Milkshake (26 page)

As Brent made his way along the deserted aisle, down the
stairway from first class, and through the door, the other
passengers were already in Arrivals waiting for their
luggage.

He pushed open the thin plastic door to the left of the
aircraft exit door. The rush of cool, kerosene-laden air
invigorated him. At the base of the ladder, a yellow airport
Landrover waited to speed him across to the far side of the main
runway. Away from public gaze, an army helicopter was waiting to
transport him south on the forty minute flight to Waiouru Army
Base.

Commander Dalton greeted him with a salute and as warm a hongi
as his superior rank would allow. “Kia Ora, welcome home, Piri. Bad
news about Captain Tehane, I’m afraid. We’re working on getting the
body back to his family as quickly as possible. You’ll want to
attend his Tangi, I take it?”

This was the confirmation he had been expecting, but dreading
to hear, for over twenty-four hours.

Brent took a deep breath and turned to survey the horizon. An
Army Iroquois helicopter floated low over the grass, its
distinctive deep, thumping, rhythmical pulse kept time with his own
heart beat, wrapping itself around his thoughts. These old
workhorses had been flying for nearly forty years, becoming a
symbol of his profession the world over. But to Brent at that
moment, it symbolized his own duty - the defence of his country and
his people.

He felt a lump blocking his throat as he recalled the name
again – Iroquois, a confederacy of Native American Indians formed
five hundred years before the white man had set foot on the
American continent. The ancestor’s of Brent's own Iwi had probably
arrived in New Zealand around the same time.

Staring through moist eyes at this marvel of twentieth century
invention named after an eleventh century Indian alliance, he
sensed in the beating of the rotor blades the spirits of his
ancestors calling him.

When Maaka Tehane was returned to his marae, he would be with
friends and family once more, the evil and brutality that had taken
his life replaced with love and kindness. His superiors would pay
their respects and the entire KMP, temporarily reduced to fourteen
members, would be withdrawn from service for one day, to perform a
ceremonial haka at his graveside. The most fitting way for these
tough, strictly disciplined soldiers to mark their respect and
grief would be in one spine-tingling, blood curdling display of
reverence for their ancestors, their traditions, and their fallen
comrade.

Brent sniffed, turning back to Commander Dalton who was
already ten metres ahead, striding towards his office. “The body is
due back the day after tomorrow, London is arranging everything.
It’ll be flown up north and his family will be there to meet him.
Because of the covert nature of this operation, we’ve had to come
up with a cover story. He was on a training exercise in the
Canterbury high country, A Unimog slid on ice and rolled down a
ravine. We’ve got stock photos for the press. Unfortunately such an
horrific crash is the only way we can explain his injuries to his
family. As you know, the Tangi requires an open coffin.”

Both men knew it was against Maori tradition for a body to be
left alone. Brent decided to meet the coffin, accompany it to the
marae, and pass the Tupapaku to the family. But that was thirty-six
hours away.

In the intervening time, he would look over the files of the
case he and Maaka had been assigned to. In London, their role had
simply been surveillance and reporting. Now back home, and with his
partner dead, Brent was determined to finish the work they had both
started.

Chapter 15

Brent read notes and computer files, learning about the
impending threat to national security. The New Zealand Government
had possibly uncovered a plot to destabilise the economy using
something called migration manipulation theory. He googled the
phrase and found himself reading:

Economic Invasion
- how to create
and influence a migrant influx and thereby manipulate the economy
of a nation.

Was this why Maaka had died?

The source of the manipulation theory appeared to be the
United States. Why would a friendly nation want to influence New
Zealand immigration? His hands cupped over his mouth as he sat
inhaling his own warm breath, staring at the computer screen.
Surely America was too embroiled in the war on terrorism to even
contemplate action towards such a small peaceful country that had
done absolutely nothing to provoke such a move?

He flicked through the photos taken by intercepting the film
company’s camera images. The most recent showed a man being carried
apparently semi-conscious from a rest room. Maaka had acted on the
basis of these images and lost his life as a result. Another file
caught his eye: ‘Singapore Transcript’. It was timed only hours
earlier. He clicked it open. The contents shocked him.

The target, David Turner, had been drugged and a credit card
placed on him. This had been witnessed by a KMP agent - Maaka.
Turner had then been allowed to continue his journey to Auckland,
via Singapore where he had been monitored throughout his stay. As
he was about to depart, the NZSIS had staged a robbery, ensuring he
was left with just the credit card which had been planted in
London. They spoke to him at the airport, pretending to be British
agents, making him aware of what had occurred. Turner was told one
of the people planting the card had died, but not that it had been
a New Zealand agent.

This was all about smuggling money. But there were still no
clues in the file as to the reason behind it all.

As he read, Brent realised no-one had looked at all this
information for days. Operatives had continued to send messages,
pictures and general information into the same computer case file.
But there was nothing to suggest an intelligence officer had
actually collated any of it. If he wanted to get closer to the
truth, he would have to go through it all himself.

He took a break, got two chocolate bars and a black coffee
from the vending machine in the corridor, had a good long stretch,
and sat back down, trying to convince himself he was not still on
London time and that it felt like one-thirty in the
morning.

An hour later, four words had been scribbled - Associated Bank
of Monaco. This was the financial institution offering credit cards
to the targeted immigrants. It was owned by a private American
investment bank, the kind of organisation never usually in the
business of issuing credit cards to the general public. Brent went
looking online for some of the bank’s investments. There were
hundreds of them.

Opening a spreadsheet, Brent copied the details of each
company, together with the names of their directors and major
shareholders. He cross-referenced the names to see if there was any
common link.

The result was startling.

The Associated Bank of Monaco had a majority interest in South
Star Leisure, a casino empire operating in the US and Far East.
Cowood Industries invested in dairy and forestry in New Zealand.
There was also something called Kutete Enterprises. These three
businesses also had the same three shareholders: the bank, someone
called Taylor Morgan, and a name familiar to him - Patrick
O’Sullivan, leader of the Ecological Political Assembly of New
Zealand.

Brent was on his fourth coffee. Kutete was a Maori word. He
decided to find out what Kutete Enterprises actually
did.

The website said Kutete Lodge and Winery was situated just
outside Nelson. Gentle north-facing alluvial slopes had been
producing fine wines, mainly for export, since the late nineties.
Taylor Morgan, a Californian entrepreneur, had made his fortune in
the Silicon Valley boom of the early nineties and had gone on to
establish Kutete Lodge as a profitable hobby, in addition to his
greater source of income, a chain of successful casinos.

Brent scanned the Net for stories about Morgan. It was
rumoured that deep inside his multi-million dollar home, a bank of
television screens remotely monitored all the gambling tables in
his casinos. He could sit back, a glass of his own world-class
Pinot at his side, and watch as his wealth was being created before
his eyes around the world. That was the rumour.

Brent was yet to uncover a far darker truth.

Morgan began his career as a scientist working for the
Californian Center for International Dairy Research. He had been
part of a team conducting research into a formula the American
Government had acquired from Irish paramilitaries in the mid
seventies.

The research had come to nothing and been abandoned. However,
when the technology was resurrected some years later, because of
his earlier experience he was the natural choice to head the team
leading the next stage of development; initial exploratory
production of a milk-based bio-fuel in New Zealand.

From a professional point of view, Morgan was excited by the
prospect of living and working in New Zealand, a country with a
long and proud history of dairy farming, as well as a source of
technical innovation and expertise over many years. He had read
research papers and corresponded with Kiwi academics who had worked
on projects within his own sphere of knowledge. He was looking
forward to having at least some of them on his team.

He was therefore surprised and hugely disappointed to be told
at a meeting with the Director General of the American Dairy
Research Institute that any work he undertook in New Zealand was to
be done under conditions of absolute secrecy. He was joining a
project that was already in place. It was being conducted without
the knowledge of the local authorities and he was merely lending
his assistance to ensure a successful outcome for the people of the
United States.

In return for surrendering his altruism, fifty million dollars
would be deposited into his bank account. He would also be given a
stake in a chain of casinos set up some years earlier by a company
created by his own Government.

Taylor Morgan left the meeting feeling sick. He considered his
work to be of international importance; helping develop sustainable
food sources for developing countries. He thought about his not
overly generous chief scientist’s salary and two teenage daughters.
Both wanted to attend prestigious universities in the next five
years. Clearly, financially at least, there was no case to
argue.

His application, and the subsequent granting of his New
Zealand residency, was on the basis of his supposed wealth,
business and educational acumen, and entrepreneurial
spirit.

The reality was American Government dollars had entirely
funded his relocation, purchased the land for the vineyard and paid
for its construction, as well as that of the luxury lodge
accommodation and his private penthouse.

Kutete Lodge was not all it appeared to be. It was true that
within five years it was producing great wine; that was after all
its apparent purpose. Meanwhile the fermentation tanks and state of
the art production facility was also being used to distil the first
small batches of the new bio-fuel that would eventually be produced
on a massive scale in the new refineries already being
planned.

Every Tuesday, in the early hours, a small, unmarked Cowood
tanker would arrive at Kutete, having travelled by ferry from
Waiheke, in the north, and discharge its precious cargo of modified
liquid whey. The whey would be fermented using a specially
developed yeast variant, passed through the distillation process
concealed within the legitimate apparatus of the winery and then
stored in a holding tank. On Thursday, another tanker would arrive
with a fresh supply of whey, and the modified ethanol, that had
taken just twenty-four hours to produce, was taken away to power
Cowood’s small fleet of cars and trucks.

The scientists at Kutete had to increase the whey to an
ethanol ratio. The industry standard was 51% conversion. The
modified bovine caseinate had so far increased that to 89%. The
target, by adjusting the level of caseinate produced by the herds
on Waiheke and perfecting the fermentation process, was to get a
98% conversion rate. Only 2% of the whey would remain as waste.
This could be re-distilled into a lower grade fuel.

The ultimate goal of 100% milk to usable fuel conversion was
estimated to be no more than five years away.

The secrecy surrounding the true nature of Kutete Lodge was
vital for the eventual acceptance by the New Zealand Government of
Cowood’s true intentions. In order to maintain the façade, Kutete
was consequently promoted as a premium winery and luxury lodge
destination.

The truth was, however, no paying guests had ever actually
stayed there. The well appointed rooms and facilities were solely
for the benefit of the American Government scientists seconded to
work there for four months at a time, and who had travelled across
the Pacific incognito as tourists. There was no complication with
work visas. They were still employed by, and continued to work for,
their existing employer.

When the time came for the change-over of staff, new or
returning scientists would arrive at Nelson Airport, having flown
in on tourist visas, and a local helicopter company would fly the
rich Americans out across the bay to the Lodge, collect departing
‘guests’ and return to the airport. They would not return for
another twelve months, allowing them to re-enter the country on
tourist visas once again.