Milkshake (32 page)

“So how can we stop it?”

“Well, sir, the Black Room was sealed in 1996. Only
authorised personnel are allowed to enter. The only way in is by
entering a PIN number into a keypad. I haven’t been able to find a
record of this code anywhere.”

Dalton was familiar with the concept of the Black Room and had
even been privy to some of the information it had yielded in the
past. Now he felt frustration at his own ignorance of what
transpired to be not only a critical asset to the country, but also
a highly dangerous Trojan horse. “So where is this Black Room
exactly?”

“According to the records, it’s situated beneath the City
Council offices in Nelson. When the building was constructed in
1982, there were classified plans for a bunker beneath the seven
storey structure. Since it was built to withstand flood, fire and
earthquake, this bunker was eventually adapted to house the main
telephone exchange for the South Island. The Americans decided this
would be the most secure site for a Black Room, so offered to build
one concealed in the main exchange. Today, the only indication of
the real significance of the bunker is an anonymous steel door next
to the Post Office on the ground floor of the building.”

“
So are you saying the way to stem the leak
of information is to switch off the Black Room?”

“Not completely, no. We just need to locate the equipment
inside which is transmitting to the satellite when it passes
overhead, and disconnect it.”

“So how do we get in if no-one, except presumably the
Americans, know this PIN number?”

“We work it out, sir.”

“But it could be any combination of any string of numbers.
How the hell are we even going to begin to crack a code like
that?”

Brent returned to scrolling through the records which had
passed through the Black Room, noting which ones were regularly
sent to the satellite as it passed unseen overhead.

Some of these records had an additional column of information.
It took him half an hour to realise what these were. He dialled the
phone numbers in turn. Each time there was no reply. Then it dawned
on him. The unobtainable phone numbers, the extra column of digits,
these were EFTPOS terminals.

Each time it passed overhead, the satellite uploaded the
details of every electronic purchase made in New Zealand in the
previous ninety minutes. In this way they knew precisely how much
was being spent, where, on what, and by whom. This was damning
evidence of the extent of the American Government’s covert
operation in New Zealand, whether it was linked to the activities
of Cowood Industries or not.

It was time to use the Black Room to their own advantage.
Brent found evidence of supposedly secure emails sent by the NSA,
that, by a bizarre twist, had been routed via the Black Room, to
the American Embassy in Wellington. The search criteria he entered
were simple:

Search 0,1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9

As he hit
Enter
, the results box started to fill with emails. The title of
each one was the same:
Pass Code
Update.

It was a deceptively simple process. The Black Room collected
the details of every EFTPOS transaction and sent them up to the
passing satellite. In San Francisco, the sum of the value of all
the transactions was instantly calculated and the number
transmitted by automatic email via the American Embassy in
Wellington to the keypad at the entrance to the bunker. The PIN
remained valid for ninety minutes, after which the process was
repeated. The chance of the number repeating was infinitesimal. The
most recent email had only been sent in the last fifteen
minutes.

A call to the Finance Ministry confirmed that neither the
banking system nor the Government had any process in place which
allowed them to independently access or calculate the same
information so quickly. “Of course, the problem we have is once we
intercept the incoming email giving us the new pass code for the
next ninety minutes, we then have less than an hour to access the
Black Room, locate the transmitter and disable it. If we manage it,
the Americans will have a systems failure to deal with. But if we
fail, the next upload will expose our intercept of their last pass
code message.”

Brent’s second coffee had kicked in and he paced the
floor.

“We need to get Turner off the island and move him down
south. I’ll get one of the guys to make contact with the
Collingtons so they can prepare to move him. In the meantime, I’ll
go to Nelson and disable the Black Room transmitter. We’ll need to
set something up so once I’m there and the email has been
intercepted, you have some way of getting the pass code to me
without alerting the Yanks if we fail.”

Dalton frowned. “So I need to get this code to you without
using a phone call, text, or email, but within minutes of receiving
it myself? That’s not possible. There is no way such information
could be sent so quickly and also securely. We can only intercept
the communications sent through the Black Room using two ultra-fire
walled computers; this one and the one in the emergency room in the
basement of the Beehive. A radio transmission would easily be
intercepted and even a written version, flown from here to Nelson,
and then driven at high speed into the town centre, is a long shot
and, to be honest, not a scenario I’d be prepared to attempt
untested.”

Brent was confident he had a solution. The Commander thought
his plan wouldn’t work. It would be a challenge but was also the
most likely way they could achieve their goal without arousing the
suspicion of the American Government, and the NSA in particular.
“There is, sir, an additional factor we have to consider. Finding
the source of the leaks and shutting down outside access to the
Black Room is just an added bonus in this whole exercise. Our prime
objective is still to remove the threat of contamination of the
dairy herds.

The Americans own fifty per cent of Cowood, but others,
including O’Sullivan, own the rest. Without him on board, and on
their side, their plans begin to falter. If he’s no longer in the
picture, then without his drive and influence, there’s no way that
Cowood will be able to proceed with their plans.”

“So, what exactly are you suggesting here, Piri?”

“What I am suggesting, sir, is elimination.”

Dalton’s eyes widened as his mind raced
through the protocol for authorising such a move.

“Assassination? The PM would never sanction it!”

“The PM doesn’t have to, sir, because
there’ll never be a shred of evidence such a thing occurred. All I
am suggesting is that you, as my commanding officer, acknowledge
what we both know about Patrick O’Sullivan. His involvement in both
the Ecological Party and his shareholding in Cowood pose a threat
to the security of this country.”

Dalton nodded reluctantly. “I can see where you are going with
this, Captain. Based on the evidence we’ve uncovered so far, it’s
clear this man should never be allowed to get anywhere near the
leadership of this country.”

‘Thank you, sir. That’s all I need to hear and as far as we
need to discuss the matter. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s one
other detail I need to confirm before we get the other guys in
place.”

Brent turned back to the computer. Dalton took this as his cue
to exit. Brent smiled to himself. As far as he was concerned, the
hardest part of the mission had just been accomplished. He had
persuaded Dalton to accept his plan unconditionally. Now he was
back in control.

The Americans were closely monitoring all their
telecommunications. Brent made sure Dalton’s call to Ed Collington,
requesting David Turner’s removal from the island, made no mention
of the involvement of the Secret Service. As far as Collington was
concerned, the men he and Turner were linking up with were other
members of the so-called resistance, a fictitious group the
Commander fabricated as a means of gaining both Ed and Anika
Collington’s sympathy, and willing participation as unwitting
collaborators.

With David Turner safely off Waiheke Island and the television
news the night before confirming the incident at the Dairytree
Cheese factory, Brent boarded an RNZAF Iroquois and flew south
across the Cook Strait, coming in low over the Marlborough Sounds
and landing in an isolated paddock.

The truck had left half an hour previously but, as Brent
jumped from the chopper and ran towards the abandoned house, he
knew one of the recent occupants had left him an important package
in the cattle trough next to the gate. He peered into the murky
sludge before plunging his hand into the icy water and fishing out
a small clear container sealed tight against the water, with tape,
and containing all the modified gamma casein whey he would
need.

Placing the small container carefully into his pocket, he ran
back to the waiting helicopter which rose once again into the clear
late morning sky, heading west towards Nelson and landing at the
commercial airport twenty minutes later.

Brent retrieved the key to the bus from inside the wheel arch,
climbed in, started the engine and headed into the city. Hone
hadn’t been entirely truthful in saying it had failed to start once
arriving in the South Island. In fact he had handed it over to
another operative who had then driven it directly to Nelson.
Meanwhile, Hone was dropped at the end of the track leading to the
safe house where he and the others had spent the previous
night.

Brent was manoeuvring the heavy vehicle through the afternoon
traffic when a message came through. It was Commander Dalton.
“We’ve just got word from the two agents who are managing the
British vet guy. Apparently Turner has given them the slip. They
reckon he’ll be heading into town to try and find
O’Sullivan.”

“OK tell them to let him go. I should be able to find him in
the next few hours. In the meantime, proceed with the plan as
agreed. Let Collington think they are all involved in getting rid
of O’Sullivan but try and keep him away from the hotel for the
time-being.”

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: