“Hi Brian,” she hissed close to his ear. “Did you think you could get away with murder?”
The first syllable of his reply was too loud, so Ngaire applied a little more pressure to her blade. Rupene quickly got the idea and spoke more quietly.
“Murder? What the fuck do you mean? I’ve murdered no one.”
“Janet died at the meth lab. That’s down to you, you fucking moron.”
“That’s not my fault,” Brian said, a little too loudly.
“Shut the fuck up if you value your miserable fucking skin. If you hadn’t run away like the shitless freak you are, Janet would still be alive.”
From somewhere deep within the recesses of his spineless body Brian was motivated to resist Ngaire’s threats. Lifting his shoulders off the bed, he tried to sweep the blade of the knife away from his throat.
“You asshole,” he shouted, “don’t you fucking remember killing my brother? You stuck him like a fucking pig, he didn’t deserve tha...”
He didn’t finish what he was saying because the knife was quickly thrust more deeply into his neck. Blood oozed from the wound and stained the yellow flannelette an ugly brown. Rupene quickly shut his mouth as he lowered himself back onto the bed.
“Look Ngaire,” he whispered, “I’ve got some information that would be really useful to you. Let me live and I will tell you something that will blow you away.”
Ngaire heard what he was saying, but didn’t care what information he had. Still holding her knife inside the wound on his neck, she removed a pair of handcuffs from the back pocket of her jeans with her left hand.
“Put these babies on, you piece of shit.”
Brian co-operated, fixing the handcuffs to his left hand first and then awkwardly to his right.
“Put them above your head,” Ngaire commanded.
He did as he was told, foolishly hoping that he would survive. As Ngaire fiddled with a plastic security tie Brian could have escaped, but he didn’t. Now that his hands were secured to the headboard, Ngaire sat on his legs, holding the razor-sharp blade to his genitals, exposed through the fly of his boxer shorts.
“Ngaire, please,” he whimpered. “I know about Sonny’s boss; I know how you can get to him.”
“Now how the fuck would you know that?”
“Danny told me the day before they killed him. I don’t know how he came by the information, but he told me.”
“Tell me, then.”
“Only if you let me live. Promise me you’ll let me go and I’ll tell you.”
Ngaire paused, while she considered the deal.
“OK, tell me”
“The Croatian bosses have a restaurant on the waterfront in town.”
“What’s it called?”
“I don’t know exactly, but I know it’s a Brazilian place. Something Brazil. That’s all Danny found out, but there can’t be many Brazilian restaurants at the Viaduct Harbour”
“No, probably not. Thanks for that Brian,” Rakena said, stuffing a balled sock in his mouth. “OK then Brian, I’ll leave you now. Be a good boy until I’m out of here, won’t you.”
Ngaire rose from the bed and looked around the room. Brian’s jeans were draped over the back of a chair close to the window, a dressing gown was on the floor beside the same chair. Ngaire grabbed the jeans and quickly removed Rupene’s belt, then removed the dressing gown cord before turning back to her victim. Flashing the knife in the light from the bedside lamp she pushed the blade into his jockey shorts once more. Brian got the message and nodded his head. In the minimum of movement, she strapped his legs together using the belt, then used the dressing gown cord to fix his legs to the footboard of the bed.
“OK Brian, we had a deal aye? I will let you live in exchange for the information. I wouldn’t want to be labelled as someone who doesn’t keep her word. So, bye for now.” Just as she turned once more to the window, she saw Rupene relax his shoulders, relieved that he had survived. Ngaire had just put her leg through the open window when she looked back.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” she said stepping back into the room, “I just need a small memento of my visit, hope you don’t mind.”
Rupene looked confused at first, then progressively more worried as Ngaire approached the bed. Using her filleting knife Ngaire effortlessly cut away Rupene’s boxer shorts, which he naively thought might be what Rakena wanted. Then the full horror of what she was about to take dawned on him. He struggled and kicked as much as his bonds would allow. However, he was instantly still when Ngaire prodded his penis with the point of her knife. Sweat poured from his brow as she traced the outline of his genitalia with the tip of the weapon.
“Well Brian I’m shocked that you’re not pleased to see me. Where’s that manly stiffy you’re always boasting about? Your dick’s no bigger than my baby son’s little pecka.”
Still holding the knife against his scrotum Ngaire used her left hand to massage his prick into life. Funny, she thought, it was as if the male penis had a brain of its own. No matter what the circumstances it would always come to the party. It took a while but eventually it grew big enough for her to grab it properly. After lifting it away from his body, and in one swift movement, she cut away both his penis and scrotum. Blood poured from the wound in pulsating red gouts. Rupene was horrified by what he saw in Ngaire’s left hand. He had felt so little pain he thought it was a trick. But when he saw the blood coursing down her arm, he knew exactly what she had done.
“Oops, sorry,” she whispered, “this is what I came back for.” She held her trophy in front of his eyes.
Rupene tried to scream as he weakly kicked his arms and legs. Ngaire took a plastic ‘zip-lok’ bag from her pocket, dropped her trophy in the bag, then zipped it shut.
“I’ll keep this as a memento of my little visit. It will be a reminder, every time I get it out of the freezer, of the spineless bastard that caused the death of my friend. Give my regards to Danny when you see him, coz I’m sure you’ll both meet in hell.”
As Ngaire turned to leave, the blood had already started to pool beneath Rupene’s body. At this rate, she thought, Rupene would be dead before she got back to the motel.
***
Andrea Price laid her walking stick on the floor and eased herself into her seat at the head of the enormous mahogany table that dominated the conference room of the US Embassy in Zagreb. This was her first full day back and it had taken forever to clear her desk of items, mostly trivia, which had accumulated since her injury. Frank Stewart sat opposite her, smiling like the proverbial Cheshire Cat.
“What’s the matter Frank, have you just won the ‘Lotto’ or something?”
“No boss, it’s just good to see you back.”
“Thanks, I must admit it’s a little weird having to deal with staffing and administrivia again. Where are we with the bombings investigation Brian?”
Brian Nicholls was a career FBI special investigator who it seemed had been around since Noah launched the Ark. However, he was still super-effective – his criminal clear-up rate was second to none.
“Well, the good news is we found the stonemason who was contracted to build the memorial, but, the bad news is it was subcontracted to another bunch of cowboys who we know very little about. I understand that the original guy made a lot of money from the deal.”
“Can we grill the guy to tell us who he handed the contract to?” enquired Andrea.
“The guy’s name was Blaž Pečnik. We had him in and grilled him for hours but he said relatively nothing. He maintained that some mysterious guy approached him and told him to give up the contract or he and twenty of his family would die. Then when we tried to pick him up again, a month or so later, to look at some mug shots of suspects, we were informed that he had been murdered, the day before.”
“That sounds a little fishy. Who gave you that information?”
“The Chief of Police, Aleksander Kolarič, you might remember him. We’ve got a good relationship with his office, he’s always w
illing to help us. Anyway, with respect to the stonemason it’s a dead end, excuse the pun.”
“OK, explosives then, where did we end up there?”
“Another dead end I’m afraid. Dr Tony Shelly said that it was Semtex 1A, manufactured by Explosia in 1989. The batch that the terrorists got hold of was stolen from a quarry near Dubrovnik in the spring of 1990. The theft was investigated at the time, but that fizzled out. Another dead end I’m afraid Andrea.
“We had more luck with the phone though. We traced every phone of that type, thousands in fact. We made a short list of the ones we couldn’t trace and the one that jumped off the page was the purchase of six by a guy called Jakob Bezjak. He had a criminal record as long as your arm, theft, burglary, assault, even indecent exposure. He looked like our guy, but he too mysteriously died before we could get our hands on him,” said Brian.
“Shit, that can’t be another coincidence. We’ve got a leak. Someone’s giving our secrets away.”
“Calm down, Andrea,” said Frank, “We thought so too, but we couldn’t find out who it was.”
“Now,” continued Brian, “we traced the motorcycle battery to a motorbike that was stolen from a suburb of Rijeka. Another dead end, I’m afraid.”
“So, we’ve got sweet FA, is that correct?”
“You could say that, yes,” admitted Frank Stewart.
“What am I missing here? You’ve got something up your sleeve, haven’t you?”
“I suppose you could say that,” He paused. “We have a coin that was found deep in the rubble of memorial stone, and on the coin is a partial fingerprint. We had Aleksander Kolarič search his fingerprint database, but it came up blank. Whoever it belongs to hasn’t got a criminal record. Yet.”
“Marvellous, bloody marvellous. Ninety-three dead and we have zip. That’s not too good gentleman, so what are we going to do about it?”
“I think we need to find our mole first. Once we have him or her, we might be able to trace who’s continually outwitting us,” said Frank.
“And how do you suggest we do that?” Enquired Andrea.
“By laying a trail of false breadcrumbs, of course. Leave it to me,” suggested Frank. “I’ll let you know when I’ve sorted out some tasty morsel to use as bait.”
“OK, over to you Frank. Anyone fancy a bit of lunch? I’m starving.”
40. Running out of Time
The ESR forensic team went over the incubator with a fine-tooth comb. Although they knew they wouldn’t find any live influenza viruses, there was a good chance they would recover some dead ones. Eventually their fastidious investigation was rewarded. Folded into the grooves of the rubber door seal, they found what looked like dried egg yolk. Thinking it might have come from a broken egg containing the virus, they completely encased the incubator in heavy-duty polythene, then quarantined it in a lock-up store which the department maintained near their Mount Albert offices. The Communicable Disease Group undertook the virological analysis and they confirmed that there were no viable virus particles anywhere in the incubator. Then, in collaboration with the Virology Department at Auckland University, they analysed the RNA sequences in the dead virus samples. This confirmed what was already suspected, that the incubator had been used to grow the modified strain of the H5N1 bird flu strain that had been discovered in the recent bioterrorist attacks in the US. These results were immediately relayed to the team of investigators involved with Operation Iceflow. With a single telephone call, Operation Iceflow had suddenly grown from a New Zealand Customs Service investigation to an international anti-terrorism operation involving many countries and many investigative organisations.
Although the committee controlling the group had swollen to accommodate their international partners, control of the domestic investigation remained primarily under the auspices of the New Zealand SIS, the police and the customs service. Alex MacLean was in awe of those on the committee who represented the foreign agencies, such as the CIA, FBI, DGSE (French Secret Service) and MI6. He felt out of his depth, he was just a lowly goods intelligence analyst for New Zealand Customs. However, he wasn’t the only customs officer who felt that way, as his collective Robin Hickman and even the Analysis Division manager Alan Cunningham all felt the same way. They were playing with the big boys now. What they did or didn’t do, their success or failure would ultimately be splashed across the newspapers throughout the world.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it seems that we have uncovered part of an international terrorist group that has so far killed thousands with its biological terror weapon,” said Mark Tunstall, the committee chairman, Deputy Prime Minister of New Zealand and the cabinet member with responsibility for border security. Once all the introductions were done, he outlined the remit of the committee.
“Thank you all for coming at such short notice. I give apologies for our Prime Minister who cannot be here at this time as she is attending the G8 conference in Tokyo. Please let me say from the start, I am only here in a passive role, representing the government of New Zealand. I will ensure that the actions this committee undertakes are in the interests of this country, that no international laws are violated and lastly, I will report to the Prime Minister the progress of the investigation and what actions are planned. OK, are there any questions as to my role or how this committee is to run?”
No one indicated that they wanted to speak, so he continued. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, let’s get down to business. Alan Cunningham is a senior member of the intelligence branch of the NZ Customs, so Alan, would you like to give us an outline of what has been discovered about these drug manufacturing bioterrorists.”
“Thanks Mark. Let me introduce Alex MacLean, the goods ops intelligence analyst who uncovered this nest of vipers. I’d like to propose that he give you the details as we currently know them.”
“Sure Alan, that’s fine. Over to you then Alex.”
Although Alex knew that this might happen, he was still quaking in his boots. Both he and Leanne had burned the midnight oil the previous evening, preparing and practising what he was about to say, before they both collapsed, exhausted, into bed just six hours earlier. Sweating profusely, he stood up and approached the whiteboard. Oh God, he prayed, help me get through this please.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” stammered Alex, “I hope to outline the New Zealand-based organisation behind the bioterrorist attacks that appear to be funded by the manufacture of methamphetamine, or crystal ice. From what we have been able to piece together, the drug scheme seems to work like this: Pseudoephedrine, a precursor of methamphetamine, dissolved in 210 litre drums of ether is imported into New Zealand from INA Chemical Industries in Zagreb. The ether arrives in the Port of Tauranga aboard a Liberian registered, but Croatian owned ship, called the MV Olga Tovic. The ether cargo is destined for two factories; a New Zealand glue company called Uni-Glue NZ Limited, based in Hamilton, and Kuipers, a petrochemical processing company in Newcastle, New South Wales, Australia. The drums of ether destined for Uni-Glue are off loaded in the Port of Tauranga and transported by a Croatian-owned haulage company called Sutic Transport Limited from the port to Uni-Glue in Hamilton.” By now Alex was more relaxed and starting to enjoy the briefing.
“We believe that the drums containing the pseudoephedrine are then substituted for others from which the drug has already been extracted. The pseudoephedrine drums are then transported to a farm just outside Papakura, where the drug lab was situated. There has recently been a fire at this location, so it’s been abandoned. However, one building survived and this has supplied us with excellent corroborative evidence of the manufacture of the crystal ice and the production of the influenza viruses. The pseudoephedrine transformed into crystal ice at the farm was destined for two markets; the domestic New Zealand market, organised by a motorcycle gang called the Skorpions, and the Australian market. Although we have few details, we believe that the crystal ice destined for Australia was dissolved in the same 210 litre drums of ether from which the pr
ecursor chemical was extracted and then placed back on the Olga Tovic. The crystal ice is then exported to Aus, where it is intercepted and extracted by persons unknown at this time.” Alex paused for a second to take a sip of water and accept any questions there might be from the other members of the committee. As there were none, he continued.
“We believe that the monies generated by the manufacture and sale of the crystal ice are then used to fund the terrorist group responsible for the influenza attack on the US.” Taking up a coloured pen, he underlined the factors he had outlined on a flow diagram he had previously drawn, before he continued his briefing.
“In red are all the principal players we have identified so far: Goran Sumovich, the Captain of the MV Olga Tovic. Dino and Levorko Sutic, who mastermind the whole operation in NZ and owners of the road haulage company, the restaurant and the meth lab. Tony Graham-Collins, who is the chemist, the meth cook, and Petera Mokaraka a Skorpion gang member who runs the meth lab. Lastly, we have Sonny Rewaka, the Skorpion gang leader.”
Crystal Ice Page 47
