by Nick Spill
By the time they reached the band rotunda Grimble could see a full-scale riot in progress. Policemen with batons were hitting or chasing students who were fighting back with long sticks torn from the posters they had been brandishing a few moments ago.
“Isn’t that a copy of the stolen portrait?” Cadd asked.
“You’re the expert, Cadd.”
They stared at a poster on the ground. Groups of students were fighting police nearby. Screams, shouts and the sound of batons hitting flesh filled the air.
“Looks exactly like it. Wonder where they got the print from?” Cadd held a poster in his hands, then dropped it to the ground and looked around. “Do we get stuck in?”
Grimble sighed. “The idea is to clear up the mess. Get the arrested into the vans. I’ll see where Jarvis is and make sure …” He stopped, not wanting to finish his sentence.
Jarvis was receiving medical care from a St. John’s ambulance volunteer as he sat against a large oak tree. He had blood on his tunic and a large bandage on his left cheek.
“Reporting for orders, sir!” Grimble shouted as he neared his commanding officer, who did not look happy to see the inspector standing over him.
Chapter Forty-three
Rawiri and Wiremu sat on the side of Mount Eden with grass terraces and faced the Castle.
“Well, that got my heart racing. Haven’t had such fun since I blew out the windows in the Three Lanterns pub and scared a bunch of cops out of their helmets.”
“Yeah, I heard about the shotgun and the search for you. Why were they chasing us? We weren’t even in the demo.”
“We’re Maori. We are a target.”
“Shit. Wouldn’t’ve looked good to my probie.” Rawiri looked up at the small clouds racing across the blue sky. “Don’t think they are going to file any reports.”
Wiremu smiled. “Two Maori scared them away? Don’t think so.”
“It doesn’t change, does it?”
“Nah. We’re Maori, fair game for arrest, a beating, anything. Not good.”
Rawiri nodded
They were quiet, absorbing the calm atmosphere, the clouds, the tall grass moving in the breeze. A thrush was singing in a tree nearby.
Wiremu gazed in the direction of the building, as if he could see through the trees to where he thought the Russian sat, in a chair in his apartment. “Are you sure you want to go alone?” Rawiri asked. “What if he has a gun? You know Russians can be tricky.”
“He’s probably really pissed off about being raided by the police. Ruined his breakfast.” Wiremu said, not taking his eyes off the Castle.
“How do you know he has breakfast?”
“Of course he has breakfast. He’s a diplomat. Diplomats always have breakfast. Maybe he has oatmeal.”
“Russians don’t eat oatmeal. They drink vodka.”
“You can’t stereotype Russians. See how we’ve been stereotyped. It’s not right.”
They looked in the direction of the Castle for a long time.
“Wonder if he has the painting. Maybe we could swap it for the notebooks,” Rawiri suggested.
“Not a bad idea, brother. But he would never admit he has the painting. And if we did get the painting, what would we do with it? It’s better to make a lot of noise about land rights and get the publicity rather than have the painting and organize an exchange.”
“A lot of noise?” Rawiri frowned. “You’re chickening out now?”
“Well, think it through. It’s good we’re getting all the publicity over the theft of our land, and it’s raising the public’s consciousness about our rights, but getting land for the painting? It’s never gonna happen. They would never go through with it. Why would they? And we would be cast as the bad guys, which we don’t want. Victims of injustice is good, but not the people who killed Captain Cook all over again. Bad publicity.”
“Did you see the journalist take photos of us?”
“No. Let’s hope not. All we need, a connection to Cook.”
“And won’t other Maori, once they get wind of who we are, disown us, or out us or something? All for their own political advantage.”
“A wise observation. Cynical, Rawiri, but realistic. We haven’t thought this through.”
“Wouldn’t selling the notebooks be betraying Henry? He’s a friend, isn’t he? And he gave you back the Tear, right?”
“Older brother, you’re getting soft in your old age. He’s going back to the States. He can make more notes. And the Yanks would steal the notebooks if they could. And we need the money. Besides, I have the Tear, which means I have the mana now.” Wiremu put his hand to his chest and pulled out the pendant for Rawiri to see. He rose up, looked around and headed to the Castle.
• • •
Wiremu walked through a gate at the rear of the garden and onto the Castle property. The back door was unlocked. He found the stairs to the second floor and walked to the door at the end of another corridor. “N. Windsor” was printed under the buzzer. He pushed it and after a minute and another buzz the door opened. A large man with short red hair and beefy complexion, dressed in a sports jacket with a cravat tucked into his white shirt, peered at Wiremu. “Yes?” he said.
“Mr. Raganovich, sir. I need to talk to you about a business proposition. I have the notebooks you are interested in.” Wiremu held them in his left hand.
The Russian looked at Wiremu’s left hand, his face, and back at the notebooks. He put his right index finger to his lips and motioned for Wiremu to enter. He was ushered into a large sitting room where the Russian pointed to a sofa with lots of pillows. The Russian had tuned the radio to classical music. He turned up the volume and sat next to Wiremu as trumpets blared out the start of Mussorgsky’s Pictures at An Exhibition.
“We can talk now,” he said. “Did you see anyone when you came in?”
“Not a soul. I came in through the back,” Wiremu whispered. “My name is Wiremu Wilson. We know you are interested in the notebooks. They contain extremely valuable formulas and calculations for a new weapon system. It’s all top secret and the FBI, the Americans, have been trying to get them ever since Henry Lotus came back here from the States. I understand you or associates of yours know of him from New York. Right? So we are offering them to you. For sale. You should get first refusal, of course.”
“Mr. Wilson, can I see them?”
“Of course.” Wiremu handed him the first one.
Raganovich leafed through the pages. He stopped to go over a formula, read a note, admire a sketch. Wiremu did not take his eyes off the Russian.
“And the other two?”
Wiremu motioned for the return of the notebook before handing him the next one. He continued to the third one.
Raganovich spent a long time going over the pages of the third, then lifted his head. “Mr. Wilson, can I keep them? I need to show them to our experts. I have no idea what they contain. Nor do I know their true value. All can be sorted out, if I have them for a few days.”
“No, Mr. Raganovich.” Wiremu shook his head. “You can talk to your people, but you already know the value of the notebooks. You’ve been told to retrieve them, haven’t you?” Wiremu could have sworn the Russian squinted for a second.
“What do you want, Mr. Wilson?” He sounded annoyed.
“We know you tried to steal them in New York. Now I am offering them to you. Three notebooks for $10,000 each. Which is a bargain, considering all the time and energy and research you will be saving. Comes to a nice round figure of $30,000 total for all three. It’s not negotiable and if you can’t afford them, the Americans want them and will, I know, pay more. But it’s not about the money, Mr. Raganovich. It’s about our land. It will go towards liberating our land for our people. Maori collective ownership of land. You must understand, as a Marxist, right?”
The Russian returned the third notebook and rose from the sofa. He looked at the notebooks, at Wiremu and back at the notebooks while the music blared. Wiremu watched him calculate h
is next move. He’s used to playing chess and being five moves ahead, Wiremu thought, always with a backup plan. But now he has been taken by surprise. First, an embarrassing police raid, most undiplomatic, and now a Maori offers him intelligence treasure, totally unexpected. If he could go back to Moscow with the notebooks, he would be a hero and well rewarded. His mana intact. Did Russians have mana?
“How can I reach you?” Raganovich asked.
Wiremu could sense another person through a half-opened door across from where he now stood. “Don’t worry, we’ll contact you. Now if you don’t mind, Mr. Raganovich, I’ll be on my way.” Wiremu placed the three notebooks inside his jacket and waited for the Russian to lead him to the front door.
“We have a deal, I hope,” Raganovich smiled. “Give me a few days to make arrangements, Mr. Wilson. Thank you.”
“No, thank you, Mr. Raganovich. We are running out of time. I will contact you tomorrow.” Wiremu caught sight of a woman’s eyes through a slit in a door as he turned to exit.
The hairs on the back of his neck were still rigid as he descended the back exit. He could hear the Mussorgsky from the radio, it was a piece Hone liked to play on his sound system, just as loud. He shuddered. Pictures at an exhibition indeed.
Rawiri was at the top of the crater. “No sign of any activity. Didn’t see any cars.”
“Amazing.”
“What?”
“Just walking in there and offering him the books.”
“Did he take the bait?”
“Oh yeah. All three for thirty K.”
“Shit. Our dollars, right? Not their funny rubles.”
“What do you know about their funny money?”
“About as much as you know about what they have for breakfast, brother.”
They walked to the other side of the crater and once they were sure no one was watching them they sat down facing Rangitoto. Wiremu laid in the grass and gazed at the few clouds chasing each other, light and fluffy, changing shape as they travelled across the sky. He felt he could reach out and touch them. “He’s a scary fellow,” he said.
“How so?”
“I looked into his eyes and knew he’s a killer. He’s done a lot of bad stuff. I can tell. You know? Like when we were inside. Some of the guys we saw.”
“Yeah,” Rawiri let out. “So, what about his eyes?”
“I don’t trust him. It’s just a holiday for him. What he’s done in other countries makes being in New Zealand appear easy, dealing with little Kiwis, Pakeha, you know?”
“What can we do with him?” Rawiri asked. “Of course, we could rob him of the money, and give the notebooks to Henry. The paper hinted at him being expelled today after the spy trial and now the police raid.”
“There was a woman hiding in the apartment, watching me all the time. It was spooky.”
“Spooky?”
“Yes. Unnerving.”
“Little brother, you’re getting soft.”
Chapter Forty-four
When Alexander walked into the library for his late-afternoon meeting with Richard Catelin, the inspector had already talked about the demonstration, Superintendent Jarvis’s intervention and injury, the resulting chaos, and the students’ arrests. Grimble expected bad publicity from the papers, and many of the protesters’ parents would be calling the Commissioner or their local Member of Parliament to demand an official inquiry into police brutality. “I’ve got people at the courthouse combing through property files, others looking at the Council records,” he said. “We’ve drawn up a list of every possible side street in Parnell before the Russian returned to the Castle. Cadd is leading the search for any connection, any lead.”
Catelin scrutinized the photos spread out on the table. He pointed with his pipe to the blown-up photographs of the two Maori outside. “How do you know they didn’t steal the painting? If the Russian doesn’t have it, why not suspect them?”
“Interesting, sir.” Grimble replied. “The commissioner, when we first spoke of Captain Cook, alluded to the fact he had information a Maori group planned to kidnap the painting. The reason security was so tight. However, we haven’t heard anything else. The commissioner, we assume, would have informed us if there were any more leads.”
“You mean the police or SIS were bugging someone? The security company?” Catelin asked.
Grimble sat back in his chair. “I would never hear from SIS, of course. A domestic intelligence warrant is sealed. And Jarvis hasn’t informed me of any such operation. We can do it, but I’ve heard of no recent warrants. So it must be SIS keeping tabs on some Maori. Which is more than interesting. Nothing came of interviewing the two security guards, which is revealing in itself. I don’t think my superiors want to raid any Maori homes now after the morning’s …” He struggled for the appropriate word. “Fiasco sums it up, I suppose.”
“An accurate assessment of where we are at, inspector,” said Catelin. “Now we need to determine what we can do next. Over at headquarters they don’t seem to have any ideas other than to ignore the demands of a Maori group no one has heard of. Add the new Maori group on the posters who organized the demo and they are even more confused.” He turned to Alexander, hovering in the background.
“I know what I saw. He has it stashed away.” Alexander stopped and made sure he had their full attention. “If Sergeant Cadd can find a connection, great. But time is running out. If he’s still in Auckland, we must ask ourselves why? He should’ve flown back or driven to Wellington to hide out in his Embassy where he would be safe and protected. I would guess if or when you deport him, he will already have Captain Cook mounted on a wall in the Kremlin. A trophy they can drink vodka toasts to.”
Catelin shook his head. “I don’t see why he would steal the painting. Doesn’t make sense.”
“We have to ask ourselves why is he still here,” said Alexander. “I mean, the others involved in the spying case left, didn’t they?”
Catelin nodded.
“And we don’t want to declare him persona non grata, do we, at least for now. Better the devil we know and all that. You said the P.M. wants to sell beef and butter to the Soviets, and we have the new Ambassador in Moscow to think of. It’s a delicate balance, as you explained. So we have to ask ourselves why did he steal the painting? From a counterespionage point of view it’s what, stupid? What has he got to gain?” Alexander walked around the table. “Was this approved by Moscow? Or is he doing this alone? Again, we have to ask ourselves why? Is it a distraction? Are there loose ends he is tying up we don’t know about? New contacts to make after the Dr. Winter trial, or Winter’s new agents to prepare before he leaves? We don’t know what else he was up to—the SIS never found out any of his dead-letter drops, if he had any. Or who his other sources were. Or should I say are? There’s a lot we don’t know about him.” Alexander took a deep breath and tried to read Catelin and Grimble.
“There is the photo you took.” All three looked at the last photo again.
“The one lead we haven’t explored is Natasha,” Alexander stated in the silence.
“Of course!” Grimble clapped his right hand to his forehead. “The name on the buzzer at the Castle. ‘N. Windsor’. We never saw her. Why didn’t I make the connection?” Grimble grabbed the phone next to the desk. He dialed a number and barked a series of orders to whoever answered. He waited for what seemed like ages, before he started to write on a pad next to the phone. When he hung up, he turned to Catelin.
“She’s not a diplomat but came over five years ago from the States as a student on a visa she keeps renewing somehow. She doesn’t have any income and is studying Russian and Germanic languages at the university. She’s either Raganovich’s lover or his daughter. She drives a red Mini. We need to find it. Have you seen it, Alexander?”
“No. As I said, the only active car was the dark-colored Chrysler Valiant I spotted a couple of times Sunday night, following the Jag and cruising around Mark Rose’s place.”
“And you know Na
tasha?” Catelin asked.
“Yes. I just need to think of a way to approach her.”
Catelin grinned for the first time. “She’s the Russian girl you were talking about? She’s not American?”
“No, she’s Russian.”
“Well, we haven’t much time.” Catelin stood. Grimble was already at the door clutching his piece of paper when Alexander ran to him and whispered in his ear.
“She’s not in the phone book?”
“No. She’s a doctor.”
“Yes, I know. Call me in half an hour and I’ll tell you.” Grimble left and Alexander turned to Catelin. “Work-related.” He shrugged. “I need help to get to Natasha.”
Chapter Forty-five
Annie had parked illegally on Albert Street, opposite the District Court. She watched as Mark appeared to dance down the steps, recognized her older black Holden and walked across the small parking lot towards her. “So, you’re free?”
Mark leaned over and kissed her. “Yeah! Again. Thank you for the ride.”
“You even made the morning paper.”
“Shit! The raid or the demo?”
“The raid on your house. Oh, you were at the demo as well? We had a whole bunch of students walking in wounded. What happened?”
“Free Maori lands movement, inspired by the stolen painting. I had to talk. I was invited.” He thought for a second. “The Herald goes to bed early and I wasn’t raided till 5.30. Fuck! I was set up. What a day. Those cells are just as nasty.” He kept his eyes on her. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”
