“Good, Petra you’ve got that challenge. Liaise with Tony about the detonator and see if we can’t find out where that bloody thing came from. Now for the time being, see if you can trace the source of the motorcycle battery. You never know, that might be their Achilles Heel.”
“Will do Brian.”
Petra was a short, 45-year-old career FBI special investigator who had married the service and sacrificed having children. She had curly ginger hair, was as thin as a rake and had the temper of a shrew, the only mammal with a venomous bite. If there was just an outside chance of finding a lead, Petra would uncover it.
“Well folks what are you standing here for? Shake a leg and get on with it.”
Finishing the briefing as he always did the three teams scuttled off in pursuit of anything that would identify the bombers.
Brian too had his own line of enquiry to pursue. He had cultivated an informer in the Croatian Interior Ministry and also had contacts in the underworld. Terrorist attacks like the ones that had occurred in Zagreb were bad news for the criminal gangs throughout the city, because heavy handed investigators, Croatian and American, would turn over every stone looking for the perpetrators and some of those stones might expose their criminal activities. Sometimes, just sometimes, these criminal gangs might point the finger at the terrorist cell to protect their own interests. Brian had every hope that he might uncover something relevant that would get his teams pointing in the right direction.
16. The Truth Will Set You Free
“Look, I don’t give a shit how nice she is, I am not having some stoned-out has-been looking after my kids.”
“Calm down, Julian will hear you. Look…oh God!”
“Mum, what are you and Dad shouting about?”
It was Julian Nichols standing in the kitchen doorway. How long he had been standing there, neither of his parents knew.
Celia Nichols gave one of her very best ‘I told you so’ looks at her husband, who was just about to re-launch his tirade after his wife’s patronising response to what seemed to him to be a perfectly good reason for getting shot of Lisa Davis. She was a convicted drug addict, for goodness sake. To him it was simple, she should be told in no uncertain terms that her services were no longer required. Celia had tried to improvise some good reason to retain her services but had failed miserably.
“It’s OK honey, we are just arguing about the cars, and whether we should get rid of the big truck. Daddy thinks that after our little accident in the supermarket car park that we should sell it, and um… I don’t want to.”
The boy was far more astute than either of his parents gave him credit for. He had overheard much of what had been said, had seen Lisa’s picture in the New Zealand Herald, and had read the article. There were a lot of things in the article Julian didn’t fully understand, but he knew what his parents were arguing about. He looked at his mother, trying to judge which side of the argument she was on. Would she stick up for Lisa? As he left the kitchen he stopped and turned to face both his parents.
“If you sack Lisa I don’t want to live here anymore. Elizabeth and I will go and live with Granny.”
Both of his parents were dumbstruck by their son’s remark, and for a few moments after he left, neither of them spoke. The Celia broke the silence.
“Look Tim, when I treat a patient for hepatitis and he or she recovers, do you believe they are still infected after twelve months? Because that’s how long Lisa has been with us. I know for a fact that she was clean within the first three months of her prison sentence, so I don’t believe she’s any threat to our children.”
“Hepatitis isn’t the same as drug addiction,” interrupted Tim Nichols. “I see it more like alcoholism, and we all know there’s no cure for that. When they have dried out, sufferers are in remission, they're not cured. That girl is a risk to our children and you bloody well know it.”
“No, I don’t know it, and neither do you. I know that girl, I’ve spent hours with her and the children. She isn’t a risk, and nothing you say will change that.”
“Well, I’m making an executive decision, she goes and that’s final.”
“You’re making a what decision?”
“I’m the head of this family and these sorts of decisions are my responsibility. She goes.”
Enraged by her husband’s chauvinism, for a moment Celia struggled for words.
“You might think you’ve got executive powers, but this is no kingdom and you’re no king. We have a partnership, both of us have a say in what happens in this house.”
“Celia, be reasonable. This isn’t an argument about us, it’s an argument about some drugged-up girl who’s employed to look after our children. Our irreplaceable children.”
“You don’t have to remind me of the value of our children. And yes, it is an argument about us NOW. You made it so when you decided that you could dictate policy around here. Well, you can’t and if you don’t want a partnership, buy a slave.”
“For goodness sake Celia, let’s not make this into a bigger issue than it really is. Look I’m sorry, you’re right, as usual, this is a partnership and we make decisions together, so ease up on the threats.”
“So, I am right as usual am I and I should ‘ease up on the threats. Why? Tell me please. For just a moment there I thought you were apologising for not realising what is important in our marriage. If you recall our vows to each other, we did say we would honour each other, but if you recall we omitted the word obey. You have a ‘black belt’ in shooting yourself in the foot, did you know that?”
“Yes, I know I do, so first let me apologise properly. We do have a partnership and one I value very much and no I do not have the right to dictate to you what happens in this family, I’m very sorry. But this girl is a risk, you have to see that, please.”
Celia saw through his change of tactics.
“Pleading with me will not change my mind. Valid reasoning might, so give me a good reason to believe that Lisa is a risk to our children. She was imprisoned, yes, but she was released, because she’d paid her debt to society for breaking the law. She was a drug addict, yes, she was, but I don’t believe that she is now and you have no reason to suggest otherwise. I know this girl; I have seen how she is with the children and I am not going to condemn her without reason. And I will not dismiss Lisa without cause.”
“Are you going to leave it at that, until she kills one of them through negligence or in a car accident when she’s stoned?”
“Don’t be so paranoid. We see her twice every weekday and even at the weekend, we’d be able to see from her behaviour if she was taking drugs or even contemplating to.”
“You’re gambling with our children’s lives.”
“Don’t try any psychological blackmail. I’m not gambling with anyone’s lives. There is a difference between a gamble and a calculated risk.”
“Now we’re arguing about semantics.”
“No, we’re not. A gamble is where the outcome of some event or action is left to chance. A calculated risk is where the possibilities of some event happening are weighed against a set of known facts. I know Lisa, I’ve spent hours with her, you might say that there is a bond between us.”
“Bullshit, you’ll be saying that you have women’s intuition next.”
“Keep your voice down, and don’t swear, Julian has already heard us once. What’s wrong with women’s intuition anyway?”
“Just for a moment then I thought that you were basing your argument on rational thought and logic, not some sexist bullshit.”
“Well, this sexist partner is not going to dump a friend in the pooh after she’s just buried her sister. I am not going to sack Lisa.”
Tim realised that Celia was not going to change her mind. He was exhausted, and needed a drink.
“I need a whisky, what can I get you, arsenic and turps?”
Celia looked at him quizzically. “Arsenic and what?”
“I couldn’t think what else to say.” It was the i
cebreaker, and both started to laugh.
***
On the front page of the New Zealand Herald was a report on Sharon’s drug overdose. The text suggested that Lisa – the convicted drug addict – may have led Sharon to her premature death. It was cruel and untrue.
Tearfully Lisa looked across at Scott and sobbed. “I’m going to lose my job, aren’t I? They’re going to say I’m a risk.”
“Lisa, you don’t know what they’ll say. You have to go and face them, tell them the truth and let them make the decision from fact, not from hearsay in a cheap newspaper article.”
“I’m telling you I can feel the venom already, I’ll be lucky if I even get through the door.”
“Lisa, believe me, you can’t feel the future.”
“I can predict what they are going to say, it’s as plain as day.”
“Shall I come with you, give you some moral support?”
“Would you Scott? Please.”
“Let me call the office and leave a message for Bill, to tell him I’ll be a little late.”
It took more than twenty-five minutes for the two of them to reach the Nichols’ household on Abraham Heights Road. For each minute that passed going forward, two were spent stationary as Lisa hung onto Scott, plagued by doubts of what would transpire once they reached the house. When they finally arrived, it took another ten minutes for Lisa to compose herself and tidy her face after crying so much. But when it came to walking up to the front door, she had recovered enough to go alone.
“I’ve got the courage to do this, Scott. I’ve got to face the consequences of not telling the truth in the first place. Wait for me, please?”
Scott smiled. “Go get em kid.”
After a long embrace, Lisa marched up to the front door and after a brief pause, rang the bell.
It was Julian who opened the door and Lisa’s heart almost broke when she saw the boy. With tears still tumbling from his bloodshot eyes, he looked distraught. Ever since breakfast he had been looking for Lisa from his bedroom at the front of the house, all the time crying anticipating that this would be the last time he would see her. When Celia Nichols stood beside her son, Lisa noted that she too had tears in her eyes. In that same second a feeling of despair spread throughout her body. Feeling as if she was going to be sick, she grasped for the doorjamb to stop herself from falling. In the same moment Celia stepped forward and embraced her. Julian looked up at the two most important women in his life, both crying, both hanging on to each other as if their lives depended on it. Time for a group hug, he thought, and he pulled his body close to both his mother and Lisa.
“Can I join in too?” Julian pleaded.
***
Sitting at his desk on the fourth floor of Custom House, in downtown Auckland, Alex MacLean stared at his computer screen. He was hoping that the 90% of his work queue, that involved the smuggling of pseudoephedrine into New Zealand, would magically disappear and some hard-drug seizure would pop up. He was sick and tired of the never-ending reports from frontline customs officers detailing the seizure of Contact-NT, commercial pseudoephedrine. Every day was the same, it had become a plague. The next sip of coffee, with its hot bolt of caffeine, brought Alex back into the world of the living.
“You’ve been looking at that screen for the last five minutes and haven’t done a thing. What’s the matter, Alex?”
This was Robin Hickman, Alex’s immediate boss.
“It’s all this crap about pseudoephedrine, I’m pissed off with it.”
“Well, if it wasn’t for “that crap” you might not have a job. And someone’s got to do it. Take a break, walk off your frustration, have an early lunch. Then you can come back refreshed and ready to do battle again.”
“Yeah, you’re right, I’ll just finish this coffee and then I’ll go to lunch.”
Pseudoephedrine can be a precursor to methamphetamine and that thought reminded Alex of Lisa Davis, and his promise to her that he would try his best to find the source of the meth that killed her sister. Alex keyed ‘Davis, Sharon, into the Customs database, and then pressed ‘search’. Within a minute every recorded incident that involved Sharon came up on the screen. Most of the entries related to her travels abroad for her modelling contracts. Then there was AKA0524762, the report that detailed the parcel that had been intercepted at the International Mail Centre. Alex remembered the report because it had been the source of one of his “little investigations,” as he liked to call them. Reading the report again, he also remembered that it had led him to a dead end. Switching to the earlier report detailing Sharon’s arrival in New Zealand from a holiday she had spent in Bali with her sister Lisa, he scanned the text for any further clues. They had been searched because of a positive Ion Scan for THC, the active ingredient in cannabis. Both had admitted they had been smoking ‘weed’ on their holiday. However, smoking the stuff in Bali was not an offence in New Zealand. Again, there seemed no way on from either of the two reports.
Alex clicked an icon on the report that brought up the details of Sharon Davis’ passport. It was of course out of date now, if she were still alive, she would have had to apply for a replacement, just more redundant information. Almost hidden at the bottom of the passport details screen was another icon which brought up all the travel that Sharon had taken on that old passport. Nothing strange there, either. However, again at the bottom of the ‘travel history’ screen was another icon that checked all of her outward and inward flights for travel associates. On the screen came Lisa Davis’ name, and those of their parents, as they had travelled a number of times with Sharon. Then up came another name that was familiar to Alex, that of Tony Graham-Collins. In itself there was nothing sinister about this, because if the passenger being checked had left and then returned on the same flight as anyone else, then the database would group together those other travellers. A check of the seat numbers revealed that Sharon Davis and Tony Graham-Collins had not been sitting together. This, and the fact that Graham-Collins was travelling with his family indicated that they were probably not associated and that it was just a coincidence that they were on the same flights. Nevertheless, Alex again checked the name of Tony Graham-Collins.
AKP0372264 referred to Graham-Collins being stopped and searched following a dog indication for drugs and a positive ion scan for methamphetamine. Alex once again checked the Customs database for any other recordings of Graham-Collins. There were none for his name, address, telephone number or passport. Checking his international travel movements, Alex saw that he and his family had travelled abroad on average twice a year, his wife and daughters always travelling with him. Of the countries they had visited over the last four years, only Bali was a possible source of drugs. When Alex looked at the ‘Analysts Notepad’ he found that he had written that the Graham-Collins lived at 24 Weldene Crescent, Howick, and that his occupation was restaurant manager. There was nothing suspicious about Graham-Collins at all, every answer he had given Phillip Butler, the inspecting customs officer at the airport that Sunday, matched the data that Alex had discovered. Every fact checked out, except that he had obviously changed his job, because his old British passport stated his occupation was Biochemist.
Telephone numbers recovered from the cell phone directories of both Tony Graham-Collins and his wife, Nadine, confirmed their story. The telephone number Tony had listed as work was that of Terra Brasil, a restaurant on the waterfront in Auckland. Of the other numbers of interest noted from Tony’s phone, one belonged to Levorko Sutic, the restaurant owner, one to Jonathan Littman an import/export broker, and a cell phone number listed to someone called Petera Mokaraka. When Alex searched the Customs database for any entries against these numbers, there were none. A search of the Telecom White pages confirmed the origin of all the numbers except the one for Mokaraka, which was probably a prepaid cellular phone. There were no references at all to Mokaraka, whoever he was. So, once again, there was nothing to link Graham-Collins with anything illegal. However, his name had occurred twice. All
Alex had was the notion that a biochemist was now a cook, which was also slang for a manufacturer of crystal ice, methamphetamine. Hunches and gut feelings are not quantifiable and had little to do with intelligence analysis, but Alex couldn’t ignore his intuition that there was something odd about Graham-Collins.
As Alex stood outside Robin Hickman’s office, he rehearsed what he wanted to say.
“Alex, you’re still here? I thought you were going to lunch”
“Yeah, I was, but I want to run something by you first. Do you mind?”
“No, of course not, come in. What’s biting your ass? By the look on your face, it’s something important”
Crystal Ice Page 20
