Crystal Ice
Page 48
“Any questions so far?” asked Alex.
“Yes Alex. Can you tell us about the lavender oil?” asked David Guttenberg, who represented the CIA.
Alex quickly outlined what New Zealand Customs knew about the trans-shipment of the lavender oil from the MV Olga Tovic in Tauranga, to the California Star, in Auckland, by Sutic Transport Limited. Alex proposed that somewhere between Tauranga and Auckland the security seals on the drums were broken and the virus liquor was added, before being resealed with duplicate security seals that matched the paperwork.
“Thanks Alex,” said Mark Tunstall, “are there any questions or comments from the floor?”
“Yes, a couple of points,” said Kieran Godfrey, the Deputy Commissioner of the New Zealand Police. “We’ve heard from the Tasmanian police that the sale of lavender oil from the Tasman Estate Lavender Farm to C & W Cooper was brokered by their farm manager, Robert Jerman. Jerman’s body was recently found in the main courtyard of the estate, his throat had been cut. Now, as to the fire at the meth lab, there were two bodies found there, or close to it. The first body was that of an, as yet, unidentified woman who we think was responsible for the blaze. She had the remains of a number of Molotov cocktails that had contained petrol in a satchel trapped under her body. The second body was that of Pete Rupene, a known Skorpion gang member with a criminal record as long as your arm. He too had had his throat cut. We have reliable information that indicates there has been an internal feud within the gang regarding the death last year of their co-leader, Daniel Tua. We think that this is what led to the arson attack on the lab and the death of these two gang members.”
“Thanks Kieran, perhaps we could call upon Dr Alison Prescott from ESR to give us the forensic details.
“Briefly, we found a number of dead H5N1influenza viruses in an egg incubator, at the Runciman farm. The gene sequence of these viruses, proved to be the same as those used in the recent bio-terrorist attack on the US.” Alison paused for a moment. “The gene manipulation and reconstruction required to engineer such a 1918 variant, involves complex procedures and specialist equipment far beyond the capabilities of any amateur DIY outfit. So, putting two and two together we are looking for a specialist virology lab, possibly in Croatia, like the Institute of Immunology in Zagreb. Having been smuggled into New Zealand, someone has then duplicated the viruses, using simple egg technology. Once harvested from the albumen, the extract was then added to the lavender oil. Frankly, I am surprised the viruses were still viable after being dissolved in such a concoction.”
“Thank you, Alison. Has anyone got anything else to add?” asked Tunstall.
“Yes Mark, I’ve got some information relevant to your meth cook, Tony Graham-Collins,” said Tim Hawkesbury, from MI6. “He worked at Porton Down, the UK’s Chemical and Biological Weapons Establishment, for a number of years and though he was primarily a biochemist, he was for a short time seconded to the virology research facility. Therefore, I am reliably informed, he has the rudimentary skills necessary to duplicate quantities of a virus using the old egg technology. Although I’m a little embarrassed to say, I think that we have found your virology technician, and he’s a Pom. We will of course co-operate with the New Zealand government in any way we can to apprehend this individual.
“I think he’s a prime candidate for extradition to the US,” remarked Mark Tunstall, “what do you say, David?”
David Guttenberg smiled. “We’d certainly like to get our hands on him, yes,” replied David. “Although prosecuting him will cause some measure of embarrassment to everyone. Perhaps we should consider a more useful way he could co-operate with this investigation, because although he’s a good catch, we are really after the bigger fish.”
“Quite so, quite so,” repeated Mark Tunstall trying to fully understand the true meaning of ‘a more useful way he could co-operate with this investigation’ and its more sinister implications. “Alan, can you brief us on what we here in New Zealand are going to do.”
***
Just as the lift doors on the third floor of the US embassy in Zagreb were about to close, a podgy, sun-tanned hand was thrust through the gap. The doors reacted instantly and reversed direction.
“Success at last,” said Brian Nicholls, slightly out of breath. “I’ve been chasing you all over the building, you’re as difficult to catch as fog.”
Andrea Price looked at Brian and smiled. “You’re waxing lyrical again Brian. What’s so important that you can’t e-mail me?”
“Our success in laying the bait to catch our mole, that’s what. Frank and I drew up a list of all the people who had access to information common to all the incidents we suspected were the result of the duplicitous release of confidential information. I can tell you the list wasn’t very long. We released information to the people on the list, stating that we had identified an individual who was involved in the killing of Charles Powell. We also said that we’d posted a description of the killer on the embassy intranet. The file was the bait. To all intense and purposes, the file appeared genuine, and though it was password-protected, we made it so simple even a three-year-old could by-pass it. And we got a hit, the swine took the bait and hacked onto the site.” Brian punched the air in celebration of their success.
“Now,” he continued, “hacking into the site means fuck-all, anyone might have done it out of mere curiosity, after all there were great big signposts to the site. But only the mole would pass that information on, wouldn’t they? Well, the bastard did, and we’ve got him banged to rights.”
Andrea Price flicked the emergency stop switch, then turned back to Nicholls. “So, who is it?”
“You’ll never believe it.”
“Brian!” she exclaimed.
“Aleksander fucking Kolarič no less, the chief of police for the metropolitan area of Zagreb. He rang a telephone number from his private cell phone to another cell phone in the city. He just said, “They have information describing Tomaž on the web.” Within an hour someone from outside the embassy hacked onto the site, using Kolarič’s password. We were prepared for this and traced it back to a cyber-café in the Branimir Centre, on Branimirova. It’s the building complex that houses the Hotel Arcotel Allegra and the multiplex cinema that we went to last Christmas. Sadly, we weren’t quick enough, by the time we’d traced the intrusion and got the interception guys moving, he or she was gone. The keyboard was clean and there was no security video available anywhere that had captured the subject. No witnesses, nothing, zip, nada, bugger-all. But we know who the mole is. So, we started looking at his bank accounts and would you believe it, he has a secret one in the Irish Republic? Anyway, he is paid about $2000 dollars a month from some mysterious bank in Switzerland, the PrivatBank Bellerive AG, in Zürich. Getting anything out of them will be a problem. However, the really interesting thing is that the payments swelled to a massive $100 000 in the months when Charles Powell died, when the stonemason Blaž Pečnik died, and when Tilen Bezjak died.”
“Tilen who?” enquired Andrea.
“The guy who bought all the cell phones. Now hold onto your stick boss,” joked Brian, referring to the walking stick she still depended on to get about. “Kolarič was paid a massive $250 000 at the end of the same month the memorial blew up. I don’t know who’s worse, the fucking terrorists or this money-grabbing traitor.”
Just then the lift’s automatic alarm sounded, it had been stationary for too long. Andrea flipped the emergency stop switch back to normal, the alarm was silenced and the lift resumed its journey to the fifth floor.
“We’ll continue this in my office. Give me ten minutes – I’ve got to drop these files off first.”
***
Although Alex MacLean was not allowed to accompany the Operations Search Team, he would be listening to their running commentary via the personal radios each of the officers was equipped with. The MV Olga Tovic had already taken the pilot on board and the ship was expected to dock in the Port of Tauranga within the hour.
Once the mooring hawsers were in place, team leader Mikka Haurer led his group of fifteen customs officers aboard the Olga Tovic. Captain Gregor Bukovac waited at the top of the gangplank for the senior officer to board his vessel.
The two men shook hands.
“Captain Bukovac, nice to meet you. I am Mikka Haurer, the team leader for this inspection.”
“Good evening Officer Haurer, my ship is at your disposal.”
“We will be as quick as we can Captain, I know you have a tight schedule tonight.”
“Yes, we have only a limited amount of cargo to unload. Please come to my day cabin, I have all the paperwork ready for you there. This way please.” Bukovac stepped aside and held out his arm to indicate the direction of his cabin. He needn’t have bothered, as Mikka had been part of the team that had previously inspected the ship almost a year ago.
“Tell me Captain Bukovac, has Captain Sumovich retired?”
“Yes sir, he has, and as I have been his first officer for some years, I was asked if I would take over from him. It has been an honour to serve under such a man. Captain Sumovich is a great seaman and a true friend. However, Captain Sumovich is aboard, I understand that the owners persuaded him to come along, ‘for the ride,’ I think you say, so that the transition from one captain to another was as smooth as possible.”
“Give him my regards, I have inspected this ship before and Captain Sumovich was always very courteous and helpful.”
“Thank you, officer Haurer, though you will be able to tell him yourself as he will be waiting for us in my cabin. I think he finds it a little difficult to relax on a ship he has captained for so many years.”
As Gregor Bukovac and Mikka Haurer moved aft, the other team members busied themselves in cargo holds 1 and 2, marking each of the drums of ether with a small number applied using a felt marker that contained a UV sensitive ink. This mark would be invisible in normal light but would fluoresce in UV light. It was a mindless repetitive task that had to be done quickly and covertly on each of the 1500 drums. Though they had five more officers than normal it still took a team of ten, over an hour to complete the task.
***
A cold south-westerly wind had picked up, cutting through the thin cotton sweatshirt that Oliver Bradshaw was wearing. He cursed himself for not wearing a jumper. Oliver and a team of five other customs officers were assigned to follow the Sutic Transport truck that would carry the drums of ether to Uni-Glue in Hamilton. From his vantage point on the roof of one of the cargo sheds, Oliver could see everything that was going on around the moored ship.
“Hey Toots, they’re taking the bread out of the oven now. The bread van is echo, lima, foxtrot, two niner four,” Oliver reported to the others over the secure two-way radio. The affirmative reply was just a single click as Toots pressed and quickly released the transmit button of his radio.
“Toots” was the code name for Mikka Haurer, who had by now taken up his position outside the dock area as the leader for the tracking team. Mikka had inherited the name after a ‘tramps and tarts’ fancy dress party when he turned up as a tart the spitting image of Dustin Hoffman’s character in the film “Tootsie.” Everyone at the party had agreed that he made a very attractive woman and that he might make more money on the streets of Auckland than he could in the Customs Service. Mikka was quite flattered by his nickname, he thought himself lucky that he didn’t have a name such as Slab Head, a name he had been stuck with at school. He hated the name Slab Head which arose because the back of his head was in line with his neck, a trait he had inherited from his father. Toots was better, much better.
One and a half-hour’s later Oliver transmitted another message.
“Lift off, coming down.”
The Sutic Transport truck carrying the drums of ether was on the move. Three minutes later the juggernaut spluttered and coughed clouds of black smoke as the diesel-powered truck accelerated through the dockyard barrier and made its way along Tasman Quay. Five minutes later it pulled up to the security booth outside the Sutic Transport depot, seconds later a thickset Māori fellow opened the gate and the truck disappeared from view.
“Toots, the van is exchanging bread,” came the message from the operations control centre as they watched, via the covert camera which had been placed in the depot earlier, five drums being taken off the truck, then substituted for another five.
“On the move again Toots,” said Alan Cunningham, who was co-ordinating his troops from the control centre.
Sure enough the truck re-emerged from the Sutic depot and made its way south along Tasman Quay and the Harbour Bridge causeway.
“OK Fran the van’s on its way,” said Mikka over his radio, warning Fran Douglas, the senior officer of another surveillance team tucked away in Chapel Street. Fran had been in the service twenty-four years and was married to the job, a comment her proud husband, Peter, nearly always dropped into conversation at parties.
Fran Douglas’ team would pick up the truck once it left the bridge and set off down the Waikareao Expressway. As predicted, the truck soon appeared and carried straight on through the traffic island and onto the expressway.
“Got the van, we’re following it now,” said Fran.
“Toots, the bread looks as though it’s staying in the depot for the night. They’ve closed up the warehouse and it looks as though they’re preparing to leave the depot.”
“Thanks for that; green team will cover the depot till the morning. We’ve crossed the causeway and we can see Fran’s team ahead of us,” said Mikka to Alan Cunningham.
“Brick, we’re only minutes from you, he should turn into Cambridge Road just in front of you,” replied Fran Douglas.
Toby (Brick) McGuire was a short stocky man who got his nickname from the fact that he was “built like a brick outhouse.” A single click confirmed he had heard the message. Having reached Judea, the truck turned onto Cambridge Road as predicted and Brick took up the tail. Soon it would join State Highway 29 on its way to Uni-Glue.
Just one hour later the Green Team saw the same stocky Māori guy, who had been in control of the front gate of the depot, drive a panel van into the depot and load up a completely different set of five 210 litre drums. In twenty minutes, he closed up the depot once more and drove his cargo back to the dock. One of the dockers met the van and, after what looked to be money changing hands, the five drums were loaded aboard the Olga Tovic. Neil Loundes, one of the Green Team perched on top of the dockside bond store took photographs of the money exchange through a large telescopic lens. The two men had been so brazen about their business they had made Neil’s job too easy, as the exchange was conducted in a well-lit area right in front of the ship.
***
Once the truck left Uni-Glue, early that morning, Brick
McGuire and a team of four customs officers entered the delivery bay of the glue company and checked the pallets of the ether consignment they had observed being unloaded the previous night. On inspection they found that five of the drums did not have the fluorescent tick marked on them. Brick impounded the unmarked drums and had them loaded into a customs service panel van. Then he and his team inspected the rest of the consignment. Using the customs service’s mobile x-ray unit, they photographed every drum for secret compartments, then took samples that would be analysed in the ESR lab that day. Once the lab confirmed there were no illicit substances in the drums, they would be released back to Uni-Glue.
The five drums taken from the Uni-Glue consignment in the Sutic Transport Limited depot were monitored constantly by another team of customs officers, via their covert camera.