Whiskey Lima Golf, page 6
“Never you mind, moko,” Koro stops to answer Devon.
“Don’t stop him Dev, he’s buying!” Tom laughs “Come on Bert, we couldn’t have done all this without your help.”
“That was perfect timing, I must say.” Bert grins, “What with you arriving with the Hospice volunteers.”
“Geez, I thought you were going to take him out, Dev,” Tom notes, “I’ve seen that look in your eyes before. Dunkell has no idea how lucky he was that Koro was blocking the door!”
“Damn straight brother,” Devon responds, “he’s one rude bastard. Koro how do you put up with his BS racist attitude?”
“You boys have grown up in a very different New Zealand to the one that Bert and I grew up in, eh Bert?”
“Too right, Rangi. Some of us fought the good fight.”
“Like the Springbok tour, eh?” Koro laughs, “I remember you decking a couple of those Red Squad Nazi’s.”
“What’s this?” Tom asks.
“Old Rob’s Mob, they got a lot of us at Whitmore Street on the march,” Bert reminisces.
“They were out for revenge because they had to call the Hamilton game off,” Koro explains, “bloody split the country in two that bloody rugby tour did.”
“That’s right. Back in the early eighties, wasn’t it?” Devon asks.
“Yeah, Rob Muldoon was the conservative Prime Minister and he got voted in by promising a rugby test with South Africa,” Bert explains, “They had a racist apartheid system and us Kiwis were living under the illusion of living in ‘Gods-own’ country with the happiest of race relations. The seventies and eighties were full of protests, land marches and occupations.”
“And those bloody dawn raids targeting our island brothers,” Koro adds.
“Okay, sounds like we need a history lesson here. I mean it happened way before we were born, but what’s this about Nazi’s and Red squad? And no boring bits please,” Tom pleads.
“The Red Squad was the police’s first anti-riot squad, and they were brutal!” Bert explains.
“We called them Nazis because they were all big white bastards and racist pricks to boot,” Koro chips in, “look at that web thingy on your phone.”
“Just doing that Koro,” Devon replies, “Geez! Check these images out brother.” He hands his phone to Tom.
“I can’t believe it!” Tom exclaims, “Why weren’t we taught this at school?”
“I don’t think any government wants to teach kids that they have the power to change political decisions,” Bert answers, “Besides, after the tour I think the whole of New Zealand was so shocked at what happened, that they just wanted to bury those ugly memories.”
“But why?” Tom asks.
“You have to remember boys, that Aotearoa is a small country. We know most of our neighbours and we had to go back to work and live in our communities with people who we were physically fighting street battles with. It wasn’t easy…” Koro trails off, deep in his memory.
“Muldoon was chucked out at the next election and Labour swept into power, but they found out that Muldoon had bankrupted the country, so the eighties became a decade of asset sales and Rogernomic’s, no nukes and getting kicked out of ANZUS, the French bombing the Rainbow Warrior and the ’87 stock market crash,” Bert continues, “I guess we got a bit distracted. Crazy times eh Rangi?”
Koro stands abruptly, grabs the cold glass jug and tops up everyone’s glass. “Sure was Bert, now enough history, or you’ll just hear two old-timers going on and on. It’s time for another jug.”
***
Chapter Eight – New Toys
Monday Morning
THE COFFEE MACHINE complains with a screech of protest as the barista aerates the milk, talking over the noise, “Take a seat sir and I’ll bring the coffees over shortly.”
“Thanks mate, I’ll be over there in the corner booth.” Tom indicates with a nod of his head.
Clocking each of the patrons as he navigates his way to the table, Tom wonders, ‘How many people here are as they appear? What secrets are they hiding? I wonder if Devon is going to use me as cover again?’
As Tom reaches his table, he sees Devon enter the café and gives him a smile as he lowers himself into the chair, “You have impeccable timing, the coffee is on its way.”
At the orange booth bench seat, Tom slides himself along and props his crutches up against the white planter box that caps the end of the booth. He winks at his friend, “Private enough bro?”
“Perfect brother, I hadn’t heard of this café before,” Devon places his overcoat on the end of the shiny white table.
“That’s Wellywood for you. We must have more cafés per capita than any other city in the country, maybe even the world.” Tom shakes his head, then lowers his voice, “So who are we watching today? Let me guess, perhaps the couple over by the fire extinguisher?”
Devon laughs, “You chose the café so unless someone of interest wanders in, I have no idea.”
Tom looks a little crestfallen. “Oh, of course, you’re right.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got something else that will perk you up, no pun intended.” Devon puts his briefcase on the end of the table and pats the top of it.
The barista arrives, placing their coffee on the table beside the briefcase, “Two large cappuccinos with cinnamon.”
“Awesome design mate.” Tom nods appreciatively at the barista’s artwork in the frothy milk.
“Smells fantastic,” Devon acknowledges.
Once the barista has moved out of earshot, Tom turns back to Devon. “Okay, you’ve got me. What’s in the case?”
“All in good time, brother,” Devon takes a sip of his frothy white brew. “Ahh, I needed that. It’s been a heck of a morning.”
“Go on spill.” Tom picks up his cup.
“What would you say if you had a chance to work with me and George again?”
Taken aback, Tom puts his cup carefully down, “Are you serious? I’m a cripple. There’s no way I’d pass a fitness test.”
Devon smiles. “You take a pretty good photo and you’ve excellent observation skills. No doubt from our Recon training. You’re loyal, already have clearance and can be relied upon. And besides, that’s what George wants. So, what do you say?”
“Hang on a minute mate. Just what exactly is on offer here?”
After a quick check to make sure they aren’t overheard, Devon explains. “George was mighty impressed that you spotted Kendrick last week and got that great photo which clearly identifies him. We know that he’s black ops from our time spent with him in Afghanistan. What we don’t know is why he’s in Wellington. That’s where you come in.”
“Go on, I’m listening,” Tom replies intrigued.
“George wants to run you ‘dark’ via me, so that no one at work knows about it,” Devon continues.
“Wait a sec,” Tom holds up both hands. “So, George has ‘plausible deniability’ if the shit hits the fan? I dunno Dev, if things go south, where does that leave me?”
“Look around you Tom. We’re in Wellington. It’s hardly a war zone.” Devon grins and pats the briefcase. “Besides, we’re talking surveillance and that involves some new toys for you.”
“Like...?”
Devon clicks the slide latches and opens the case so that the lid obscures any onlookers’ view. Pointing to the items, he reels off, “Here’s your new secure phone. It has two numbers in it. The first ‘Alpha’ is me, always use that one.”
“And the second?” Tom asks.
“Only if it’s an emergency, then call ‘Bravo’, that’s George.” Devon pauses, “If he sees you calling, he knows both of us are screwed and he’ll storm in with the cavalry.”
“I thought you said this isn’t a war zone,” Tom comments, “but nice to know that there’s some back up.”
“Exactly. Now the camera on this phone shoots up to 108 megapixels, so you can zoom in afterwards and not lose too much definition. It also has a modified microphone for high quality sound and voice recording. Much better than the laptop version the French were using last week.”
“Sounds impressive. Anything else I should know about this phone?” Tom asks.
“Both George and I have access to the inbuilt GPS tracker. The difference with this one is that it has its own power supply, so if the phone is off, we can still find you. The phone works off the best network signal available, or satellite if you’ve got no network coverage.”
“Very clever. Very Big Brother, but very clever,” Tom nods in appreciation.
“Ha, good one,” Devon laughs, pulling out a black vest, “now here’s your new underwear.”
“Fancy, does it come in any other colour than sexy black?” Tom jokes.
“Sorry bro, only black,” Devon adds, “This light material is cashmere, deceptive ain’t it?”
“Warmer than merino?” Tom asks with mock innocence.
“Ever the joker. Nah man, this is level three body armour. It’s even stab proof, which you might need as you’re an easy mugging target on those things.” Devon points to his crutches.
“Bro, this is serious stuff. Next thing you’ll pull out will be a pistol.”
“Close, but you’re not 007… yet,” Devon answers deadpan, “a couple of pepper spray devices, eight-metre range, in a gel not an aerosol so you don’t get any blow-back in the Wellington winds, and it’s got a UV marker dye.”
Tom lets out a low whistle. “Man, this is too much.”
“I know right,” Devon grins. “Gotta look after my bro. Of course, George wants his arse covered, so you’ve got a couple of papers to sign.”
“Of course, he has.” Tom pauses, “So, what’s in it for me?”
“What more do you need than the satisfaction that you are serving Queen and country?” Devon asks, “Just kidding, it’s in the paperwork, a consultant’s weekly retainer plus reasonable expenses, with a GST receipt of course.”
“Ha, gotta keep the bean counters happy,” Tom laughs, then he narrows his eyes, “Did you set this up to call Koro off?”
“No, it’s all George’s idea, but that’s a good point,” Devon realises, “You better have a word with him because you don’t want Koro to blow your cover.”
“Roger that. So, what is my cover?”
“Just some random guy on crutches who frequents cafés, I haven’t thought that far,” Devon adlibs.
“I guess we can come up with something,” Tom shakes his head. “I certainly didn’t see this coming.”
“And with you on the case, Kendrick won’t see it either.”
***
Monday Lunch
The cold concrete bench seat sends a chill through his body as Tom waits, observing the pedestrians walking either side of the cenotaph. Many are scurrying to their next meeting or racing to cafés for a hurried lunch.
He checks his watch, and reports in to Devon via text on his new phone: 1200 no sign of him yet.
On the back of his neck is a rising irritation. He scratches it. ‘Damn this vest is itchy! I must check out why, and I might see if Dev has a foam pad for these damn cold benches.’
Across the road sits the old government buildings, now inhabited by a sprawling network of Victoria University departments. He scans the parade of people walking his way, finally spotting his blue-suited prey. He taps a quick message: K heading from Lambton into Whitmore – following.
Checking that the earbuds are Bluetooth-connected to his phone, Tom gathers his crutches and ambles to the busy pedestrian crossing to wait for the green light. His heart rate increases as he is hit by a wave of anxiety. His fretful inner monologue natters, ‘Don’t stuff this up man. Dev is counting on you. Come on lights I can’t lose him yet.’
The crossing buzzer sounds and Tom joins his fellow amblers, his crutches swinging in perfect rhythm with his legs easily setting a determined pace. Ahead, Tom catches a glimpse of the blue pin-stripe suit before it is obscured by a building.
Catching the next crossing as it turns green, Tom quickly makes his way across, his phone buzzing. Pausing, he taps the earbud and continues his pursuit, answering, “Yeah?”
“Do you still have him in sight?” Devon asks.
“No, he’s crossed Whitmore heading down Stout Street, I’ll be there soon,” Tom answers.
“I’ll stay on the line, I’m heading to the car now and I’m about five minutes away, bro,” Devon responds.
“Roger that,” Tom concentrates on his rhythm, rounding the corner into Stout Street, “There he is, he’s across Ballance and heading towards the entrance of… the Big Super Ministry.”
“Interesting,” Devon replies.
At the street corner, Tom stops near the rain shelter, noting the colour of a lanyard flapping in the Wellington breeze and reports, “K is now shaking hands with a BS official and they are heading inside. Should I follow him in?”
“Yep, there’s a café on the ground floor, I’ll meet you there.”
A courier van passes. Tom waits, then crosses first Ballance Street, then Stout, steadily closing the distance to the entrance steps. “How far away are you Dev?”
“Two minutes, bro.”
The automatic doors to the Ministry open. Tom watches Kendrick and the ministry official leave the reception desk and walk towards a nearby meeting room. Scanning the entrance lobby, Tom nods at the approaching security guard.
“Do you need some help there, sir?” the security guard asks.
“All good mate, meeting my brother for a coffee,” Tom answers, quickly reading his name badge.
Frowning, the security guard says sceptically, “Well that’s okay, I guess.”
“Thanks Dave, he said he’d be here shortly and to wait in the café, can you tell me where it is please?” Tom asks innocently.
“Oh, it’s just around the corner to the left past the reception,” Dave replies, walking with Tom towards the desk, and giving the receptionist an appreciative eye, “He’s okay Sally, say when are you due for your next break?”
“Thanks,” Tom nods, as he makes his way towards the table nearest the meeting room. He notes that the door is still ajar and pulls his phone out, laying it on the table with the microphone aimed at the door. He switches on the voice recorder.
Casting a glance around the open space, Tom sees a constant stream of public servants pouring out of one of the lifts, others leaving the building or heading for a coffee, while some of the slimmer ones tackle the stairs.
He notices two self-important black-suited men with long BS coloured lanyards swinging from their necks, walking towards the meeting room. He picks up his phone and snaps a photo of them, while he appears to be scrolling on his phone’s screen.
The two men walk into the room closing the door behind them. At the same time, Devon strides through reception, flashing a BS coloured ID card at a surprised Dave and Sally. He casts an experienced eye over the room and heads directly for Tom.
Devon sits down opposite Tom, who holds out the phone and brings up the photos he took. “Recognise any of these guys?” Tom asks as he slides his phone across the table to Devon.
Deftly picking up Tom’s phone, Devon swipes through the photos, “No one I know.”
Nodding towards the reception, Tom says, “I bet Sally does.”
“Quick work bro, I didn’t know you liked red heads,” Devon teases.
“Ha, good one Dev, but I don’t think I’ve got a snowball’s chance in hell,” Tom fires back, “Did you not see Dave chatting her up?”
“Brother, you are good at this game!” Devon’s phone starts to chirrup, “Damn, that’s the boss… Hello… yes sir… not yet sir… roger that. I’m on my way.”
“Is that George?”
“No, it’s my immediate boss, Robin. He’s got a bee in his bonnet and I’ve got to get back.” Devon stands. “Great work, Tom. See if you can get a name or two out of Sally, but don’t get sprung by Kendrick. Call me if you see anything else, but let’s debrief at the gym.”
“Roger, see you about 1730,” Tom, slips back into military parlance easily. “Make sure you look angry when you go past reception.”
Devon looks confused, “Okay bro.” He strides out of the building, flashing a grumpy look at Sally.
Tom takes his time. He picks up his phone and crutches and winds his way around the tables back to reception.
“Hi Sally, I must apologise for my brother. He thought he had booked that meeting room over there.” Tom points towards Kendrick’s meeting room, “But he must’ve been bumped out, which is why he’s so mad.”
“Oh dear, let me have a look at the meeting room schedule,” Sally replies naïvely, tapping on her keyboard, “No… no… sorry, I can’t see any other booking for that room, just the Space Agency boys. Mind you, they would have first choice because they are a special category team.”
“Oh well, thanks for your help, Sally,” Tom beams at her as he swings off towards the exit.
‘Kendrick meeting with the New Zealand Space Agency? What’s that all about?’ Tom wonders as he turns left and makes his way to the street corner. Looking about, he leans against one of the fallen pillars outside another Government building and casually observes the BS ministry’s front entrance.
Taking his phone out of his pocket, he opens the voice recorder and listens via his earbuds. Adjusting the volume, he can just make out Kendrick’s American accent, “…goddamn lax security… I don’t care! … huge investment…” another kiwi voice closer, “Hello Mr Waldergrave, it is good to …” and then the sound of the door closing.
Thinking to himself, he attaches the recording to a message and sends it to Devon, tapping: can you clean up the recording a bit more, something about security and a big investment, and Sally sends her regards, those suits were NZ Space Agency that had double booked the meeting room.
