Chapter 12

Silence, except for the gentle tick of the rapidly cooling engine.

David could hear insects. All around crickets chirruped, making a sound he remembered from watching old cowboy movies as a small child. It was not a sound he had ever heard in rural England and it was unexpected in the remote midwinter New Zealand bush.

He looked up, trying to get his bearings, to make out an horizon in the ink–black sky. A faint line could be the trees a little way off or mountains in the far distance. The one spectacular sight he could not fail to miss, from just above the trees to vertically straight up, were the thousands of stars. Even along the horizon, there were hundreds of them, glistening brightly.

Back in the UK, even out in the countryside, looking towards any horizon at night, there would always be a faint glow, some human habitation not too far away. Man-made light pollution made it impossible to see all but the brightest stars in the sky. But here, at the other end of the earth, looking up on a moonless night into the pristine southern hemisphere sky was like being in deepest space.

He gazed upward as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. It was not dark at all. This immense expanse of sky, from one horizon to the other, was filled with a mass of twinkling suns. A faint wisp of cloud floated across. As he looked away, his peripheral vision focused and he realised the wisp was actually the Milky Way. For a moment he felt as if gravity itself had disappeared and that he was standing on a precipice, about to fall into the void that was so clearly defined all around him. His could see now how ancient sailors had believed the earth to be flat. The idea of falling off the edge suddenly felt very real to him. He rotated on the spot, transfixed by the beauty and sheer number of stars surrounding him.

Two square lights suddenly appeared in front of him. Tom had found the right key, allowing him inside to flick the switch which had jolted David back to reality. “Come on in, Dave, you’ll catch your death.”

There was a small room, a sofa at one end, a small kitchen area near the front under the window and two doors in the back wall. In the centre of the room a small table stood surrounded by four chairs. The whole room was no bigger than a single garage. Bill was already on his knees, blowing gently into a wood–burning stove. Tom stood at the sink filling an old kettle. “Put the telly on, Eddie. See if we’re on.” The picture was black and white, grainy, but the words were clear enough.

And in breaking news we are getting reports of a large fire at the Dairytree Cheese factory just south of Picton. Fire crews are at the scene. There are no reports of any injuries although there are concerns about toxic chemicals being ignited and the situation is being monitored in case the nearby settlement of Remerana has to be evacuated. A spokesman for Dairytree has said it is too early to speculate on the cause of the fire.

Ed smiled and sipped his black coffee. “That’ll put them back about six months, I reckon, and stir up the local council when they realise the amount of dangerous chemicals being stored at the site.”

They sat silently contemplating their hot drinks. Something was niggling David. Ever since they had left Waiheke, everything had gone too smoothly. From the moment they had left the Mushroom Café, Ed had assumed control. He knew what was happening next without any apparent reference to anything or anyone. He knew his way around the cheese factory site and where the casein was stored, and how did he know the card would unlock the storeroom? Billy and Tom had barely spoken to him except to follow his orders, and yet Ed obviously knew them. All these questions were about to come tumbling out when there was a scrunch of gravel. “That’ll be Hone.”

Slam, scrunch, scrunch, scrunch indicated Hone’s impending entrance. Billy and Tom stood to greet him; a warm handshake followed by the hongi, the traditional Maori greeting – the gentle pressing of nose and forehead against that of the other person. David watched, fascinated by this intimate but very natural exchange.

The three began talking animatedly in their native tongue. David looked on, unable to understand words, yet completely grasping the tone and warmth of the conversation. Their mood turned solemn for a moment and he thought he caught a name. Perhaps the man who had died in London? Hone looked over to where he was sitting. “How’s it going, Dave. What’s it feel like to be an eco-warrior, man?”

Ed interrupted him. “Where’s the bus, man? I didn’t hear it.”

“Bloody thing wouldn’t start once the ferry landed. Had to get it pushed onto the dockside, then get a bloody taxi all the way here. Cost a bloody fortune!” He turned back to his friends and all three made their way to the front door. “Just going for a smoko. We’ll leave you fellas in peace eh?”

There was a brief commotion as they decided who had cigarettes and who had matches, then, with a slam of the door, there was silence once more - an uneasy silence.

David was sure Ed sensed he was about to ask him something. He shifted in his chair, suddenly very interested in the pile of old junk mail that one of the brothers had picked up from the mailbox on the way in.

David jumped straight in. “So, Ed, now we have a big drum of this casein stuff, what’s the plan?”

Ed stood up and began pacing in his now familiar fashion. “Tomorrow morning we head into Nelson, about two hours drive away. We need to find the EPANZ leader, Patrick O’Sullivan, who’s in town for a conference. O’Sullivan is the poster boy for the so–called Green movement in this country but his political ambition has blinded him to the corruption and manipulation that’s happening through the financial and ideological pressure that Cowood’s putting on him and his fellow party members. It’s time for O’Sullivan to be removed from the scene before he gets too close to the throne, so to speak.”

“Removed? Meaning what? Kidnapped?”

Ed stared back at David.

“What, you mean killed? Murdered?”

Ed continued. “O’Sullivan is just a puppet. If he ever becomes Prime Minister, or even gets close enough to whoever does, he will do irreparable damage to this country. The only way to stop him is to eliminate him completely.”

David stared at Ed in disbelief, shocked into silence. Outside, three men were laughing and coughing their lungs up; inside a man who had devoted his adult life to saving sick animals had just calmly stated his intention to kill someone, coolly talked about murder and, what was worse, apparently trusted David with this revelation as if it was completely normal and acceptable. David gestured towards the door. “Do they know about this?”

“Sure they do, them and a handful of others, mainly politicians or people in, or loyal to, the Government. We need people with influence, people with access and people who love their country.” Ed smiled apologetically, “Sorry, that last bit sounded a bit too American. Ironic, really, as it’s the yanks who are the cause of all this.”

David’s mind raced. Exhaustion was beginning to overwhelm him. But before getting a restful few hours sleep, he needed to hear more. “So stop me if I miss anything here, Ed, because I’m having a bit of trouble dealing with all this at eleven o’clock at night. In a nutshell, America intends to take over New Zealand by this economic invasion process, buy up all the land and turn milk and trees into bio-fuel. They can do all this because they persuade the tree huggers that it’s a clean and environmentally good way to produce safe fuel, oh, and by the way, here’s a few million dollars for the cause.”

Ed interrupted, “Which, don’t forget, has been actually been donated by sympathetic farmers and landowners who have sold out to Cowood who, in turn, have persuaded the farmers to produce the milk for them. So as far as O’Sullivan and his little green friends can see, it’s the farmers, who have always historically been against the environmentalists, who are now backing them for the next government.”

“So why did the card open the door?” David threw this in, attempting to catch Ed off guard, realising it came out sounding as important as why did the chicken cross the road? He needed to know as much detail as possible.

Ed’s response sounded like he was going to evade the direct question. “I’ve already explained to you, Dave, on a primary level, the cards are used by Cowood to bring funds into the country. The money is then used to buy land or equipment, and sometimes influence. But there’s more to it than that. They are also the means by which we keep track of the Cowood agents already here. It works like this. They plant the card on you at Heathrow and then assign a tracker to watch you from a safe distance. We, in turn, watch the tracker, monitor their movements, and tap their conversations. By doing this we slowly build up a database of faces, individuals who may be working for Cowood, the advance guard, if you like. They are people like you, immigrants, surveyors, architects, draughtsmen, white collar men and women. We call them soft combatants. They are the unwitting forward guard of the invasion. They are invading with ideas, suggestions, lobbying and cajoling, creating an atmosphere in which their ideals and visions can become reality before anyone has the chance to stop and question, or realises their true intentions. So take tonight, for example. We may have been observed, but no attempt would have been made to stop us destroying the Dairytree factory because that would have risked exposing them. They will just have noted our presence and reported back. Cowood management will have had time to compose what would have looked like a hastily prepared press release when TVNZ called them for a reaction.”

“So we were being watched the whole time?”

“More than likely. Cowood has been tailing you from that airport roof in London. We managed to keep a tight enough rein on you to stop them getting too near, but allowed them close enough that we can observe them. It’s been a bit cat and mouse. Neither side dare do anything too dramatic in case it attracts the police or, worse still, the media. That’s the last thing either side wants at this stage. Hone and his bloody logging truck came a bit too close, though.”

“But what about the foot and mouth thing on Waiheke. Didn’t you say the Government staged that?”

“That was devised as a credible cover story for the press, manipulated all the way from producing the threat letter, instigating the emergency then, in a few days time, the whole thing will conveniently be exposed as a probable hoax. Meanwhile the Ministry get to test the cows legitimately, under the protection of the Bio Security Act, and Cowood has to stand by and watch. Even if they suspected the true nature of the emergency, they dare not kick up, for fear of having to admit to the presence of the gamma casein in the Waiheke herds. By now the Government is likely to have compelling evidence of Gamma Casein production taking place here in New Zealand.”

David was not sure he could understand the logic. “So how do you go from pussy-footing around each other, spying on each other, and the Government staging a fake emergency, to blowing up a factory and assassinating the leader of a political party? That’s a hell of a leap, Ed. One word springs to mind, starting with 'terror' and ending in 'ists'.”

Ed shook his head. If he had trouble persuading one man in one room, how could he expect the rest of the country to believe him? “Don’t get me wrong. We’ve thought long and hard about all this. We can skirt round the issues, bury our heads in the sand for the next couple of years, but in the meantime EPANZ is going to grow in popularity and power, and our voice will become an insignificant minority, if it survives at all. In ten to fifteen years, these two islands will just be a vast production and refining facility. People won’t actually live here, just come and do their four week shift or whatever and fly back home to Australia or California.” Ed managed a faint smile. “By the way, assassination is a very provocative word. We’re not about to assassinate anyone. Let’s just say, for now, that Mr O’Sullivan will die a perfectly natural death. Oh, and to answer your question, the card opened the door at the factory by me slipping it between the latch and the door. I already knew the PIN number for the lock, the latch was just a bit stiff and I left my wallet in the truck. So, sorry, no mystery there, I’m afraid. In fact, here, you’d better have it back.”

“So what happens tomorrow, then?”

“The EPANZ national conference has just started in one of the big hotels. These places always take on extra staff for big events, so me and one of the guys should be able to get temporary work looking after the coffee drops.”

“The what?”

“Coffee drops - you know, when you go to some course or big meeting and they take a break and out comes the coffee and biscuits? Well hopefully it’ll be me or one of the guys serving it so we can make sure O’Sullivan gets his coffee nice and milky.”

“So you’re planning to kill him by spiking his coffee?”

“Exactly. He’s a big coffee drinker; at least five a day. We just have to make sure that over the next week he drinks as many of ours as possible. Each time we serve him his favourite cuppa, he’ll be consuming an ever-increasing dose of gamma casein. He won’t taste it - after all, it’s only a milk by-product – but, depending on his tolerance, it’ll rapidly induce the onset of heart disease–like symptoms. Of course, we can’t be sure as it’s never been properly tested, but I reckon if we can get about three teaspoons of the stuff into him over the next few days, then he should succumb sometime in the following ten-days-to-a-month to a perfectly natural myocardial infarction.”

Ed’s alarmingly smug expression met David’s less than comprehending one.

“Sorry Dave, that was the vet talking for a moment there - a heart attack.”

“So you’re gonna give the poor guy a milk-induced heart attack?”

‘Exactly. Humane, natural and completely untraceable, gamma casein only exists in the lab. It won’t show up on any pathologist's toxicology report.”

The three smokers burst back through the door, laughing and joking, oblivious to the serious conversation they had interrupted. Ed continued, ignoring their rowdy entrance. “Look, Pat O’Sullivan is the key to all of this. He came here from Ireland in the early eighties to study chemical engineering, a trip paid for by his father who owned a small agrochemical business in Southern Ireland. The old man had done some early research into milk-based fuel, basic garden shed science really. But he was canny enough to sell his discovery to a New Zealand company for a few thousand dollars and some shares in the business which would give him a financial interest in any commercial applications his original research might be put to. When he died, Pat inherited the shares and, seeing he was already in New Zealand, after finishing his degree he joined the business, hoping to develop his father’s original process into the environmentally friendly alternative to petrol old man O’Sullivan always thought it would one day become. He started courting the fledging Green movement. That was in the late eighties. He quickly rose through their ranks and became leader within three years. Meanwhile the company the old man had sold his idea to had already been acquired by Cowood some years earlier. They quickly realised the potential benefits of having young Patrick already studying here, ready to inherit his shares in the business once he finished his education. They also knew they could develop and perfect the process quietly down here at the arse end of the world, without anyone else paying too much interest. They got a huge bonus when they realised Patrick was getting heavily involved politically in trying to get the Green movement up and running. So, once he joined the business, which by this time was called Dairytree, he was offered a place on the board - as far as he was concerned, a nod to his father’s original research and also to his own environmental credentials. So now, a few years later, we have the Managing Director of Dairytree, by now well aware of Cowood’s true intentions, also the leader of what has now become a fully fledged political party which advocates the introduction of full-scale ethanol production and who are on track to win the next election.”

“But that can’t be ethical, surely? How can O’Sullivan become the next Prime Minister when he has such a substantial interest in an industry that’s going to completely change the economic and environmental landscape?”

“Because he is only the party leader, not an elected Member of Parliament, so he isn’t bound by the same rules of disclosure or conflict of interest matters. Because of the way they have structured their party, only they will decide which of their MPs will actually be Prime Minister. Meanwhile, O’Sullivan is able to present himself as a part political leader and environmental activist and part ethical businessman, whilst all the while being a heart beat away from actually running the country.”

David was surprised at the detailed level of knowledge and network of like-minded sympathisers Ed had seemingly acquired despite the apparent isolation of his years working as a vet on Waiheke Island. “Ed, the thing I don’t understand is how you came to get so involved in all this stuff. How do you know so much and why has it got to you to the point where you’re prepared to kill for it?”

All the time he had been speaking, Ed had been moving animatedly around the small room, clearly enthused by his subject. Now he stopped pacing, moved back towards the kitchen table and sat opposite David once more.

The Maori trio, noting his change of mood, stopped talking and turned to listen as he sat, his face serious, his hands clasped in front of him. “The first thing that attracted Patrick O’Sullivan to the environmental movement was Anika Tamaki. She was the Chair of their university campus Green movement. They quickly fell in love, moved in together and later got married. Only when Pat’s dad died did she find out about his wealthy family back in Ireland and the Dairytree connection. Once Pat got his degree, and consequent inheritance, things started to change. Of course Anika subsequently found out it was because Cowood was on his back, but as far as she was concerned at the time, he was becoming distant, obsessed with his work and, from her point of view, he was just using her, abusing her principles, to gain a foothold into the fledgling Ecology Party for his own business ends. They argued, drifted apart, he ended up having an affair and they finally divorced. I met her about a year later. We got together and, over a fairly short period, the whole story, up to that point at least, came out. That was a few years ago now, and since that time we have both taken a keen interest in Patrick O’Sullivan’s business and political dealings, and the result is where we sit tonight.”

“So she knows what’s going on here?”

“Absolutely, in fact she knows him probably better than anyone. After all, she was married to the guy for five years. She understands what he is capable of, she understands he has to be stopped and she accepts how.”

David looked over to where Hone, Tom and Billy stood listening intently, almost devoutly, to Ed. They were nodding in agreement. Ed finished talking and stood signalling it was time to sleep. He had said more than enough for today.

They each made their way to one of the five rough camp beds. David lay down, fully clothed, pulling the cold, damp blankets over his head to keep out the chill night air that has already penetrated the thin wooden walls.

The light went out, plunging the room into a thick, heavy darkness. The wind outside blew gently, scraping overhanging branches against the tin roof. David found himself relaxing, content in the knowledge that Katherine was safer being looked after by Anika than being with him now.

* * *

The bed was moving violently.

David sat up, his shoulders aching from the sag of yet another unfamiliar bed. It was Hone shaking the base. “Wake up, man. We’re leaving in fifteen minutes.” David peered through crusty eyes at his watch. It was nine-thirty. He had slept soundly for ten hours. It felt more like three.

“There’s a shower out back, clean towels in the cupboard by the door. Don’t be long; we’ll eat on the way.”

He found the small dirty shower cubicle that had gone unnoticed the night before and worked out the intricacies of getting the right temperature whilst removing the clothes he had slept in. He was determined to spend as long under the steaming hot water as possible, letting it wake and fully refresh him. Instead it suddenly ran icy cold. David yelled out. As if in answer, a voice somewhere in the house yelled back, “Sorry, Bro’, had to kill the electric. The generator is just about running on empty and Hone didn’t bring some more diesel with him.”

The quicker they get this bloody bio-fuel on stream, the better, he thought stopping the freezing torrent and putting the same clothes back on, still warm from wearing them for the past forty-eight hours. He walked into the back room to collect his bag to find all the beds already folded away. The main room at the front looked as if they had never been there.

Ed was standing in the doorway. “Ready then?”

They walked out into mild mid-morning sunshine. The cottage was set in a large clearing amongst pine trees. In any other situation it would have been almost fairytale-like, except for the stripped dead car bodies piled three-high at the rear of the property which itself seemed to have fallen into greater disrepair the further back it went. A corrugated iron lean-to at the rear had leant a bit too far and collapsed in an untidy uninhabitable mess of metal, wood and broken glass in rotting frames.

Last night Ed had said they were heading to Nelson. This was the city David and Katherine had planned to live and work in. It was where all their belongings now sat in a container awaiting collection. David knew exactly what was in the container. Nelson gave him the ideal opportunity to escape.

They were back on a main highway. Other cars, trucks and several tourist buses passed in the opposite direction. For everyone else on the road, it was a perfectly normal Thursday morning. David was on an unfamiliar road in a foreign country, surrounded by terrorists, heading towards a town called Nelson which, according to the green road sign, was eighty kilometres away, and very soon he was expected to help them kill a politician.

Was Patrick O’Sullivan an innocent man? He wasn’t sure any more. Ed had certainly tried to persuade him otherwise, but why should he believe an old school friend who was making this whole thing out to be some kind of secretive civil war?

David pondered on the fact he had grown up in a time when his own country had regularly been targeted by terrorists, yet he had never felt threatened or endangered by them. He was not a target - neither a soldier, nor a policeman, nor a politician - just a schoolboy growing up in an age when the only precaution he had to take was not to go shopping in Central London around Christmas. He smiled to himself, remembering the warnings to never go on holiday to Ireland because of the bloody murdering IRA, and yet now recalling that their most spectacularly horrific bombing had actually occurred less than eighty miles from where he had grown up - London, a city he had regularly visited throughout his childhood when the IRA were most active with their bombing campaigns.

The Hilux slowed to a crawl. Despite a four litre engine, it struggled with over a tonne of its own body weight, plus five fully grown adults, as it hauled itself up the steep mountain road. When it could barely move any further, with black smoke belching from its exhaust and all five occupants unconsciously leaning forward as if it would somehow help, it reached the summit.

What followed was ten minutes of the most frightening driving David had ever been subjected to - a steep, downhill, switchback rollercoaster, stomach-churning descent. To the right, a steady stream of slow moving uphill traffic and, to the left, a sheer drop, with no safety barrier, into a thickly forested ravine.

The truck rolled violently at every turn, the combined mass of bodies forcing it to sway from side to side on its chassis. Hone seemed to be deliberately braking late on the sharp downhill left handers, then allowing the heavy truck to coast dangerously fast, its excessive weight assisting the rapid downwards momentum. As they descended, the smell of heated rubber increased to the point where they had to wind down the windows to release the pungent fumes.

Finally they reached the base of the mountain and all four passengers visibly relaxed, looking at each other with barely disguised relief, thankful to have survived a terrifying few minutes. As the road levelled and straightened, Hone did not let up. Exhilarated by his successful descent, he pushed his foot harder to the floor, increasing the speed of the truck until Ed finally gave in and shouted at him to slow down.

David knew all too well the consequences of Hone’s driving ability.