Chapter 20

David pulled into the petrol station, filled the bike up and strode towards the sliding doors. He stopped and the doors slid closed again. It was too late. David’s hand was already pulling the wallet from his pocket, his mind racing with the knowledge that the only means he had to pay for petrol was the solitary credit card.

Within seconds of entering the PIN, his location and purchase would be identified. The bike’s tank had been filled and he had only bought ten dollars worth of fuel. That was less than a quarter of a car’s worth. It wouldn’t take long for somebody to question the quantity. Sooner or later someone would work out David had bought a tank’s worth of fuel, but not for a car.

The card was in his hand and there was no way he could avoid paying. The forecourt had video surveillance and, in such a small town, he’d probably be caught within fifteen minutes.

“Pump number?”

David glanced through the window towards the bike. “Ten.” He scanned the display in front of the cashier, eyeing the chocolate bars. How many would it take to add up to a car’s worth of fuel, he wondered as he grabbed a handful.

“That’ll be fifteen dollars.”

He examined the shelves behind the cashier, looking at the maps, thinking a decent thirty dollar one could prove useful. It would also increase his spend, disguising the true cost of the fuel in the overall purchase. “I’ll take a South Island map as well, please,” he said, handing over the credit card. The cashier punched in the amount, swiped the card and gestured towards the key pad. David had committed the number to memory and tapped it in. A moment later, the display silently replied; accepted. He walked out, straddled the bike, repositioned his helmet and drove out onto the road, heading towards the city centre.

As Rocks Road curved away from the sea towards the town, David’s eyes followed it down an avenue of trees and into the distance. A large white building stood out against the green hillside, a tall, stark, incongruous slab of a landmark amongst such verdant surroundings.

The sign on the roof was clearly legible - Horatio Plaza Hotel. He kept the position in his head as the streets followed a tortuous route towards it - Hardy Street, Collingwood Street, Trafalgar Street, The Nelson theme was resolute and, he thought, increasingly unimaginative,. The hotel came into view once again, this time just one block away.

David parked the bike and removed his helmet. Then he saw it, and his chest immediately began to thump. Parked across from the hotel was the bus he had travelled in from Auckland with Ed and Hone. He’d last seen it parked on the quayside in Wellington. Hone said it’d broken down in Picton but here it was parked opposite the hotel. Any sense of freedom at having escaped from the house evaporated.

The glass-panelled doors swished apart and the reason for the current location of the bus became clear. On a large sign in the lobby below the hotel name and date were the words:

Welcomes the EPANZ National Conference

David recalled the plan and the bizarre method to poison the EPANZ leader.

“Good evening, sir. May I help you.” The receptionist’s greeting was the first genuinely warm, welcoming smile he had received for some time.

“Can I get a room for the night, please?” He’d ridden past a dozen motels and hotels on the way to this place. Until he had spotted the bus moments earlier, he thought it would be the last place they’d look for him. He was also desperately trying to think of a way to prevent Patrick O’Sullivan’s death, or at least to warn him.

A scenario flashed through his head. Excuse me Mr O’Sullivan, you don’t know me from Adam, but if you take another sip of that cappuccino, you’ll die. It sounded a bit too surreal. David was starting to question whether Katherine had been right all along and he was over-reacting.

“Sir? Single or double?”

“Sorry, a single room, please.”

“Thank you. 515 is available and it’s got a bit of a sea view. You’re lucky to get a single with the big conference here at the moment.”

David looked at her intently. She was probably only eighteen or nineteen and, from her complexion, ample figure and thick mane of barely-tamed auburn hair, he decided she was a country girl who’d come to the city in search of her first proper job. She was obviously proud her hotel was hosting such an important event and felt David should be equally impressed. He smiled back, deciding in that instant that he was fully justified in exploiting her inexperience and naivety.

“So, is the guy in charge of EPANZ staying here as well?”

“Mr O’Sullivan? Yes he is, sir. Same floor as you in fact.”

“Really?”

“Yes, three rooms down from yours, so don’t you go riding that motorbike around your room at all hours.” She laughed, pointing to the crash helmet he’d placed on the counter. David realised how much he was missing Katherine.

So O’Sullivan would either be in 521, or, in the other direction, 509. David thought this information might be valuable to him. If it was going to be this easy to glean information about an intended assassination target, then hopefully he would be able to work out how to save his life.

“Do you have a credit card, sir?” She needed to swipe a card in case he skipped the room without paying for the mini bar.

“Er, actually I don’t,” he answered, knowing that within seconds of it being swiped his presence in the hotel would be known.

“In that case, sir, if you don’t mind, I’ll get the porter to remove the mini-bar. If you require any refreshment, just call.”

David sat on the bed browsing the room service menu. There was no way he would risk walking into town for something to eat or even venture into the hotel restaurant. He needed a drink. The mini-bar had already been removed by the time he’d reached the room. He would have to go to one of the hotel bars where at least he could also order some food.

Carefully pulling the room door until it clicked shut, there was the echo of another door also being closed. To his right, someone was walking towards the lift. He followed, noting the room number. It was 521. He called out the only name that came to mind. “Mr O’Sullivan?”

The figure turned. This didn’t mean it was him. No-one else was in the corridor. He could just been reacting to the voice behind him. But he stopped, allowing David time to catch up. “Patrick O’Sullivan?”

“Yes.” He frowned, expecting to recognise the person now calling his name.

Now what should he do - blurt the entire story right here in the hotel corridor? Warn him his life was in imminent danger? David had fully intended, up to that moment, to remain anonymous, to observe O’Sullivan at a discrete distance and to watch for any signs he was in immediate danger, either from Ed or from something he might eat or drink.

Suddenly he was confronted with the reason his life had been turned upside down for the past few days. O’Sullivan took David’s hesitation in his stride. As potentially the next Prime Minister, he was used to being confronted by supporters and well wishers suddenly awe struck in his presence.

David spoke. “Hi, er, I just wanted to say how much I admire what you are trying to do for this country.” David could feel his throat drying. He’d been in New Zealand less than a week and was now standing in front of the man who, he’d recently found out, could be responsible for the impending destruction of the entire country’s economy. I’ve just told him how much I admire what he’s doing!

“Thanks, er … ?”

“Dave Turner”

“You’re English, Dave? How long have you lived in New Zealand?”

This was getting worse by the second. “Just a week. I’m looking around the Nelson area for somewhere to live at the moment, just booked in here for a few days. Using it as a sort of base.”

O’Sullivan stared at him. “And you’re familiar with my policies?’

David detected the note of scepticism. He tried to sound relaxed. “Well, when we were researching a country to emigrate to, we looked at all aspects, and we liked the fact New Zealand has this clean, green image, and an active environmental lobby. People such as you, sir.”

“Good on you, Dave. Make sure you sign onto the electoral roll once you’re settled in, so we can count on your vote in next year’s election.” They were in the lift and exchanging small talk. “If you’re around the hotel in the next few days, we have a few public debates and forums you might be interested in.”

The doors opened and they stepped out, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m just heading into town for a meeting. Good to meet you, Dave.”

He was gone. The leader of a major political party, possibly the next leader of the country, just walked out of the hotel and into the early evening unaccompanied, no security or personal assistants. What a great country, David thought. God, it’s going to be so easy for someone to kill him.

Patrick O’Sullivan walked out into the cool evening air. A small hidden camera transmitted his image to a computer in the bus parked across the street. The screen brightened, and with the familiar ‘ding’ of an incoming email, an oversized copy of Patrick O’Sullivan’s passport photograph illuminated the darkened cabin of the bus.

Brent opened one eye. Recognising the image on the screen, he pulled on a sweater and baseball cap, left the bus, and crossed the road, noting O’Sullivan already heading towards the centre of town.

He kept well back, strolling and pausing to peer into shop windows. He’d already spent an hour familiarising himself with the layout of the town centre and could visualise the entire length of Trafalgar Street, from the Cinema and Post Office at one end, to the Cathedral steps at the other. Brent knew the location of every bar and restaurant in the street.

O’Sullivan crossed the road and turned the corner.

Three weeks earlier Brent had been honing his close quarter urban tracking skills amongst the mass of shoppers and sightseers on a humid summer’s afternoon on London’s Oxford Street. This time, his prey was the only other person on the street.

He turned the corner, eyes instantly darting up the street, left then right, until they met a silhouetted figure now turning into one of the bars halfway down. He crossed onto the opposite side and made his way towards the bar, passed it, crossed over and approached it from the other end of the street.

O’Sullivan was already seated with two other men, his back to the bar, talking about a press conference that had been held earlier.

The barista ostentatiously steamed a jug of milk. Carefully, he poured the frothy mixture into each of the three cups before lifting them onto the counter in front of Brent, acknowledging him for the first time. “Won’t be a minute, mate. Just finish this order and I’ll be with you,” he said, as he sprinkled cinnamon on one and chocolate on the other two. As he walked around the bar to collect the drinks, Brent felt for the phial in his pocket. By the time the barman was next to him, Brent already had two of the drinks in his hands. He handed them over;

“Here, let me help you.” Brent thrust the drinks at him, almost forcing him backwards. Brent had hoped for ten seconds but hadn’t counted on the barman backing away, still facing him, before reversing himself into a chair and finally to O’Sullivan’s table where he served the men on a first-come, first-served basis, so O'Sullivan last, as Brent had hoped.

As soon as his back was turned, Brent popped the top of the phial and emptied a small quantity of the contents into the third remaining coffee. The white powder instantly dissolved through the milky froth into the hot drink beneath. As the barman returned for the third cup, Brent was already out the door.

By the time he was back in the bus, Patrick O’Sullivan had already sipped his first three milligrams of gamma casein. A fatal dose was around fifty milligrams. No one could be sure as to the exact amount needed since no data had ever been published on the quantity needed to cause a deliberate fatality in humans. Brent had been told O’Sullivan would need to drink at least another sixteen coffees in the next five days; about three a day. How was he going to get the stuff into every single coffee O’Sullivan drank for the next week?

* * *

David sat in the hotel bar, sipping beer, waiting for his food. A short distance away, Patrick O’Sullivan had already started to die.

His entire perception of the man had been coloured by the impressions of others. Now he had seen him in the flesh, stood next to him, even spoken to him, he found it hard to believe that such an apparently genial, vigorous man deserved to die. David already knew the manner of his death and that it was expected to be soon. He made his way down to the hotel lobby, waiting for O’Sullivan’s return. If he had any sense at all he would listen to what David had to say and then make up his own mind.

There was a flash as the entrance doors parted, catching the glare from the chandeliers above. David walked purposefully towards him, unnoticed by O’Sullivan who continued towards the lift. David was still five paces behind. The door of the lift opened, O’Sullivan stepped in and pressed the button for the fifth floor.

David quickened his pace. He felt like a stalker. Now he had the opportunity to say what he had spent the last hour planning in his own mind. He clenched his fists and took a deep breath as the doors closed behind him.

They stood, side-by-side, gazing blankly ahead. O’Sullivan didn’t even acknowledge him. Perhaps he had already forgotten their brief introduction earlier?

“Mr O’Sullivan, there’s something I need to tell you.” David heard his voice boom in the confined space. “Your life is in danger. Since arriving in New Zealand earlier this week, I’ve met people who intend to kill to stop you becoming leader of this country.”

O’Sullivan turned. “It’s, er…?”

“Dave, sir, we met earlier. You’re in the room three doors down from me.”

‘Are you a journalist, Dave?”

“No sir. Remember I told you I’ve just emigrated here?” The lift door opened and O’Sullivan stepped out, intent on reaching his room and closing the door. David only had a few seconds left to persuade him. “I know about Cowood.”

O’Sullivan rolled his eyes. “Is that what this is about? Dave, the fact that I’m on the board of Cowood Industries is common knowledge here in New Zealand. My directorship is completely compatible with my role as leader of EPANZ. Why would that endanger my life? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve had a long day and I’m up early in the morning for a radio interview.”

David had to think quickly. He at least expected time to explain the whole scenario. O’Sullivan already had the key in the door of his room. “I know about Waiheke Island and the real reason for the foot and mouth story.” The door to O’Sullivan’s room was open. He paused. “Does this convince you?” David fumbled in his pocket for the credit card and held it up close to O’Sullivan’s face.

He looked back at him blankly. “Are you trying to bribe me or blackmail me here, Dave, because you’ve completely lost me?”

“This is an Associated Bank of Monaco credit card and, from what I’ve learnt in the past few days, it’s more exclusive than a black American Express card.” David emphasised the next sentence. “You could buy a whole country with one of these.”

O’Sullivan pushed the door fully open and gestured to David to enter ahead of him. The card had apparently worked. Finally, O’Sullivan was prepared to listen. David entered and waited for O’Sullivan to click the door completely shut behind him before continuing, relieved he was finally about to get it off his chest.

Instead, O’Sullivan spoke first. “Look. Dave, I’ve been hearing rumours for a few months now about supposed innocent couriers being used to bring large sums of money into the country with the intention of destabilising our economy, even that my name and my political and business interests were being used as some kind of bizarre justification for their actions when these supposed couriers realised or found out exactly what they were carrying.”

David was confused. This was the first opportunity Patrick O’Sullivan had to explain his role in all this and it wasn’t what he’d expected to hear. But why should David disbelieve him? After all, the people who’d given him another version were an old school friend he hadn’t seen or had contact with for the past twenty years, and his mates who seemed to be little more than small time local crooks, certainly kidnappers, if nothing else. What if it was O’Sullivan who was telling the truth? David almost wanted to trust him.

“This is the first time anyone has shown me any concrete evidence of these rumours. Thanks for bringing this to my attention tonight. Dave, I really appreciate it, believe me. Now, by coming forward with this information you’ve probably put yourself in danger. Somewhere out there, probably not too far away, these people are very keen to get their card back.”

David remembered the bus that was already parked at the front of the hotel when he arrived.

“We need to get you out of here tonight, my friend. First thing tomorrow we can go to the police and get this all sorted out.” O’Sullivan had already keyed in a number and his mobile phone was to his ear;

“It’s me. Look, sorry to call so late, I need you to send a car to the hotel. About thirty minutes? Good. I’ll call you back with the details. Tell the driver to meet me round the back.”

David was no longer sure what was happening. Had O’Sullivan just called the police, some special government security number or his own private protection? He hustled David towards the door. “Go back to your room, Dave. Put the chain on the door, pack your bag and don’t answer the phone. When I knock in about twenty minutes, be ready with your stuff.”