The Mark of Halam (18 page)

31.

L
ike everyone else, Barbara Heywood watched the CNN broadcast mesmerised by the shootout in Wellsford. She envied the CNN journalist, who until this moment had been an unknown and now in the space of a few minutes had become an international star. The follow-up would continue and with the arrival of the submarine he would remain in the public arena for at least the next two weeks. The murders, the protests in Auckland, gun battles in the north; to the outside world New Zealand must be taking on the appearance of a country under siege.

Her heart went out to Brian Cunningham. He had been promoted, given absolute control, and had then lost New Zealand’s most infamous prisoner. Barbara knew the way of the public service well enough and no doubt jealous underlings would be baying for his blood. She knew he had the inner strength to cope but leadership was a lonely post and political pressure would eventually take its toll. She considered phoning him and offering support but decided against it. He didn’t need his space crowded with well-wishers at this moment.

Jamil Khallid’s smiles had turned into a permanent grin. As he saw the rural landscape change to forest he wanted to laugh out loud and slap his thigh. For the moment he would have to wait before he could animatedly express his joy and thank his rescuers. Ten minutes from the scene of his escape he was still in handcuffs and none of the four men in the car had removed their balaclavas. His attempted communication brought no response. A quick assessment of his situation and the answer was obvious. Zahar was not pleased with him. The price for failure was understood by all. Why then had they not just killed him as he sat in the car? Was this a show of strength? Was Zahar trying to show the New Zealanders that he had the power to do as he wished and for them to be wary of confrontation? He hoped his death would be quick. Would he still go to heaven? Would he still be considered a martyr even if he was killed by his own men?

The vehicle turned off and drove deeper into the forest. Was he to be buried amongst the trees? No marker for his grave. If this was to be his fate then so be it. He would show no fear.

Brian Cunningham looked over the heads of his team as they watched a replay of the shootout in Wellsford. No one spoke. Dispirited was the appropriate mood label in Cunningham’s view. Again they had been so close to finding Akbar and again the connection had been taken from them. The loss of fellow officers added to the gloom. When the replay finished Cunningham ordered the television turned off.

There had been no grumbling when he assumed command.

He had taken Moana to one side and told her before he told the others. “Am I pissed off? Yes. No one likes to be moved aside,” she had said. “But to be honest, Inspector, this is such a mess; I’m out of my depth. I have a feeling this is becoming more military than it is police work. Besides,” she smiled, “I think it’s more beneficial to my career to have you carry the responsibility.”

“I’ll need your office.”

“Just make sure you keep my plants watered.”

“Thanks Moana. If the plants die I’ll buy you new ones.”

With morale at a low ebb, he needed to give his team direction. Snap them out of it.

“Okay, people, I know how disappointing this must be but we need to remember our killer and his men are still out there and it’s our job to find them. We now know the submarine is the target. It’s a start. We also know these guys are hiding out in a warehouse somewhere. Moana, how is the warehouse hunt?”

“So far it’s a long list. Ross is out talking to more agents. We should be finished by tomorrow and then it’s a matter of knocking on doors.”

“Okay, let’s hand out the addresses you already have and get checking. No lone cowboy shit. I want everyone in pairs and everyone armed. You know what you have to do, let’s get out there and do it.”

They filed from the room. Moana stayed back and when they were alone sat down next to Cunningham. He drummed his fingers on the table top.

“Inspector, I just wanted to say how sorry I am Wellsford turned out the way it did,” Moana said. “The pressure from above must be unbearable.”

“Shit happens, Moana. What can I say?” Cunningham said. He smiled. “Maybe I’ll start a security company when they throw me out of here. Supply guards to banks.”

“The team asked me to tell you that we’re behind you 100 percent. Don’t ever forget that, will you?”

“Thanks, Moana. I appreciate the support and I haven’t thrown in the towel yet. A break will come our way. We will nail these assholes I’m sure of it and then Wellsford will be forgotten.”

Moana nodded but was not convinced. Many years of police work had taught her that sometimes the good guys simply didn’t win.

The vehicles came to a halt in front of a concrete shed. Two men in the front vehicle climbed out and went into the building. Jamil watched with growing concern. Still no one had spoken. For Jamil, time and the silence had proved a leveller. His initial bravado was dissipating and he no longer wanted to die. When he met with Zahar he would explain it wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t the team leader, after all. If the mission had failed, could he, Jamil Khallid, be held responsible? No. This was not fair. He was the victim. Zahar was ruthless but he was no fool. Zahar knew he was loyal and capable. He could not afford to lose such men. No, he would see reason.

One of the men who had gone into the building came back out and waved. Jamil was pulled from the car.

“Where is Zahar?” Jamil asked. “Bring Zahar to me. I can explain everything.” No one answered. He was pushed into the shed. It was dark and difficult to see. Nowhere to sit. He needed to use the toilet.

“I need to piss,” he said but no one answered.

He was forced onto his knees. This is it, he thought. A bullet in the back of the head. At least it would be quick and painless. That was something. A bag was placed over his head and a string pulled it closed. Tight enough to ensure it was secure but not tight enough that he would choke. He felt handcuffs fastened to his ankles and then his hands were secured to them with a third set. He could not maintain his balance and fell on his side. There was no attempt to right him. He waited, eyes closed, for the gunshot but instead heard the sounds of boots leaving the building and then heard the door slammed shut. He relaxed a little. Then he urinated over himself.

32.

Z
ahar Akbar stood in the centre of Sami Hadani’s lounge, hands tightened into fists, and every so often he swung at an imaginary figure. He was not a superstitious man, but as a young boy in the refugee camps an old woman had told him to be careful not to make God angry. If you do he will unravel your destiny. As a small child he had no idea what the old hag was talking about but now from the far reaches of his memory he dragged up her image. He believed in luck, God knows he had experienced enough of it, but was his luck running out? Had God sent Bradley to destroy him? Was God protecting this man? His brother had failed to kill the New Zealander and his own attempt to kill Bradley had failed. Now this. The capture of one of his men he could accept. In war prisoners were taken and soldiers killed, but the events taking place in the small New Zealand town unsettled him. The television journalists were calling it a rescue attempt but he knew better. Who were the men who had taken Jamil?

The presence of CNN had turned the incident in Wellsford into an international story. Members of the intelligence fraternity who might never have given New Zealand a second thought would now look this way. He had little doubt that from now on more resources would be made available to the police. A murderer would have stayed a police matter but terrorism brings in the military. How much had Jamil told the police while he was in their custody? Not a lot. He didn’t know much. This was New Zealand; they would not resort to torture and as long as Jamil had kept his mouth shut there would be no information forthcoming.

Whoever had taken him showed ruthlessness. Not afraid to fire on civilians and police. These men might make Jamil talk. He would assume that after twenty-four hours of interrogation they would know everything. At least Jamil did not know the location of the warehouse and his safe house had been cleared. Zahar was satisfied any link back to him had been cut.

He replayed the recorded CNN coverage of the attack. They were certainly carrying Kalashnikovs, which ruled out the police and the New Zealand military. Whoever they were they moved as a unit, the action disciplined. These guys were professionals. He sat on the coffee table and replayed the tape again. Then paused it.

“Sami!” He called out.

“Yes, Zahar? What is it?”

Sami walked into his sitting room, a steak sandwich in one hand and a glass of cognac in the other.

“Come look at this.” Zahar replayed the tape. “Look at the men attacking the police. The way they are moving. What are your first thoughts?”

“Military,” Sami replied, breadcrumbs spitting from his mouth. “Show a little more.”

Zahar pressed the play button.

“Stop.”

Zahar pressed pause.

“Look at that.” He pointed to one of the men in black. “The way he is kneeling, elbow on his knee, his rifle at the ready, steady. That is military training. No doubt.”

They watched the rest of the tape and then replayed it. The CNN cameraman had shown true professionalism. He managed to get close-ups. During the attack the two lead vehicles had been strafed with machine-gun fire and two policemen killed. Something caught Sami’s eye. Zahar saw the indecision.

“There’s a problem, Sami?”

“I don’t know. Something is not right.” Sami placed his steak sandwich and cognac on the coffee table and moved forward. Face inches from the screen. “Play the tape again.” Zahar did as he was asked, pleased that Sami agreed that something was amiss. Again the tape came to an end and again Sami turned to Zahar and told him to run it again. Over the past weeks Zahar had concluded that Sami had the same feral instincts for survival as himself. They had both spent a good proportion of their lives as hunted men and survived. If there was something wrong Sami would discover it, of this he was certain.

“Pause it there.” The picture stilled. Zahar watched as Sami scanned the screen. “Praise to Allah,” he whispered. “That’s it,” he said rising from his crouching position.

“What is it? What do you see?” Zahar asked.

“Wrong question, Zahar. The question is what you don’t see.”

“I’m listening.”

Zahar had risen from his chair and was staring at the screen but could not see anything out of the ordinary.

Sami pointed at the screen. “These cars have been sprayed with Kalashnikovs. Where are the bullet holes?”

Zahar leaned closer. “There aren’t any.”

“Exactly. And that is just not possible.”

Zahar stepped back and sank into the leather sofa chair, his brain spinning as he attempted to assemble this information into some semblance of reason. “You are right, Sami, and in all the chaos no civilian casualties. Not even minor injuries. And the two policemen, taken away in the ambulance, there has been no report on their injuries.” Reality dawned. “Blanks. They were shooting blanks.”

“Had to be. You and I have fired enough of these weapons in similar situations. We know what they can do,” Sami said.

“Yes. Then all this was theatre. The shot policeman. Bodies on the ground.”

“If the shooting was theatre then we must assume all of it was theatre.”

Zahar scratched his face, thoughtful. “But for what purpose? The police are bringing Jamil to Auckland for questioning. They stage a very visible mock attack and the whole country believes it was us rescuing our comrade – but of course we know better. In the end the police still have him and all they can do is question him. So why?”

“Maybe they think that we might try to kill him and that if we don’t know where he is he will be safe.”

“Yes. You might be right but if they were going to place him in a safe house why not just do it?”

“Anyway,” Sami started, “this is not the Middle East. They cannot torture him, can they? Not under New Zealand laws. So nothing has changed.”

“I agree. The New Zealand police cannot make Jamil talk but I have a feeling that maybe Jamil is no longer in the hands of the police.”

Later, Zahar called Avni Leka on the satellite phone. Leka had not
been pleased. He did not like failure, and he left Zahar in no doubt
that somehow Bradley was connected to the abduction of Jamil.

“Your brother,” Leka had said, “paid dearly for underestimating Bradley. Mark my words, the Jeff Bradleys of this world have a habit of falling down black holes and surviving. They destroy all in their path. Like a fucking elephant in a corn field. He needs to be dealt with, Zahar.”

Zahar had listened. What else could he do? Avni Leka paid the bills. But he would make his own rules. The money that would secure his future meant the mission came first. He agreed with Avni that Bradley needed to go. But an open confrontation right now was foolish. He would continue with his original plan. Make Bradley suffer. Have him running in circles looking to protect his friends and when all was done he would pay him a visit.

For the first time in her career, Barbara Heywood was speechless. She poured herself a scotch and fixed her eyes back on Brian Cunningham seated opposite. He watched her, expressionless.

“I suppose the question that has to be asked is why?”

Barbara knew before she asked she was not going to like the answer.

“There are people in this country killing citizens. There is every reason to believe more will be killed. These terrorists are linked to an organisation that is responsible for bombings and many deaths throughout Europe. I want to catch them before it is too late, as do a number of international organisations. But we are New Zealanders. We have laws. Due process. Jamil Khallid is our only link to Akbar and his men, but Khallid does not want to talk to us and we have no way to make him talk if he stayed in prison. He’ll be given a good lawyer. Hell, he might actually be released on bail.”

“So you arranged for him to be given over to others who are beyond the law?”

“That’s about the strength of it,” Cunningham said, feeling uncomfortable under Barbara’s accusatory gaze.

“Who has him?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

Barbara nodded thoughtfully and took another sip of her scotch. “I suppose that man Caldwell is behind it? I guess the next question is why are you telling me?”

“I promised to be up front with you.”

“Cut the crap. This is so not the sort of information you lay on anyone. How many laws have you broken? I guess it doesn’t matter since it will be reclassified under national security and it will never come out. In the meantime the poor sod is being tortured and then what? Executed? I think that can be the only outcome can’t it.”

Brian shrugged. “You’d have preferred I hadn’t told you?”

Barbara looked at her hands. “Of course I’d prefer you hadn’t told me,” she whispered. She looked up. “Why did you Brian?”

“I needed to speak it out loud. There was no one else.”

“Gee thanks. These are crimes, Brian. Now I’m implicated. Did you think of that?” He pursed his lips. “No, of course you didn’t. Now I feel as dirty as I know your hands must be. A boundary has been crossed, Brian. You’ve dragged me across the line with you. It brings up the argument of how far do you go before you’re just like them.”

“It wasn’t an easy decision, Barbara. I’ll resign from the force when this is over.” Cunningham stood up. “I have to get back. Don’t get up. I’ll see myself out.”

Barbara sat quietly and said nothing.

Cunningham left the apartment without looking back and Barbara didn’t call him back. She stayed in her seat cradling her glass, looking out at the city but not really seeing it.

Cunningham sat alone in the crime room going through files. In a few days the submarine would arrive. Half the team were sleeping in the cells below, the others in the cafeteria eating before heading back to the streets. He had thought of calling Barbara but dismissed the idea. The look on her face had said it all. When he had walked out of her apartment she had made him feel like a leper. He would leave her be for the moment. What was there to say?

The door opened. Red poked his head in.

“Inspector, you’re wanted upstairs,” Red said.

Cunningham pulled on his jacket. A quick look in the mirror.
He straightened his tie. He had been expecting the call and was surprised it had taken so long. He wasn’t quite certain what it was he
would say. He was tired and had not prepared a response. How could he explain away the taking of his prisoner in Wellsford?

The Area Commander’s secretary was not about when he entered reception. He checked the small kitchen. She was not there either.
He knocked on the commander’s door and entered. There were three
men inside and the commander was not one of them. Two of the three had been in the office the day he had been given his reprieve and promotion. They sat either side of the new face. A lone chair sat in the centre of the room.

The man in the middle said, “Inspector Cunningham, please come in. Close the door and sit down.” Cunningham obeyed. “My name is Percy Croydon. I am the Director of the SIS. These other two men are from Foreign Affairs.”

Their names were not offered.

“I’ll be honest with you, Inspector: when you were kept in charge of what seems to be an escalating problem I was against it. Nothing personal mind, but it concerned me that a policeman might not comprehend what we are up against with terrorists and might not react in the appropriate manner.” Percy paused and gave Cunningham a quizzical look. “Then I had you checked out. Surprise, surprise. Your military career was exactly what I would have looked for if I wanted to put my own man in your position. The Americans spoke highly of you.”

Cunningham offered a wry smile. “And this is why you have met with me. To tell me how wonderful I am?”

“No. I am meeting with you because I want to know what you have done with Jamil Khallid.”

Cunningham raised his eyebrows.

“That façade in Wellsford might fool Joe Public but not us, Inspector. Please don’t mistake us for idiots.”

Cunningham nodded. Mulled over what to say. There was no point playing games. The SIS would find out sooner or later. He was surprised the Americans had not already informed the New Zealand Secret Service.

“Khallid is with the people he needs to be with to get the information I need,” Cunningham replied.