Milkshake (33 page)

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.”