to lift it above derelict. The number forty-nine had been painted on the roller door. To the left of the roller door was a small wooden door.
“What do you think?” Colville said to his second in command.
“I think I would like to be walking in behind a tank. No sign of any movement.”
“Confirm that,” Colville replied, looking through his binoculars.
His second in command said, “The only way to enter is through that door. It’s also a potential death trap. I’ve spoken with Rogers. He has a telescope on the Westhaven side and can’t see inside. No sign of movement, but the bottom of the tarpaulin is flapping in the wind. Access through that would be easy enough.”
Colville nodded. “Tell number one team to go through that sand quarry and make their way along to the rear. We go in through the wooden door. Flash grenades first and then let’s gauge the reaction. If these guys have automatic weapons we pull back and lay siege. They won’t be going anywhere.”
Team one dashed across the open ground and into the sand and on to the water’s edge. They split into two sections. Four stayed in position and the others moved across the front of the shed opening to the farthest corner. He radioed he was in position. Colville nodded at the message. So far so good.
The team leader led his team across the street. There was a small window above the door. A camera was raised. Colville and the section leader watched the monitor. The camera was rotated a number of times but no sign of occupants were detected. They could see through to the tarpaulin but only the upper section. A wall fifteen metres in hid the main floor area. The light was fading. No lights had been switched on.
