Milkshake (38 page)

Patrick returned home a few days later, pulled onto the drive
and immediately saw something was wrong. As the garage door slowly
lifted, he recognised the expensive contents of his wardrobe
slashed to ribbons and discarded on the garage floor.

Inside, his beloved red E Type Jaguar was parked at a strange
angle. One of the front tyres was flat. The vinyl roof had also
been slashed. He began to panic. Was Anika in the house? Was she
alright? Had she called the police? Was this why she hadn’t
answered any of his calls in the last few days?

There was something on the car - a large sheet of paper. His
heart pounded in his chest, every vein in his body thumping as if
ready to explode as he took in the image taped to the hood of his
Jaguar. It was clearly him, staring up from a bed that was suddenly
all too familiar. At an angle, across his middle, and face down,
was the naked upper half of, unmistakeably, Stacey. Scrawled across
the remaining paintwork on the hood, in white spray paint, in
Anika’s shaky handwriting were the words:

SOME THINGS ARE JUST TOO HARD TO SWALLOW

The evidence was plainly undeniable.

It came to light in the following weeks that the pictures had
been taken as part of an investigation Anika herself had initiated.
The respect and trust of his wife evaporated. Any chance of
reconciliation quickly disappeared. Patrick resigned himself to the
fact that his was now a journey to be taken alone. It was clear
Anika would follow her own path.

His one regret was that he never had the chance for one last
embrace, to kiss her softly for the final time and to say goodbye
properly. They were taken from one another’s lives as surely as if
one of them had suddenly died.

Even now, after all this time, the memory of that afternoon
and its immediate aftermath still gave him a sick feeling in the
pit of his stomach. He spooned the remaining froth from his coffee
cup and slumped into the uncomfortable low-backed chair.

Chapter 23

Brent sat impatiently revving the engine, waiting for the
lights, looking left to right at the deserted road in all
directions. The control a simple red light was having over his
situation right now was absurd. He kicked the clutch and rode
off.

The bike accelerated to nearly 100 kilometres per hour before
Brent realised and pulled over. The engine burbled beneath him as
he felt for his phone. Fingers, chilled by the high speed ride,
struggled to hit the keys.

The phone vibrated in his palm. He peered through the helmet
visor at the screen, its brightness illuminating his face. The
message was a map, directions to Kutete Lodge.

* * *

David sensed they were heading into the countryside. The faint
orange glow of Nelson receded over the horizon. The car made a
series of sharp turns, then a steep climb and descent. The
indicator light flashed and he braced before the driver pulled
sharply left. They bounced down an uneven track, around another
bend, and onto the brightly lit forecourt of what appeared to be a
small hotel. David looked up at the large modern building,
unexpected after such a desolate drive. The door opened and he got
out.

“Good evening, Mr Turner. My name is Taylor Morgan. Welcome
to Kutete Lodge. Allow me to escort you to your room.”

As he looked around, David felt uneasy. There was no
indication this was any kind of public facility - no signage, no
welcoming glow from a warmly lit reception area, not even a notice
indicating there was any kind of reception area. He’d noticed a
sign that said 'deliveries' as they’d driven up the illuminated
part of the drive, but wasn’t this a private house?

“Where am I?”

“Sorry, yes, excuse my rudeness, Mr Turner. Most of our
guests usually make a reservation to stay here. You, of course,
being a recent arrival to our shores won’t be familiar with our
reputation. Kutete Lodge is a winery and boutique resort
destination. We produce some of the finest vintages in this part of
the world and allow a very limited number of guests to experience
the unique atmosphere we’re able to offer. Please follow
me.”

David was grateful O’Sullivan had taken his warning seriously
enough to make a call to this friend who sent a car all the way
into town to collect him. They walked across the courtyard to a
cottage amongst the trees. A wood fire glowed and crackled in the
grate, and a large comfortable-looking bed suddenly reminded David
of a long day that had yet to finish.

“This is normally used as our honeymoon suite. Please make
yourself comfortable. Breakfast will be served in your room at
eight o’clock.”

* * *

Brent rode cautiously along the road, the sound of the big
motorbike carrying through the still night air, the noise
reverberating through the helmet, dulling his senses.

He checked both mirrors, coasted to a halt and killed the
engine, quickly removing the helmet, suddenly
claustrophobic.

Trying to accustom his sight to the faint starlight that
barely illuminated the surrounding countryside, he saw a bright
light on the horizon, but it went out. The GPS confirmed the light
had come from Kutete Lodge. He rode slowly, keeping the engine
noise to a low rumble, until he came to the signpost at the Lodge
entrance. He killed the engine, parked the bike amongst the trees
at the side of the drive and made his way towards the dimly lit
buildings up ahead.

The rhythmic pulsing of a pump in the distance became clearer
as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. Suddenly there was a
blinding flash. Caught in the dazzle of a spotlight, he braced,
expecting confrontation, hostility, but there was none, just
silence, broken only by the distant pumping. His movement had
triggered the sensor on a security light.

Trees next to the path offered some protection. Plunging into
blinding darkness once more, he crept through saplings and shrubs,
out of range of the sensor’s beam, aware of any noise as he rustled
through the leaf mulch cracking twigs.

David Turner never heard the faint tinkle as Brent elbowed the
thin glass, reached in, and unlocked the back door.

Brent stood for a moment, allowing the warmth to seep through
his chilled clothing. Gently he pushed the door and walking slowly
through. Brent felt exposed and vulnerable confined in this small
living area and in such close proximity to David Turner. Shoes left
haphazardly outside the bathroom door indicated his presence on the
other side.

Not daring to move in case the wooden floor creaked, his gaze
never left the door in front of him. On the other side, David
finished shaving. Tunelessly singing, he sloshed water around the
sink, cleaning off the stubble. Brent sensed the ritual nearing
completion and tensed expectantly as the singing abruptly stopped.
The door opened and David Turner stepped into the room. “Who the
hell are you?”

Brent moved forward smiling, offering the hand of friendship,
gently placing a precautionary restraining hand on David’s
shoulder. The slightest twitch and Brent’s left hand could have
pinned David to the wall in an instant. There was no need. David
recognised him. “You’re the car hire guy. How the fuck did you get
in here?” he said, shrugging the hand from his shoulder.

“Actually my name’s Brent Piri and I’m with the New Zealand
Defence Force. Good to see you again, Dave. Now, we don’t have much
time so I’ll get straight to the point here.” David eyed him
suspiciously. “You already know about the situation we have with
this Cowood outfit, right? I need you to hand over the credit card
you brought with you from the UK. It might be able to help stop
what’s happening here.”

No one who’d known about the card had ever actually asked to
see it, apart from Ed who only wanted it to prise open the door at
the Dairytree factory. It was undoubtedly valuable. David knew he’d
have to hand it over at some point.

He’d anticipated more drama, a weapon perhaps, a threat or at
least some intimidation. Being asked politely to simply hand it
over was a bit of an anticlimax, but the card wasn’t his and there
was no real reason to keep it.

His jacket was over the back of a chair. He felt inside for
the familiar shape and held it out. “How do I know you’re who you
say you are? You could’ve just been sent across by someone to
collect the card for him.

“I don’t usually have to do this, Dave.”
Brent put his arm inside his jacket. David’s breathing faltered.
This is what he’d been expecting. His heart beat in a familiar
uncontrollable thump. Brent’s hand re-appeared, holding what also
looked like a credit card. “See? It’s my military ID card. Happy
now?”

David breathed again. “So, is that it? Is it all over now? Can
we finally be left alone to get on with our lives?”

“Not quite, Dave. My Government appreciates the danger you
guys have been put in and the part you’ve played in bringing this
all to light, but we need to make sure the people concerned are
dealt with. The reason O’Sullivan had you brought here is partly so
you can hand over the card to this guy Morgan in the morning,
partly to keep you away from O’Sullivan himself, and also to stop
you going to the authorities or the media.”

David was confused. Was it all going to end simply with
handing the card over to some Government agent? Before he had time
to ask, Brent plucked the card from his grasp and was walking
towards the kitchen door. “Sorry, mate, I got in through a window
in the kitchen whilst you were in the bathroom. It’s probably best
if I leave the same way, Just in case anyone is watching the front
door. When you get up in the morning, act as if nothing has
happened. If Morgan or anyone else hassles you for the card, try
and stall them for as long as you can. Don’t let on I’ve been here,
obviously. Someone will be here to get you out no later than
eleven. Good luck.”

Brent left David confused and scared as he disappeared through
the kitchen door.

A head reappeared round the door. “By the way, Dave, what’s
the PIN?”

Chapter 24

An alarm clock reverberated around the bus. Brent had watched
the digital display counting in the new dawn since
4.30am.

Communications had been blacked out since midnight. Too late
to make sure everyone understood their role. Nothing could be
changed. No last minute checks with Wellington.

He stepped down from the bus. It was 6.30, still dark, the
coldest part of the night.

The staff entrance at the rear of the hotel was unlocked. He
walked up the service stairwell to the fifth floor and stood in the
corridor. Now all he could do was wait.

Mechanical whining from the service elevator interrupted the
ambient hum of the air conditioning. As the doors opened, he was
already striding towards them. “Breakfast for Mr O’Sullivan? I’ll
take it from here. Cheers, Bro'.” Brent lifted the tray from the
porter’s grasp and headed for room 519.

He flicked open the container with his teeth and shook the
remaining powder into the large mug of steaming coffee before
banging hard on the door. “Morning. Room service!” and, walking
back towards the service stairwell, he paused to check the door had
clicked open. A gentle chink of crockery confirmed O'Sullivan had
taken the bait.

Brent checked his watch; 6.45. The satellite was due over the
horizon in seven minutes. Running to behind the bus where he’d left
the motorbike, he winced as the roar of the powerful engine echoed
up the side of the hotel, shattering the early morning
peace.

He had four minutes to get clear of the town
centre.

On Rocks Road, in the houses nestled against the cliff, people
were already stirring. His wristwatch was tucked beneath his jacket
cuff. Surely it must be 6.52 by now?

Then, as planned, it happened.

* * *

Commander Dalton had worked through the night in the
Operations Centre beneath the Parliament Building, having spent the
previous day coordinating Brent’s plan. This had proved difficult
with the knowledge the Americans were able to closely monitor the
communication coming from, or into, the Ops Room. The Commander
briefed people personally before sending them out to make contact
from public telephone boxes around the capital.

By nine o’clock, after a series of second hand telephone
conversations, Dalton had persuaded the electricity generating
companies there was an imminent threat to national
security.

He was using his authority to demand all electrical power
supplies be switched off across the entire country, from the Cape
in the north to the Bluff in the south, between 6.52 and 8.22 the
following morning.

The Prime Minister took some persuading, anticipating the
media fire-storm and having to explain a complete national power
failure in the middle of the morning rush hour. He was reassured
essential services such as hospitals had their own back up
generators. Dalton explained the timing of the power outage was
critical if they were to successfully interrupt the information
leak from the Black Room to the orbiting spy satellite.