Milkshake (25 page)

It was a London accent. Even in such a perilous position,
training kept his brain alert, analysing, considering his
options.

“Fucking idiot. As if a cleaner would park in the long stay
car park.”

Pulled out from between the cars, Maaka felt the momentary
relief of a cooling breeze against the throbbing pain below his
eyes. Dragged face down along the hard concrete, he tried to regain
his balance and fight back.

Hands gripping his shoulders tightly on either side let go. He
slumped to the ground, his nose taking the full impact. He lay
still, breathing deeply, desperately trying to overcome the pain.
Then the kicking started.

* * *

Brent Piri had finished his shift five hours earlier and been
watching the late evening news when his personal phone rang. He had
already pressed answer before the second ring. The message was
short and to the point:

“The mission has been compromised. We have a man down. Report
as cabin crew on flight NZ200 departing Heathrow for Los Angeles
00.30 hours.”

Brent knew this meant only one thing - urgent and immediate
evacuation.

Maaka’s contorted face was an horrific bloody mess. Swollen
eyelids were split as cleanly as a defeated boxer’s. He could
barely distinguish light from dark through them. His head pulsated
with the searing pain from the multiple kicks. His ran his tongue
around his gums. Jagged edges where moments earlier there had been
teeth. Fragmented shards floated around his blood-filled
mouth.

He felt himself being dragged to his feet, arms held tightly
behind his back, unable to defend himself against the sudden
painful intrusion as he struck a solid object in front of him. The
air felt different, a stiffer, cooler breeze. The beating had been
so severe he could no longer stand. His face, already swollen and
with so many teeth shattered in his bloodied oozing mouth, couldn’t
even contort into a scream. He tried. Hot blood dribbled down his
chin and his throat. He started to choke.

Now he was being lifted up, the breeze on his face cooling the
terrible wounds momentarily. He realised the truth too late. He was
on a thin ledge. His knees had no hope of balancing. With his eyes
beaten closed, he had no reference point. As he lost his centre of
gravity and fell forward, he braced for the impact. Only the sudden
rush of air allowed him to sense the distance in his final seconds.
As he flailed, desperately reaching out to protect himself from the
inevitable, unable to see the rapidly approaching ground, he
thought of his parents, his brothers and sisters, and
revenge.

Brent grabbed his passport, phone and wallet, the small empty
travel case from under the bed, shut the apartment door, and hailed
a cab to the airport before Maaka had hit the ground. The rest of
their belongings would find their way home in a diplomatic
bag.

The cab was on the M4 motorway, heading west, when Brent’s
phone rang again. From twelve thousand miles away, the familiar
voice needed no introduction. “Brent, g’day. Did you get the
message? Where are you now?”

“
I’m in a taxi, sir, heading to Heathrow to
get the late flight to LA. What’s the story with
Mak?”

“Doesn’t look good. London is monitoring the emergency
frequencies for us. It sounds like some kind of incident on the
roof of one of the airport car parks. The report is one casualty at
the moment.”

Brent sensed Commander Dalton was down-playing the situation.
The fact an emergency evac had been ordered meant that Mak’s
situation was likely to be more serious than just ‘casualty’. “Mak,
managed to confirm details of a target. London has cross-referenced
the wireless cam snap with recent residency application photos, and
checked these against names on the airlines’ booking systems. The
target and his partner are flying east, via Singapore, en route to
Auckland. Lucky for us they have a twenty-four hour stopover
booked, which means as you’ll be flying west, virtually non-stop,
you’ll be back ahead of them. Make sure you get some rest on the
plane. I’ll speak to you again when you land here.”

The cab dropped Brent outside Terminal Four. At the Air New
Zealand check-in desk, a solitary employee checked details on a
computer screen as Brent approached. He had received a call from
the Embassy at 10.50pm asking him to keep the desk open and delay
the flight. A recognised code word signalled an urgent diplomatic
passenger on the way, Brent’s emailed passport photo the only proof
needed to identify who now approached the desk.

Brent knew the drill, offering his passport for the benefit of
the airport security camera fixed to the wall over the clerk’s
shoulder. “You have a reservation for me?”

“Yes sir. Please place your hand luggage on the weighing
scales.”

Brent lifted the empty bag onto the scales. The clerk,
positioning himself between the camera and the scales, lifted
Brent’s empty bag off and replaced it with an identical one. He
smiled and winked at Brent. He knew he was likely to be an agent of
the New Zealand Government and couldn’t resist a moment of kinship.
“There ya go, Bro’, plane’s waiting for ya. Have a good
trip.”

Brent kept his composure - “Thanks.” - before lifting the
heavier bag and walking away .

“Sir!”

Brent froze as the voice echoed through the empty check-in
area.
Shit! This guy is determined to blow
me
, he thought.

“The plane’s holding on the gate for you. The Captain has
requested your urgent embarkation. He needs to make his twelve
thirty slot.”

Brent waved his free hand and continued. He knew pilots
disliked it when NZSIS, or in this case, the KMP effectively
commandeered a commercial flight. They had to make up excuses for
cabin crew and the passengers. Poor service made the captain and
the airline look bad.

In the deserted restroom, Brent unzipped the bag and changed
into the Air New Zealand co-pilot uniform which had been neatly
folded in the case, together with perfectly fitting black shoes.
The bags were kept in a large crate airside, marked Diplomatic
Luggage and protected from scrutiny. Agents on active service had a
tailored set of clothing complete with ID tag in a small case in
the crate.

The immaculately dressed Maori airline pilot pulled the small
case with the official New Zealand Diplomatic Seal past the few
remaining passengers and was waved through.

Airport Security staff were aware of the status of people like
Brent. The disguise was for the benefit of the agents from
non-friendly countries who kept a close watch on all departures.
Brent walked swiftly past deserted duty free shops towards the
departure gate. As he stepped aboard the Boeing 747-400, he was
greeted by the chief purser. “Kia Ora, good evening, sir. Good to
have you aboard. Please follow me.”

He was home already.

Senior cabin personnel never asked questions, never presumed
the reasons why these men and women in company uniforms always
boarded last. But the instructions were clear - escort them to the
upper deck, then to the back of the aircraft and into the galley
area. There must be minimal contact with passengers and other
flight crew. A small maintenance panel adjacent to the galley
allowed the VIP passenger access into the rear bulkhead of the
upper deck and then into a small, self-contained module secreted
behind.

The small compartment was illuminated by the dim red haze of a
single emergency light. He was inside a Jumbo Trunk, the nickname
for this tiny self-contained cabin.

There was a Jumbo Trunk located in at least one 747 in each of
the fleets operated by the majority of the airlines of the western
world. He had spent half a day during his KMP training in a hangar
at Auckland International, familiarising himself with the layout
and facilities of the Trunk.

He instinctively put out his hand and pulled on the auxiliary
power switch. A small generator in the belly of the aircraft jolted
into life, and the red glow flashed into a stark white light as
three small fluorescent tubes spluttered into life. More electrical
devices powered up - the timer on the wall-mounted microwave oven
began to flash green, the coffee machine heated up, and a gentle
hiss indicated the water heater in the tiny shower cubicle at the
far end of the small cabin had started up.

A gentle zephyr of fresh air was the only indication the
independent pressurization system had also been activated.
Connections to the main electrical systems of the aircraft were for
safety reasons only. Transmissions from the cockpit to the
passengers were relayed into the Trunk as was the signal
illuminating the seatbelt sign.

The Jumbo Trunk had been designed into the 747-400 at the
request of the American Government who funded the construction and
installation. Whenever an airline from a country friendly to the
United States expressed an interest in purchasing its first
747-400, the manufacturer had to apply for an export licence. This
would prompt the Government to contact the authorities in the
purchasing country about the possibility of a ‘free’ upgrade of one
plane, with the addition of this special secure
compartment.

The majority of foreign governments understood the potential
benefits of being able to transport people around the world
covertly using commercial aircraft. Some had subsequently adapted
the trunks to little more than on-board cells for bringing back
escaped criminals who previously had considered themselves safe
overseas.

The Americans were also adapting this use of the trunk,
enabling them to move al-Qa'eda suspects across international
borders, and via United States international entry points, to a new
facility at Guantanamo Bay, without the knowledge of, or risk to,
the flying public, safely seated only a few metres away
.

Air New Zealand had one Jumbo Trunk in its fleet. The
Americans thought it prudent to have one installed on an aircraft
that regularly flew the Hong Kong-Auckland-Los Angeles
route.

As the plane bumped across the apron, Brent made himself
comfortable for take- off in the business-class leather seat
located in the back right corner of the trunk. Fastening his
seatbelt, he tuned into the large flat panel screen on the bulkhead
in front of him. This was the other piece of electrical equipment
patched into the main services of the plane - the on-board
entertainment system.

Ensconced in this small sound-proofed windowless box at the
back of the aircraft, Brent could only sense the aircraft’s
readiness for take-off by its motion across the ground and the
almost imperceptible drone from the four Rolls Royce RB211 engines.
Another slight jolt, then, even through the sound-proofing, the
engines’ rumble began to vibrate through the fuselage. He felt the
rapid forward motion pushing him back into his seat. There was a
loose metallic rattling as the coffee machine, designed to stand
motionless in a domestic kitchen, hurtled across the ground at 250
kilometres an hour towards London’s orbital motorway.

His seat inclined gently back as the plane rose into the
summer night sky. By the time it had finished a spiralling ascent
to cruising altitude, he was already snoring.

Turbulence over Northern Canada, according to the bulkhead
screen, woke him six hours later. Unclasping the seatbelt, he leant
forward, pushing a small bi-fold door. A light came on, revealing a
tiny lightweight plastic cubicle - his personal toilet and shower
unit. This would be useful in about eighteen hour’s time on the
final approach to Auckland. In the meantime, he made a strong
coffee, attempted some stretching exercises, and stood to watch a
movie.

As the flight neared Los Angeles, he tuned the arm rest
console to the same frequency used in the cockpit, another feature
not available to the public, and listened as the pilot guided the
plane into LAX.

Brent had to sit tight for the three hour stop-over, enjoying
the temporary lack of motion as he sat still in his box. He had to
also minimise his own movement during this time as the ground crew
moved around the aircraft and baggage handlers entered the hold,
moving and adjusting the cargo. He knew at some point a Federal
Agent would step on board with a sniffer dog. He knew the Trunk was
sealed, his odour vented down and forward into the main passenger
area, away from the spaniel’s sensitive nose.

A fresh crew came on board and the new purser was briefed on
the special cargo at the back of the plane. Soon NZ200 was in the
sky once more, heading south-west, cruising above the Pacific Ocean
at nine hundred kilometres an hour.

Brent showered and put on the uniform he had discarded shortly
after sealing himself into the Trunk, before fastening his seatbelt
once more for the descent into Auckland International.

As the plane reached the gate, he listened as the engine note
wound down to silence. The captain instructed the cabin crew to
disarm the doors. This was his cue to return through the hatch
which the purser had already unlocked..

Cabin crew who knew something was going on were always amazed
at how these people seemed to emerge apparently refreshed and
unruffled from their enforced stowage somewhere deep inside the
aircraft. They had no idea of the facilities and comparative
comfort in which these VIPs travelled.