Milkshake (28 page)

Her objective was to get an imprint of the credit card. David
took out his wallet, pulling a wad of banknotes from it. It was
clear he had no intention of using the card for this particular
transaction. She hoped the hardware now connected to the computer
in front of her would quell any doubts Turner had about using the
card.

“You can save your cash if you like and use
a credit card for the bond. I can just swipe it through the old
fashioned zip-zap here. It just puts an imprint of the card on
paper. When you return the car in Wellington, the office there just
lets us know and we tear up the slip. Not a problem.”

Moana carefully positioned the card handed to her onto the
metal plate of the swipe machine, and then placed the paper docket
over the top. She held the machine steady with her left hand and
gripped the roller mechanism with her right hand.

David did not see her press a small red button on the roller
with her left thumb before she slowly pushed it across the paper
and credit card, checking as she went that the red button continued
to glow. The details on the card were being successfully captured
and transmitted back to the team sitting expectantly in Commander
Dalton’s office.

She smiled and handed back his card and copy of the docket.
“If you can bring your passport back about six, for I.D., we’ll
have your car valeted and all good to go.”

As soon as he left, Moana disconnected the machine and
deleted the software from the rental company’s computer. She was
about to leave when the door opened and in walked Brent;

“Hey Mo, how’s it going?”

“
I’m good, Brent, yourself? I didn’t expect
to see you here. Aren’t you going to make sure he makes it back to
the motel?”

“Nah, he’ll be right. Anyway, do we have a
copy of that card now? The Tech boys will be able to do their
stuff. I’m gonna wait here for the car to arrive - should in about
five minutes. You can go if you like.”

Brent closed the shutters on the office door, turned the sign
on the window to CLOSED and moved behind the counter to the
computer. He quickly located the email address of the office and
texted it back to Waiouru. An email with an attachment arrived. It
was the first page of a report he had seen earlier in the day
whilst surfing the net, looking for clues. He printed it off,
deleted all reference to it and the email, and then folded the
printed sheet neatly into one of the rental company’s brochure
wallets before adding some other items he had brought with
him.

A blue Subaru station wagon had pulled up outside and was
being neatly reversed into a space at the end of the line of three
already there. The driver got out, shut the door, walked off down
the street and was immediately lost in the crowd. Brent’s phone
beeped and he read the message;

Keys are in it. Beacon in place. All yours.

He returned the sign to OPEN and went out to the car. Opening
the passenger door, he placed the brochure wallet in the glove
compartment, then pulled on the hose hanging on the wall behind
him, turned on the tap, lightly sprayed a film of water over the
entire bodywork and walked back into the office.

When David Turner walked back in just before six o’clock, he
had no idea the man behind the counter was a New Zealand agent who
had followed him across the world, unravelled a plot against his
own country and was now protecting him from agents of the most
powerful country in the world.

“Mr Turner?” Brent gestured to the keys on
the counter. “She’s all ready for you. There are maps in the glove
box. Just replace any fuel you use. Have a safe trip.” He watched
as Turner drove off back towards the motel.

He texted Moana, She was in position, parked on a motorbike
just down the street from the Cedar Stars and ready to tail the
blue Subaru once the Turners made their next move.

David and Katherine drove south, unaware they were being
pursued. Moana kept enough distance to avoid her headlight
appearing in the rear view mirror of their car.

At three in the morning, exhausted and cold, and with the
bike’s fuel tank running on reserve, she finally pulled over and
made a call confirming the targets were continuing south on State
Highway One and that she was abandoning the pursuit. Brett already
knew they were heading for Wellington. Moana’s job had been to
watch for other interested parties rather than follow the pair all
the way to the capital.

She had seen the blue Ford driving between her and the Turners
within fifteen minutes of leaving Central Auckland and called in
its registration plate for checking. It was a hire car, rented to
Wayne Jameson. A check with Immigration showed Jameson was an
American citizen, A cross reference with the tax department
confirmed he was on the payroll of Cowood Industries, undoubtedly a
US agent and together, with his unidentified passenger, likely to
be in pursuit of the card in David Turner’s pocket.

Chapter 17

Brent stood solemnly, hands clasped, as the plywood crate
descended slowly from the hold of the plane onto the flat deck
truck which would take it to the NH90 waiting to fly
northwards.

The tines of the forklift withdrew and Brent draped the
national flag over the simple wooden box. It had been identical to
all the other wooden crates secured in the hold of the plane. The
flag suddenly distinguished it, unmistakeably, as Maaka’s coffin.
Brent stepped back, bowing his head. “Welcome home,
Brother.”

Brent knew according to custom, the tupapaku of the deceased
shouldn’t be left alone at any stage. The nature of Maaka Tehane’s
untimely death and the fact that it occurred on the other side of
the world, made this difficult.

His family were informed he‘d died down south in a vehicle
accident. It was vital to get his body back home as quickly as
possible. Delay in releasing it to the family would not only raise
suspicion but also be deeply disrespectful to their beliefs. Brent
consoled himself with the thought that on his final return to New
Zealand, Maaka had been under the guardianship of both the national
airline and the four hundred people seated above him, many of whom
were also returning home.

* * *

The mournful cries from Maaka’s female relatives were broken
by a shriek as his youngest nephew pointed excitedly upwards. The
faint speck of a helicopter had appeared in the sky to the south of
the Marae. “Look, Uncle Mak’s coming!”

Immediately the women moved as one down the steps of the
meeting house, across the manicured lawn and out through the ornate
carved archway marking the entrance.

Once the down-draft had subsided, Brent beckoned them forward.
Gently lifting the coffin, the procession slowly made its way back
up the slope to the marae. They began to call out a plaintive
Karanga, summoning others onto the marae. Brent followed at a
respectful distance, aware that for now at least his part in this
extended funeral ceremony had been played. The mournful lament of
the pall bearers was answered as other family members gathered on
the steps awaiting their brother’s final return.

Brent looked on, tears welling at these reminders of his
cultural heritage. He was an officer in a classified unit of the
New Zealand military, delivering the body of his fallen comrade
back to his family in a multi- million dollar state of the art
helicopter. Yet, as soon as he had stepped on to the lush grass
beneath his feet, it was as if he had stepped back five hundred
years; back into the comfort of the rituals and protocols of his
forbears.

The last few days; the surveillance of David Turner, the
imminent risk to national security, none of that mattered at this
moment. This time belonged to Maaka Tahene and his whanau,. Brent
understood that. As he followed through the archway, he felt as if
he too had come home.

Maaka’s body was inside the meeting house. The formalities of
his welcome had been completed. Brent couldn’t help counting
fifty-five people excluding small children and recognised Maaka’s
Uncle Peter. The pair greeted each other warmly with a hongi. “Kia
Ora, how are you, Brent?”

“I’m good, Peter, yourself?”

“Same. We’re happy it was you who brought Mack home to us.
Tell me, are you staying for the next couple of days? I’d like for
you to say a few words at some point.”

Brent expected to be asked, had even hoped that he would be
invited to speak during the funeral. The fact that a close family
member had made the request was a signal that he was not being held
responsible for Maaka’s death, or at least the version the family
had been given.

Behind him, beyond the marae, beyond the realm of his own
culture, there was a large grey helicopter waiting to fly him south
once more to continue something he’d promised Maaka he would
finish. “I need to get back to work, Peter, but I promise I’ll try
and make it back in a few days' time. I’d be honoured say something
then.”

He mixed brief greetings with goodbyes and excuses of work. He
would be back.

The powerful engines screamed at full power. The helicopter
rose up slightly, the wheels dangling momentarily in mid-air. Then,
confident it could support its own weight, the machine moved
swiftly up, banked left and headed south once more. The small crowd
gathered to watch and protect their fearless youngsters,
instinctively turned away as dust and loose grass blew over their
heads and back towards the marae. By the time they felt safe to
turn back, Brent was half a kilometre away.

The helicopter headed out to sea. Commander Dalton had given
Brent permission to use the chopper for the duration of the mission
on the understanding he didn’t advertise its presence any more than
was absolutely necessary. It was, after all, only on loan from the
manufacturer and, officially at least, only in New Zealand for
evaluation. It wasn’t supposed to be on active service. If American
Intelligence picked up on the fact it was flying regular missions,
they might pay closer attention to it.

* * *

Three hundred kilometres above the Cook Strait, a sensor on a
KH13 surveillance satellite passing overhead had already picked up
the distinctive heat signature of the NH90 idling on the perimeter
of Auckland International Airport, a commercial, not a military,
facility. Its high resolution digital camera had also recorded the
distinctive image of a New Zealand flag on the back of a nearby
truck. The flag was missing its edges.

The National Reconnaissance Office quickly interpreted the
image. Within ten minutes, the CIA had hacked into Auckland
Airport’s CCTV system to get a better look at the helicopter from
the ground. They concluded the aircraft was being used to transport
a member of the New Zealand military, hence the image of the flag
draped over a coffin. A cursory internet search found the story of
the vehicle crash in the Canterbury high country a few days
earlier.

By the time the KH13 satellite had encircled the earth, the
helicopter was in the air, flying low fifteen kilometres out over
the Tasman Sea. It seemed to be practising an evasive, anti
detection manoeuvre, following the coastline of one of the least
populated countries in the world. The duty officer at the NRO
watched intently as the feed from the satellite showed the
helicopter darting left to right as it made its way
south.

The American and Chinese intelligence services regularly
positioned their surveillance satellites over New Zealand and
Australia to test and calibrate their electro-optical digital
imaging systems. The clarity of the atmosphere over this part of
the globe throughout the year allowed engineers to achieve
stunningly sharp images.

New Zealand didn’t possess the technology to detect the spies
stationed hundreds of kilometres above.

Neither superpower protested to the other. The outer
atmosphere above a country’s designated airspace isn’t within its
territorial borders. Protesting too loudly would have aroused
China’s suspicions. America’s true reason for focusing its
celestial gaze on the Islands below remained secret.

New Zealand had no idea it was being watched with the same
intense fascination a small boy gazes at a crane fly moments before
he starts to pull its legs off one by one.

Twenty-two minutes flying time from Waioru, Brent radioed
ahead for Phillips and Omaki to be ready and waiting to board. They
climbed in, the door slid shut, and the helicopter was airborne
once more. “Can we track the Subaru? We need to get about fifty ks
ahead of them and then try and find a logging
operation.”

Lieutenant Bridges banked due east, locking onto the signal
from the car. Brent gave instructions. “Hone, I need you to
eliminate this blue Ford that’s been tailing the target. My idea is
maybe for you to create some kind of road accident using whatever
we can find down there. You up for it?”

“Hell yeah, Bro’!”

“Good, then I need you to bring them back to Waioru where we
can debrief them. Have you got the cards?”

Moana had swiped David Turner’s credit card through the
machine at the car rental office. The details on the magnetic strip
had been sent to the Ops Room where technicians had deciphered the
information and recreated it onto two copies, one of which Hone was
now waving about in the back of the helicopter.