Crystal Ice

by Warren Miner-Williams

  “Shall we phone the boys to pick them up, Sonny?” Said Tommy Huerta, one of Sonny’s most loyal soldiers. At over two ten metres tall and weighing 150kg, Tommy would frighten the crap out of most people by just standing close to them. He had the reputation of being the hardest and toughest fighter in the gang and one without rival either.

  “No Tommy, I think we know where they will be. They’ll keep. I want to deal with them personally.”

  Ri started to cry again, sobs that pulled at the heartstrings of all those who tried to comfort her. Ri had been the wife of a highly respected gang member who had been killed when his Harley had crashed on State Highway 2, just south of Paeroa. Some thought he had been run off the road by another vehicle, but that wasn’t the truth. He’d had a few beers and took a corner too fast, sliding off the road before hitting a fence. He died impaled by a fence post at the bottom of a ditch. Widowed for over fifteen years, Ri was a tough lady and a feared fighter too in her time.

  Sonny’s telephone beeped as he kneeled close to Ri and his wife Mary. Turning away, he read the text message before smiling and turning back to Kuri’s Gran.

  ***

  With the last of the eggs inoculated, Tony Graham-Collins dismantled his glove box then took all the equipment he had finished using into the orchard. Petera watched him from the kitchen window of the farmhouse. He had asked repeatedly if Tony needed any help but he had said no, he would be OK. Seeing Graham-Collins struggling with some of the larger pieces, Petera went out to help.

  “You could do with some help with the heavy stuff, eh?”

  “Yes. Everything that needs to come here is out on the backyard. Can you bring a few while I get a fire going?”

  “Sure. Are you going to burn everything, there’s some good stuff here”?

  “Yes, it’s all got to go.”

  “Why?”

  “The boss wants every trace of the stuff destroyed, just in case we get caught.”

  “But if we get caught for manufacturing the ice, who the fuck will care if we clarify the stuff with egg white? In any case, won’t we need the stuff again?”

  “Look Petera, I know it looks weird, but the boss has become paranoid about this place being discovered. He thinks some guy in the local police is snooping around, asking questions. He doesn’t want anything to give the game away and some of this stuff is pretty specialised and would be a banner shouting ‘look what we are doing’. It has to go. Anyway, this clarifying shit doesn’t work, so when I told him he said “destroy it, don’t sell it. Be sure it’s never discovered.” So that’s what I’m doing, following orders.”

  Petera stood silently for a moment, absentmindedly scratching his head while he processed what he’d been told. He knew full well what would happen if the true purpose of the farm was ever known by the authorities. He also knew that if he or Graham-Collins put a foot wrong and endangered their enterprise, then either he or both of them would be killed. Those were the rules that both had been told when the lab was first mooted. Manufacturing crystal ice was a serious business, it generated serious money for the Skorpions and their silent partners. If that supply of money was ever threatened, then there would be no mercy, no sentimental loyalty. This was business, big business, and there was no room for error.

  “Well, are you going to help or not?”

  “Sorry, yes of course.”

  Graham-Collins looked at Petera and added; “You’re OK with this?”

  “Yes, no problem.”

  When the clearing away was finished, Petera went back to the lab to continue working on the purification of the current batch of meth. Petera could see the need for a clarifying agent because obtaining pure ‘ice’ crystals was a long tiresome process that used volatile solvents that were both carcinogenic and a fire hazard. After making ‘ice’ for so long he never thought about what the solvents he was breathing in were doing to his liver. Petera always ensured there was nothing that betrayed the real purpose of the farm and made sure there was plenty of pig muck to mask any fumes that might drift across the neighbouring properties.

  Graham-Collins was sick of freeze-drying egg white. It had been a never-ending process, first inoculating the eggs and their incubation, then the painstaking separation of the albumin from the yolk. He was tired of the continual stress generated by having to deal with such hazardous material. He thought that after leaving Porton Down, he was finished with all that shit. But here he was again, up to his neck in it. Even though Dino Sutic was giving him a very generous bonus for doing the work – $250 000 – he knew that he had no choice in the matter. He also knew what the consequences for both he and his family would be if he fucked up. Graham-Collins had never overtly been threatened by either of the Sutic brothers, but he wasn’t stupid enough to believe that he was completely safe. The brothers were always charming and very generous, but he always knew their relationship was purely business, nothing more. Living with the knowledge that you were expendable was hard for Graham-Collins to live with at first. However, the money dulled that pain, and the lifestyle he had outside the job, with Nadine and the girls would be difficult to relinquish. He had made plans though, for that moment he was sure would come, when his life or that of his family became endangered. He had hidden cash, and incriminating documents that would help him and his family flee and ensure he had no followers.

  With the last of the albumin freeze-dried, each batch was double sealed in two zip-lok polythene bags before being packed securely in a strong cardboard carton. Everything was now set for delivery to Mount Maunganui. Then he thought all this virus shit would be finished with. Tony Graham-Collins had locked the box in the safe and he would only retrieve it when Petera left for the day.

  Petera had been quiet and contemplative for a while now, agonising over the problem of Rewa and Robbie visiting the farm. Tony had not asked Petera how he had managed to put off the visit he didn’t want to appear as if he were checking up on him. For Petera the troublesome visit had effectively masked any suspicions he might have had about the business with the eggs. If he hadn’t been so distracted, he might have asked more probing questions and made a greater fuss about being locked out of the workshop that Graham-Collins was using.

  All that was left in the workshop was the egg incubator and the freeze dryer, both of which would be buried on the farm. Everything that was not burnt was washed down with Vikon, the virucidal liquid that Graham-Collins had used before. Eventually there would be no trace of the virology lab and things could get back to normal.

  ***

  The night was a balmy 22oC and the sea flat calm as the MV Olga Tovic forged ahead on her journey down Australia’s New South Wales’ coast. Having recently docked at Newcastle, where they had safely offloaded the latest batch of ‘ice’, they were now on course for Hobart in the southeast corner of Tasmania. As Goran Sumovich, captain of the Olga Tovic, looked skyward, he quickly identified two of the major constellations Scorpius and Sagittarius. He was reminded of the time he and his wife Sara sat underneath the stars on Tasmania’s Mount Nelson, when they lay on an old US Army ground sheet and gazed in amazement at the stars that filled the heavens. Against such a background they drank wine and made love in the warm evening air. This voyage had been terribly long and although Goran and his wife kept in touch via Skype on the satellite telephone, it was hard being separated from the woman who kept his spirit alive. They were much older now and their time together must eventually be drawing to a close, so any time together was precious and their separation, purgatory. So much had happened since that evening beneath the stars. So many tragedies, so many friends gone. Another puff on his pipe and another view of Scorpius reminded him of how lucky he had been.

  “Sara, Sara how I miss you tonight,” he whispered to himself. This had to be his last voyage, time was too precious to waste on separation. He would quit once they docked in Trieste. He would tell both Dino and Levorko when he saw them next. Thinking of home, of Sara and Anica, of his daughters and his six grandchildren
, Goran was convinced all the more that he was now weary of the sea. He had been at sea for almost sixty years, thirty-five as a captain. How many of those years had he been at home he wondered? Surely, far too few. The wind had now freshened and was bow on, time to go inside. He was looking forward to a couple of vodkas and six hours of uninterrupted sleep.

  “Keep her head into the wind number one,” said Goran Sumovich as he turned to address his First Officer, Gregor Bukovac. “And keep as close to 180 as you can. There’s nothing ahead that should bother us, but keep the radar manned at all times. Goodnight number one, I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Goodnight sir.”

  ***

  Robert Jerman had negotiated the US deal with the Cooper company himself, almost two years ago, after he had met with the executives of their Australian subsidiary. Tasman Estate Lavender Farm had supplied the New South Wales division of Cooper’s with essential oil for a number of years, though it only amounted to 50 litres at best. Jerman knew that the US company consumed a vast amount of essential oils from all over the world, so it didn’t take much to convince the Moughan family that brokering a deal with Cooper’s was what the Tasman Estate needed. The current contract was worth $1.35 million, enough to fund the farm’s expansion and secure its future. The quality of the Tasman Estate oil sold itself and once the US Company had inspected the estate and witnessed the farm’s efficiency, they were keen to increase the volumes they purchased when the estate expanded. The future for the Tasman Estate was looking very rosy. It had taken nearly two years of negotiation to secure the current order, and although he didn’t know the details, these five 210 litre steel drums were soon to become Jerman’s personal contribution to the global Muslim jihad.

  Robert Jerman supervised the transfer of the precious lavender oil into the steel drums and placed the special international customs seals on the filler caps. Once the drums were sealed and loaded onto a truck, Robert accompanied them to the Hobart docks. His steel drums would not be containerised in Tasmania – unbeknown to his employers Jerman had arranged for the drums to be loaded onto the MV Olga Tovic in Hobart, before being transported to Tauranga, New Zealand. From Tauranga the drums would be transported by road to the Auckland container port and ultimately to the US.

  Jerman had required $10 000 to smooth out the wrinkles in the export procedure and ensure that the drums would be put aboard the MV Olga Tovic with only the minimum inspection. The money had been wired anonymously to him via a Western Union international money transfer from the Sutic brothers in Auckland.

  Once the cargo reached Auckland, Jonathan Littman, an import/export broker in the pay of the Sutic brothers, had organised for the drums to make up a ‘part container load’. Littman’s business was filling containers with part loads and sorting all the paperwork. Littman was a registered broker, his warehouse a licensed Customs Controlled Area. Therefore, he could make up a full container load in his own warehouse before it was then sealed by customs and transported to the Auckland container port. Around 40% of all New Zealand exports pass through the port of Auckland and 70% of all cargoes passing through the port are containerised. NZ Customs X-ray every container before they are loaded. As the Littman brokerage was a signatory of the Secure Export Partnership, the New Zealand Customs side of the US Container Security Initiative. Ultimately for the drums of lavender oil, this meant there would be minimal customs interference. Of course, there would be a paper trail, as the goods were transhipped in New Zealand, but such procedures were not uncommon. As Tasmania was a minor player in global exports and Tasman Estate was exporting only five drums, the transhipping would not be deemed at all suspicious.

  After seeing his cargo safely deposited in the customs-controlled area of the Hobart docks, Jerman made his way to the Carlton Beach Surf Lifesaving Club where he would meet someone from the Olga Tovic. The surf club was seething with people and Jerman wondered if he would be able to recognise his contact from the ship. He had been told that he would know them by a sprig of lavender they had pinned to their lapel. The surf club was packed and making his way to the bar was difficult, fighting his way in the reverse direction through the same crowds of people without spilling his beer was almost impossible. Having persevered he eventually made his way onto the deck overlooking the beach. There were six people standing at the railings and because smoking had been banned in all public bars, they had sought refuge on the decking to ‘catch a smoke’ in the cool of the evening. With his mouth and throat dry from nervous tension Jerman’s cold Victoria Bitter tasted, as the first sip of water would, to someone dying of thirst. The old man beside him caught his attention, as his white hair contrasted dramatically with his sun and weather-beaten face. Jerman’s curiosity must have alerted the man, as he immediately turned to face him. There, on his lapel, was a sprig of purple lavender. The old man smiled and proffered his hand.

  “You must be Robert.”

  “Yes, yes I am. Are you the…the contact?” As he extended his hand the old man smiled and shook it vigorously.

  “Don’t be nervous, I’m not going to bite. Lovely spot this isn’t it? The beer isn’t bad either.” replied Sumovich.

  “Yes…. yes, it is. The beer, and the view.”

  Sumovich crushed his cigarette into the sand ashtray before putting his arm around Jerman’s shoulders. Jerman took another gulp of his beer, trying his best to relax.

  “Perhaps you expected James Bond and guarded whispers. I do have some of the fancy gadgets though. Look.” Sumovich took a pen from his pocket and showed it to Jerman. “This may look like an ordinary pen to you, but it’s actually a powerful radio transmitter that’s broadcasting our conversation to my boss.”

  All the colour drained from Jerman’s face, and he teetered on the edge of collapse. Sumovich gripped his arm more tightly.

  “Whoa young man, I was only joking. It’s actually a death ray.”

  Jerman forced a smile, and a laugh so tight with nervous tension it sounded falsetto.

  Goran worried that this simple creature might be a threat to the organisation’s security. He made a mental note to inform Dino.

  “Robert, relax please. There are no secret agents watching you. This is a meeting between old friends who haven’t seen each other for some time. No one is interested in what we are doing here on such a lovely evening. So, relax my friend, relax.”

  Sweating profusely, Robert realised he wasn’t cut out for this cloak and dagger stuff.

  “I’ve got the stuff for you in this camera bag, everything you requested, all that you’ll need to replace the security seals on the drums.”

  “Excellent. Well, we should have another beer before we leave. Victoria Bitter, I’ll get you another. Can’t stand the stuff myself, but this Cascade Special Stout is nice, reminds me of Guinness. Stay there my boy, I won’t be long.”

  Ten minutes later Sumovich reappeared.

  “Here you go, get that down you. Feeling more relaxed now?”

  “A bit. What are you going to do with the oil?”

  “I don’t know. They didn’t tell me and I thought it better not to ask. You grow the lavender from which the oil is extracted?”

  It was all the encouragement Jerman needed to launch himself into a subject in which he was an expert. He described in detail his job, from the cultivation of Lavandula angustifolia to the steam distillation of the oil. By the time he had stopped for breath Sumovich too was an expert at lavender oil production.

  “Another beer err…. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name” said Jerman.

  “No, I think I’ll rush off now to my dinner,” replied Sumovich, deliberately not giving his name. “Thanks for the company, it was good to meet you and very interesting. I’ve learned a lot about lavender tonight. I might grow some myself when I get home.”

  Sumovich picked up the camera bag in his left hand before proffering his right once again to Robert Jerman. This time Jerman’s hand shake was firm, his palm dry, he was much more relaxed. Whether
this was a result of the two beers, Sumovich couldn’t tell.

  “Cheers Robert,” said Sumovich as he turned to leave.

  “Yes, goodbye,” replied Jerman, as his mysterious drinking partner and co-conspirator disappeared into the crowd, still milling around the lounge bar of the surf lifesaving club.

  19. Turangi

  The knocking on the Turangi door was urgent and insistent, seeming to get louder and more aggressive as Ada Henare approached her front door. A dark silhouette of a single person was visible through the frosted glass. Must be Carol from next door, bringing my prescription, Ada thought.

  The instant Ada pulled the door open someone on the outside kicked it so violently that it struck her in the face. There was a crunching sound as the bones in her nose broke. The blow was so painful that Ada immediately crumpled to the floor.

  “Oops! I seem to have kicked the door a little too hard. Sorry luv.” And with that Pete Rupene kicked the sixty-five-year-old woman in the stomach.