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, after 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.

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.