Milkshake (27 page)

Public bookings at Kutete Lodge were non-existent. Despite the
expenditure of thousands of dollars on marketing both within New
Zealand and overseas, no-one had ever actually paid to stay there.
Rich Kiwis envied those who had apparently been lucky enough to
secure some time at the exclusive retreat, as rooms always seemed
to be fully booked months in advance whenever they
enquired.

Immediate neighbours and the local population just presumed
the high cost of staying at the lodge was only affordable to the
steady stream of affluent Americans who were always choppered in
and seemed to be the only occupants of the complex, according to
the delivery drivers who made regular visits with food, laundry or
mail.

Taylor Morgan took his dual roles seriously. His scientific
background meant he understood the chemical processes involved in
wine making. He felt confident enough to enter Kutete wines in a
number of prestigious competitions.

As head of the Kutete Research Facility, his intimate
knowledge of the whey fermentation process that he had essentially
developed from the original formula, gave him the authority and
status he had secretly craved working in California..

This heady combination of status, responsibility, authority,
wealth and lifestyle, which he now revelled in, began to have a
negative effect on a man who had for so long been constrained by
the sterile environment of the International Dairy Research Center.
His new life made him an arrogant and self-centred man. Those who
worked under him for four months at a time barely got to know him.
The few who got the measure of him within a few days and took a
dislike to him, consoled themselves with the knowledge they were
being very well paid to do an easy job in fabulous surroundings and
would soon be going home, not permitted to return for another
twelve months.

The sun dipped over the army base. Brent was confident he had
pieced together what was happening. He was already appalled at the
anticipated consequences, and eager to let his Commander know what
he had found out so far. He didn’t have to wait long. Dalton walked
past the office on his way home for the day and was surprised to
see the distinctive broad shoulders of Brent Piri hunched over a
desk. “You still here, Piri?”

Brent spun round in his chair, revealing the empty coffee cups
and chocolate wrappings. “Just doing a bit of research, sir. Gotta
minute?” Despite overwhelming tiredness compounded by the jetlag,
he was eager to explain how he had spent the afternoon pulling
together all the threads. He believed he had accomplished what
no-one had yet been able to.

He explained how America was manipulating the emigrant
population, selecting certain people and using credit cards
supplied by the Associated Bank of Monaco to unwittingly bring vast
sums of money in. There were two other companies involved - Cowood
Industries and Kutete Enterprises - the common factor in both being
Taylor Morgan, an American research scientist. As far as Brent
could see, Morgan was the link in all this. He had also found
newspaper websites articles mentioning Taylor Morgan and Patrick
O’Sullivan. Both men had a shared interest in bio-fuel
research.

Brent had not drawn any conclusions, partly due to the fact
his deductive processes had all but shut down. It was important
that this David Turner from the UK should be followed. The card he
now carried was the key to finding out what was really going on
here.

Commander Dalton understood there was a personal interest in
this for Brent. He was also probably the best person solve this. A
member of the KMT could infiltrate Cowood or Kutete, gaining
valuable intelligence. Brent had his own ideas. “What we really
need to happen, sir, is for someone to keep tabs on this English
guy when he arrives. Either he’ll lead us to the big fish or
they’ll come looking for him.”

Brent was right. Not only had he proved himself to be a superb
soldier and leader in the KMP, he was also an excellent strategist
and planner. Brent was the best chance he had to get a result here,
to try and salvage something from the tragic loss of Captain
Tehane. As Brent had been sifting through the evidence, he had also
been formulating a plan. “Sir, I need two other guys. Let me have
Phillips and Omaki for a few days and I’ll have this one
cracked.”

Dalton didn’t doubt Brent’s ability, but they were working
within an extremely tight time-frame and certain procedures still
had to be followed. “You’ve got thirty-six hours until you need to
escort Captain Tehane’s body back up north. That should give you
time to start tracking Turner when he arrives into Auckland in the
morning. Now go and get some sleep. That’s an order.”

He was home for the first time in four months. The day after
tomorrow he would have to escort his friend and partner’s body back
into the arms of his grieving Whanau. In the midst of all that
family sorrow, he must summon up the strength to overcome his own
sense of loss and guilt at having lost a brother on active duty.
First he needed to get a good night’s rest. Commander Dalton had
said the helicopter was scheduled to make the flight from Waioru
back to Auckland International at eight o’clock sharp. It needed to
touch down fifteen minutes before the flight arrived in from
Singapore. If Brent was interested in the trip, he should be ready
by seven forty-five.

Chapter 16

The sun came up as Brent jogged across the airstrip, escorted
by Lieutenant Bridges from the British Royal Air Force. Although an
accomplished pilot Brent, had not yet experienced the NH90
helicopter currently being evaluated by the New Zealand
military.

Brent strapped himself in and prepared for the flight. They
listened in as the captain of SQ281 began his final approach over
the Tasman Sea two hundred and forty miles away.

Taking the controls under the guidance of Lieutenant Bridges,
Brent brought the helicopter in to land on the southern perimeter
of Auckland International Airport. By the time SQ281 was
disembarking, he was already waiting in the Arrivals lounge.
Headphones attached to a modified MP3 player in his pocket
confirmed David Turner’s wife had just been fined for illegally
importing a banana.

Brent followed them, joining the queue for the shuttle bus
into Central Auckland. Adjusting his sunglasses and baseball cap
before slipping both hands into the pockets of his jacket, Brent
casually nodded along to the rhythm playing through his
headphones.

The headphone wire connected to a sensory keypad built into
the MP3 player. Adjusting the sunglasses connected them to the
headphones. He visualised a keypad floating in front of his face.
By moving his head up and down, or from side to side, he could hit
imaginary keys with the end of his nose. Surveillance officers were
able to send text messages while looking like some hip-hop dude
moving his head in time to the beats thumping around inside it.
They nicknamed it the
Wonderbox,
a
fter Stevie Wonder

Brent was getting a constant feed of information through the
headphones from the Operations Centre back on Waiouru Airbase. He
needed to know the name of their hotel.

As they boarded the shuttle bus, Brent continued formulating
his plan, requesting information and more resources, but they were
impossible in the limited time frame, or not feasible. His terse
nodded responses flashed onto the computer screen - 'Just do it”,
or “find a way”, or “ask Dalton.'

The bus stopped outside the Cedar Stars Motel. As the Turners
took their luggage from the trailer behind the bus, Brent walked up
the street before making sure they entered the hotel. He crossed
the road to a café from where he could watch the motel entrance. He
sat drinking coffee, reading the paper, nodding to his music and
sending messages.

He asked Dalton to contact the Ministry of Agriculture and
Fisheries and request the use of one of their specially equipped
surveillance camper vans used for staking out isolated
beaches.

He had also established direct contact with the three other
KMP officers permanently stationed in the Auckland area and had
persuaded Dalton to temporarily move them from their current
assignments in order to assist him.

Captain Hone Phillips, the longest serving and most
experienced KMP officer, was re-assigned from watching a gang
illegally producing and selling methamphetamine. Lieutenant Cassius
Omaki withdrew from tailing a political asylum seeker believed to
have links with Middle Eastern terrorists. The sole female member,
Lieutenant Moana Kapua, went home sick from the office of the
protest group she had successfully infiltrated that campaigned
against coal mining in the North Island.

After nearly five hours, there was a call on Brent’s phone.
Finally, it was Commander Dalton. “Bloody hell, Piri, you’d better
have a bloody good plan up your sleeve. I’ve just had to convince
the Minister to pull two surveillance projects and I’ve just come
off the phone from the Police Commissioner screaming at me that
we’ve jeopardised his entire South Auckland crystal meth
operation.”

“You do mean his anti crystal meth operation, don’t you,
sir?”

The Commander wasn’t in the mood for humour. “Don’t be a
bloody smart arse, Piri. I’m calling in a lot of favours here I was
hoping to keep for a rainy day. You’d better know what you’re
doing. Both our arses are on the line here, don’t you forget that.
Kapua will be in position in the next half hour. The surveillance
bus will be ready in the morning. Omaki and Phillips will be back
on base soon. I’ll get them up to speed with what’s
happening.”

Brent had not taken his gaze from the
doorway of the motel across the street. There was a glint as the
glass panel door opened. It was David Turner. He strode
purposefully up the street, moving between the late afternoon
pedestrians, momentarily disappearing from view as he weaved
through the steady stream of oncoming commuters. “Sorry, sir, need
to go. The target’s on the move. I’ll be in touch.”

He was out of the café, walking stride for stride level with
Turner, on the opposite side of the street. Suddenly Turner glanced
across straight at him. Brent quickly looked away, hoping the
intention to window shop would not be met by a solid wall. He found
himself staring intently at the women’s spring fashions in a
department store window and trying to find an area of dark clothing
that would reflect what was going on behind him. A pair of black
trousers reflected enough of an image for him to be able to make
out Turner’s shape already halfway across the street and walking
straight towards him. Brent didn’t move; a six foot Maori guy with
his eyes firmly fixed on a shop mannequin dressed in tiny black
shorts and bikini top. Turner passed so close Brent heard his
footsteps as he walked into the shop.

He breathed out, moved across the shop doorway, and looked in.
Turner made his way to the electrical department just inside. He
watched as he bought two mobile phones, using cash. The transaction
completed, Brent crossed the street and stood in the doorway of a
furniture shop, his position obscured by the constant flow of
people walking past.

Turner came out and continued up the street. This time, Brent
allowed him to get ahead before following from a safe distance, on
the other side.

The man who came into the car rental office matched the
description Moana had been given. An English accent confirmed his
identity. She glanced over his shoulder and saw through the blind
the familiar figure of Brent Piri on the opposite side of the
street, looking towards her.

Fifteen minutes earlier she had entered the office with a
police sergeant and persuaded the manager one of his hire cars had
been used in an armed robbery, and he had to accompany the police
officer to give a statement. Moana said she would stay behind
checking all the vehicles’ documentation. She would still be there
when he was brought back.

The confused manager was driven away, protesting his
ignorance. Moana disconnected the existing credit card swipe
machine and connected the one supplied by the Tech Department. She
logged into the NZSIS intranet and began downloading the software
to run the swipe machine alongside the rental company’s own
software. Hopefully it would capture the details on the card if she
could persuade Turner to use it.

She watched anxiously as the loading bar on the screen crept
slowly towards one hundred per cent. The door opened and in walked
Turner. The download was still at only eighty per cent. The car
they wanted him to take was still being fitted with a tracking
device and not yet in the yard at the front of the office. She
would have to try and stall him. “Hi, how can I help
you?”

David asked about hiring a station wagon for a one-way trip
to Wellington. The download was now on ninety-five per cent. Moana
pretended to search for a suitable car. Finally the message
Installation successful
flashed on the screen.

“What about one of those?” he enquired,
pointing to the three cars already on the lot. Moana knew none of
them had been ‘prepared’ by the Department. The car with the
tracking device would not get into the city for at least another
half an hour. She made an excuse. All three cars were due out in
the next few days but a suitable station wagon was due back in
shortly.