Spiders had always fascinated Tomaž Rozman, and the display he had just witnessed by the female orb web spider made him smile.
Two clicks on the radio signalled Rozman’s group that they had spotted their prey. The tall, Under-Secretary for Trade had just parked his Series 5 BMW in the underground car park, and was struggling to extract his briefcase from the rear seat. As the steel mesh roller gate automatically closed and locked shut, an eerie silence descended upon the basement garage. It was at this point that Charles Powell III saw three of Rozman’s henchmen emerge from the shadows. Powell knew what they were here for, and that his cellular phone was inoperable in the garage. In a state of panic, he dropped his case and ran for the open lift in the corner of the car park. Frantically pressing the button for his floor, he watched helplessly as the three men converged on the lift. Slowly the lift doors began to close. With each centimetre the doors closed, the men drew nearer. Then the door shut, just as the closest of the men was a single metre from his sanctuary. As the lift started to rise Powell could hear the man pounding on the doors below. Powell slid down the far wall of the lift, utterly exhausted. The pounding below seemed to synchronise with the pounding of his heart. He clasped his hands to his temples, in an effort to prevent his head from exploding. Any thoughts of using his cell phone had vanished, he was alone and beyond help now anyway.
Another two clicks on the radio alerted Rozman that the American had escaped into the lift. The spider had now backed away from the captured fly. She would eat it later, there was no rush, it would keep.
Powell fumbled frantically for his keys, expecting his pursuers to emerge from the stairs before he could get inside his apartment. He burst through his own door and slammed it shut behind him. The heavy fire door that he now hid behind would stop a tank, they couldn’t reach him now, he was safe.
***
The hatred Ngaire felt for Sonny Rewaka was palpable, she could taste it, and now she would do something about it. Brian Rupene, his brother Pete, Janet Packwood, and Hohepa Morgan, a friend of Daniel Tua’s, were all sitting in the kitchen of 57 Albion Place, Papakura. It was Ngaire’s mother’s home, a place where such a meeting would not raise suspicion. Though Ngaire was only 1.6 metres tall and as thin as a rake she was the toughest woman in the Skorpion family. With her long black curly hair and tattoos on each hand and up each arm, she was a formidable woman. Good with a knife, she had eviscerated a man in a Papakura bus shelter one night when he tried to molest her. When she got home, covered in his blood, she said nothing to Danny. She didn’t need to. The only thing that stopped her from emasculating Danny after his brazen philandering was something the Māori call ‘mana,’ a simple word which belies its importance. Danny’s mana was seated in him being a co-leader of the Skorpions, with him being her partner and as head of the whanau, his mana was borne of respect, command and authority. But Ngaire had fire in her belly and would never cower before him. If she felt she was getting a raw deal she would say so, either with her lashing tongue or her fists. The scars on her face were testament to her battles with Danny. Her left eyebrow was split by a scar that had required five stitches, the one on her left cheek required another three, she had her nose broken three times and her collar bone twice, yet still she was loyal to her man.
Ngaire spoke quietly. “I can’t prove anything, but Sonny fucking Rewaka had my man killed. I don’t have to prove it because I know it. So, what are we going to do about it?”
Hohepa turned to face Ngaire, taking another gulp from his can of Lion Red beer before he spoke. Though Hohepa was in his late fifties, his pure white hair and stringy frame made him look much older. He was a veteran Skorpion, a foot soldier, a worker bee, one who got things done without a fuss. He was loyal and trustworthy to his friends, and Ngaire was his niece, his older sister’s kid. When Hohepa spoke, he did so with the authority of his years, when he spoke everyone listened.
“Before we do anything drastic, we need to know the facts, we need to be sure that Sonny is guilty.”
“I know he’s fucking guilty Unk, so don’t give me that shit,” Ngaire shouted. “I’ll tell you the facts. Danny wanted a better share of the profits and Sonny wouldn’t have a bar of it. They had been arguing about it for weeks. Just before he was killed, he had a pocketful of cash, yet when he was found there wasn’t a cent on him. Andrew Kuri stole that money. Sonny has always wanted total control. Now he’s got it and more money from the meth. He fucked Danny…”
Hohepa raised his hand and Ngaire stopped her tirade in mid-sentence. She had utter respect for her Unk, a name she had used since she was a kid.
“Don’t show your hand too quickly Ngaire, it’s dangerous to act hastily.” Advised Hohepa. “There are many enemies of Danny and many allies loyal to Sonny, and all of them are a danger to you and your family. What we need is someone in the know who can testify that Sonny was behind the killing. Then and only then should we act. If we make a move on Sonny too soon, he’ll be forewarned of what we are about, then we’ll be up to our armpits in shit.” Hohepa paused for a moment. “I’m reminded of a movie quote I’ve just heard, “my enemy’s enemy is my friend.” Well, the New Reich stand accused of committing Danny’s murder, and they’re our enemy’s enemy, so let’s see if we can get something from them. I know someone who might be able to help us there. We must get our facts right first.”
There was silence in the kitchen following Hohepa’s speech. Ngaire and Brian Rupene didn’t know how to respond, and Pete was too thick to say anything constructive. He was a mindless thug who you programmed to act and then watched him go. No programming, no action, that was Pete Rupene. Pete was thin and weedy, his complexion was sallow and together with his sunken cheeks and dark shadows around his eyes, he looked only two steps away from death. His body had been ravaged by a life of alcohol and drugs. He had a tattooed dotted line around the base of his neck, below which were the words “cut hear.” Pete always found this amusing, even though he didn’t have the brains to spell it correctly. Though he appeared weak, spindly, and cowardly, he wasn’t. Most gang members kept him at arm’s length, not because they were physically afraid of him, but because he was so unpredictable. Pete preyed upon his female drug customers, women like Sharon Davis. Too ugly to pull a piece of talent himself, Pete bullied the women who depended upon his trade, the drugs. With these women he was brutal, “making it” with a woman was an act of violence. These women had little choice and lucky for him they came back for more, time and time again. Peter Rupene had more brain between his legs than between his ears.
Unlike his brother. Brian Rupene was Mister Flash man. He adorned himself with gold, and like a peacock, he was flash but ineffective. He even had a gold cap on one of his front teeth. Brian was 1.78 metres tall and had the build of a man who works out. He thought he was tough, and like his brother, with women, he was. But to most of the men in the gang, he was a cocky little fuck who often didn’t know when to keep his mouth shut. Brian saw himself as the successor to Daniel Tua, but he was the only one who thought that. For all his faults though, Brian was a good businessman who knew how to move large quantities of crystal ice. He kept the money flooding in, and because of that he was tolerated.
“Fuck this and fuck all of you.” This was Janet Packwood, Vince Eremia’s de facto and she was fuming. “I don’t give a flying fuck for evidence and gang protocol. That bastard Sonny fucking Rewaka’s responsible for Vince’s death and I’m going to make him pay.”
Janet Packwood was Pakeha, non-Māori. She was plump if you were kind, fat if you were disinclined, and the mother of Vince Eremia’s four children. She had been found by Vince in a massage parlour, giving men hand-jobs for $40. It was what Janet was good at and she had a natural talent for the job. Vince took her away from a life of having money in her pocket and exchanged it for a life of not having a single cent in her pocket, just disposable nappies. Vince and Janet were in love, she worshipped the very ground he walked on, and he in return was loyal to her. When there
was free pussy going, Vince wasn’t in the queue. He took a lot of stick from his mates for that, but he was the size of a house and had fists like a jack hammer to back him up. Vince never laid a hand on Janet, though sometimes she sorely tried his patience. He said very little, got into few arguments and remained devoted to his job, looking after Daniel Tua. When he died at Tui Glen Road, part of Janet did too. Her grief, like that of Ngaire’s, was focused on revenge, and although she didn’t have the ability to do anything about it, she had an ally in Ngaire who could.
“Janet, listen to me,” said Hohepa. “It’s no good rushing into battle without doing some scouting first. Once we’re sure who’s guilty, then we’ll have allies that’ll do the job for us. See what I mean?”
“I don’t want someone else to do my dirty work for me. I want to cut Sonny’s balls off and then make him swallow them.”
“Have a little patience, love. Remember, every dog has his day.”
Janet screamed at him “Fucking dog’s days, armpits of shit and friendly fucking enemies! You talk in riddles. Do you know whose side you’re on?”
Hohepa did not reply. No one spoke for over a minute before Ngaire broke the silence.
“OK, so we wait, wait until we have some more information on who’s responsible. But I tell you this, it ain’t going to change fuck-all. Sonny’s going to burn for this because he’s guilty, as guilty as sin.”
“Right,” replied Hohepa, “I’ll put some feelers out and see if we can nail him. As I’ve said, if we expose his guilt then we won’t be the only ones who’ll want to kill him.”
“Well, they’d better form a fucking queue behind me then,” Janet hissed.
***
“Good day to you Mr Powell” said Tomaž Rozman as he stepped out of the shadows. “I’ve just been admiring your garden, if you can call that collection of pots a garden.”
Charles Powell III panicked, trying to reopen the door as fast as he could. Rozman just stood and watched him as he fumbled with the lock. Flinging open the door Powell, turned blindly before running straight into the chest of the huge man blocking his exit. The man didn’t even grunt as Powell bounced off him, before falling backwards into his own apartment. The huge man lifted Powell off the floor by the scruff of his neck and then turned him round to face his boss, Rozman.
“Ah, I see you’ve met my assistant, Andrej. I find him such a help in these matters. Come in Mr Powell, please, take a seat.”
Andrej dumped Powell unceremoniously on a dining chair facing the living area, then two other assistants used strips of torn material to bind his arms and legs firmly to the chair.
“Now, I hope you don’t mind, but I have a few questions that I want to ask you. So, while you listen, Andrej is going to make sure that you pay attention. Andrej, if you please?”
In seconds Powell was gagged and forced to watch the mystery man who had moved back into the shadows of the main living area.
“OK Mr Powell, my name is Tomaž Rozman. You can refer to me as Mr Rozman. I work for a very great man called Matej Korosec, a loyal servant of Allah, may his name be praised. We have a small problem with you American types coming into our country and trying to take over. Accusing us of being ‘war criminals’ when you haven’t been in the fight. We have a problem with you attacking our brothers in Iraq and Afghanistan. We have a problem with you people manipulating international trade to suit your own selfishness. So, you will see our point of view when we say that we don’t have much in common with you people. So, it’s interesting, don’t you think, that you, a representative of an international bully, is going to be bullied by us humble folk for a change.”
Two unnamed henchmen stood on either side of Powell’s chair whilst Andrej stood behind him. Powell had wet himself as fear took hold of him. He was cognisant enough to realise that because Rozman had introduced himself and his boss, he was not going to escape from this. He had seen videos of the people that had been beheaded by the Mujahidin, and he prayed that that wasn’t his fate. Powell was no hero; he was just a family man on a tour of duty at the embassy in Zagreb. He had loyalties to the flag but they didn’t run to him withstanding torture. Once he realised this, he just kept mumbling his wife’s name behind the gag.
“Oh Mr Powell, you mustn’t speak when someone is speaking to you. It’s such bad manners, yes?”
Andrej hit him viciously across the side of his head. It was such a heavy blow that he literally saw stars, making Rozman’s voice oscillate between loud and soft. It took Powell a few minutes to regain his faculties, and even then, the pain in his ear was excruciating.
“Now, Mr Powell, I want you to tell me by what route your boss, the Ambassador, is going to take when she attends the memorial service for the bomb victims next week. Just a single, simple little question. Nothing to lose your head over, is it Mr Powell?”
Powell had no idea what fucking route she would take, that would be up to her security staff, not him. But they wouldn’t believe that he was quite sure. In his mind he thought about the route that the ambassador would take if he were driving. When the gag was removed Powell stuttered and stammered the response that his captors wanted to hear, seeming to take forever to remember the street names. All this time Rozman and his goons were silent, their eyes constantly on him. When he had finished, he smiled, thinking he had done a good job. They couldn’t torture him now, could they?
But they did. After replacing the gag, Andrej hit him on the back of the head. This time it was hard enough for him to lose consciousness.
While Powell was unconscious, he was burned with cigarettes, had three of his fingers and an ear cut off. Some of his teeth were pulled out with a pair of pliers, before they cut his throat. Powell, by design, was kept alive until he had bled out. While the blood pumped from the wound in his neck Rozman put on a pair of latex surgical gloves. Using Powell’s own finger Rozman wrote a heroic message to the US Ambassador, in blood, on the parquet floor.
TARGET MEMORIAL SERV
It all looked perfect. Andrej removed Powell’s bindings and stashed them in his pocket. The other two men then ensured that there were pressure bruises on each wrist. Handfuls of Powell’s hair lay on the floor. Nothing was left to chance, and no television CSI would ever unravel the truth from the forensic evidence left at the scene.
Now the stage was set. The next scene would take place at the memorial service.
***
There were two groups of mourners at Sharon Davis’ funeral. The cremation took place one week after the body had finally been released. Lisa and Scott were together at the front of the small chapel in the crematorium and Alison and Caroline were immediately behind them. On the other side of the aisle were Alex and Leanne. There were no others, no friends from the modelling phase of Sharon’s life, no drug addicts or suppliers from her tragic finale. There were just a few dozen words spoken by the lay-preacher from Alex and Leanne’s church, a tape of Louis Armstrong’s Wonderful World, which Sharon loved in her younger years and that was it. The small hall in the crematorium smelled beautifully from the flowers of the six ceremonies that had preceded Sharon’s, and it was this that made Lisa cry.
As Lisa watched her sister’s coffin disappear behind the automated curtains, she couldn’t believe that her sister was gone. What epitaph could there be to just another victim of methamphetamine? Lisa still hurt deep inside from guilt, convincing herself that if she had been clean, Sharon would still be alive. They would have been together through the stress of the modelling, wouldn’t they? But the truth was, they weren’t together, and Lisa had turned to meth to release herself from her own troubles. Disgusted by Lisa, Sharon had spat at her when she discovered that she had been taking drugs. Some of Sharon’s final words to her the last time they had seen each other still echoed in Lisa’s head.
“How could you take that shit Lisa? How? Tell me if you can. You fucking can’t can you? You bitch, you stupid fucking bitch. I hope it makes you bloody happy.”
After that S
haron turned her back on her and walked away. Sharon remained silent until Lisa was led from the court. Over her shoulder Sharon shouted,
“You deserve more than eighteen months, Lisa you stupid bitch. But they’ll clean you of that shit where you are going.”
As Lisa walked out of the court and down the steps to the cells, all she could remember was the hatred in Sharon’s face and those parting words echoing in her head. Sharon’s hatred haunted Lisa throughout most of her sentence. It was Jeanette Farmer, her counsellor for the last nine months of her sentence, who had helped erase that memory. Jeanette had also helped her get over the guilt she felt for losing her baby. The baby poisoned by the crystal ice that had suffered the tortuous ravages of her mother’s addiction long before she was born. Her baby, Rachel, didn’t deserve to die like that and it took hours of counselling to heal some of Lisa’s heartbreak. Baby Rachel would never be forgotten, the pain would never really go away, it was ever present, and when Lisa was down all that pain flooded back. While she was in prison, she had tried to kill herself, but when she failed, she realised that to die was to escape, escape the punishment for what she had done. Then she realised she had to be punished, and to be punished, she had to live. Jeanette had a tough job to break the chains of Lisa’s self-induced agony.
Crystal Ice Page 16
