The Mark of Halam (15 page)

“A loose cover. Some new locks on the door.”

“All right, Jeff, I’ll take care of it. Have a good night. And be careful.”

27.

A
my Monroe stepped off the city link bus at the top of Symonds Street and walked down the slope to her new place of work. Her third morning as a professional protestor. The buildings that ran from the intersection of Newton Gully and Symonds Street to the motorway overpass had been preserved by the city council as historic. The facades of the once shiny, glossy, retail stores sat neglected, their paint peeling, corrugated roofs rusting and walls covered with posters promoting band tours, a day at the zoo and Cirque du Soleil.

Word had it that the council had denied the landowners the right to bulldoze the two-storey wood constructions built in the early years
of the twentieth century. The owners in turn refused to pour money into upgrading useless retail edifices in the wrong part of town that would only ever offer cheap rental returns. The cheap rentals were ideal office space for the ‘Keep New Zealand Nuclear Free’ campaigners.

By the end of the first day she had learnt all there was to know about her new boss and protest leader, 66-year-old Charlie Agnew. Sporting a grayish ponytail sliding from a balding head, Agnew regaled anyone in the office interested enough to listen with tales of the halcyon days of street marches and sit-ins and was ecstatic that once again his time had come. He constantly bemoaned, to anyone that would listen, that modern youth had lost their way, and that nowadays the student populations of university campuses were only interested in building careers instead of a better world.

As the protest organiser, he supposedly coordinated the making of banners, printing leaflets and making sure all his people were on the streets at their allotted times. Mostly though, he drank at the student pub and ogled the younger women lured into joining his group. There was always the chance a naïve, idealistic, drunken
student might allow themselves to be bedded by an aged mentor.
Amy made sure she extricated herself as soon as Agnew’s head sagged and a hand crept its way onto her knee.

After two days the initial excitement of nightly parties and waving banners on the wharf had given way to boredom. Sitting in a musty, damp old building all day had brought on sniffles. Amy’s bag bulged with tissues. The group in the office had little depth to their discussions. Tired old anti-nuclear clichés, learned from literature handed out by Agnew, fell easily off the end of tongues, but lacked passion. The cold war and nuclear catastrophes were a generation ago and held as much interest as a couch potato holding a remote flicking through channels. In fact none had had any idea a visit from a nuclear submarine was imminent until they joined the group. They were there for the money. Minds focused on studies and maintaining scholarships, and discussion topics centred around careers and potential incomes. Even worse, many of the protesters actually seemed excited by the visit and not in the slightest bit angry. As one put it, “A giant sub in the harbour, how cool is that?”
For the students, protesting was more fun than working at McDon
alds, better money too, and the general consensus was that life did not get much better than it was at the moment.

Amy discovered Agnew had managed to sleep with two of the girls. There was no accounting for taste, was all she could think. She found him repulsive, and couldn’t imagine how anyone her age could climb into bed with a 60-year-old man. She had caught him eyeing her more than once. One of the women warned her he preyed on the new faces. Let him try, Amy thought. However, today was payday and if she uncovered the identity of the money-man she would not be back tomorrow. Word had gone out that the cash was on its way and a crowd had gathered in the office. Amy asked Lucille when the paymaster would come. She had been with Agnew the longest and was a kind of de facto office manager. Not that there was much to manage, but she was experienced enough to know the answer to most of Amy’s questions.

“The money man never brings the wages to the office,” Lucille said. “Agnew is phoned and then collects it.”

“I haven’t seen him with a car,” Amy said.

“He doesn’t drive. Always walks. He’s usually gone for about an hour. When he gets back we get paid and it’s off to the pub. How cool is that?”

“You don’t care where the money comes from?”

“Why should I? It’s just a job. When I worked at McDonalds I never met the owners,” Lucille offered. “Same thing isn’t it? Don’t get too serious, Amy.”

“I’m not. Really. I’m like you. I love this job but I lost my last job months ago and now I’ve finally found employment I’m really keen it lasts.”

“Me too.”

Amy set off in search of a hot drink. Arguing against Lucille’s
logic would only give her a headache. As she stirred two sugars into her coffee she caught sight of Agnew reaching for his jacket off the deer antlers screwed onto the wall. Amy prepared to follow. She
rubbed her right breast. The police microphone in her bra had moved and pinched her skin. Turning her back she made a quick adjustment.
Now she worried her fiddling had disrupted the transmission.

She checked her watch. It was 2.30pm. Time to check in with Barbara. Agnew had wrapped a scarf round his neck, and whispered something into Lucille’s ear. Amy slid the strap of her bag over her shoulder, her eyes not leaving the aged hippie. As she pulled her phone from her bag Agnew walked through the door. She let the phone drop back. The protestors milling about paid her no attention. Once the boss had left the office, work gave way to coffee and coke and lounging on the tatty sofas. As Amy made her way across the office a conversation on the best suburb in which to buy a house had begun.

Outside pedestrian traffic had increased but Amy quickly picked
out the striding figure of Agnew making his way down Symonds Street towards the university campus and a meeting with the man funding the protests. Until he reached the intersection of Karangahape Road and Grafton Bridge there were no side streets.
Amy could stay back and still keep him in sight. She gripped the strap of her shoulder bag. As she set off there was a spring to her step and a smile of anticipation lit up her face. This was a great adventure.

Detective Jessica Andrews and Detective Red Dawson sat in the unmarked police car. They had seen Agnew leave and waited for Amy to follow. Her conversation with Lucille had recorded clearly. The wire she wore working as it should. Agnew was off to meet the paymaster. Red started the car and pulled out. Amy was walking quickly to keep up with Agnew but Red let her get well ahead. She had instructions to give a commentary of her movements. If they lost her they would find her again quickly enough.

Sami Hadani watched from the café opposite. After the fiasco in Waipu, he was taking no chances. No more mistakes. He wanted to make certain no one followed his man making payments to the protest group. They might not make the connection between Zahar and the protests, but the protestors had caused chaos and young people talked. If the cops found out someone was paying to create the demonstrations they might come looking and arrest his man dealing with Agnew. That could cause him a headache.

Sami had seen Agnew leave as soon as he received the phone call. He waited and watched, and his caution had paid off. At first he thought the girl might be chasing after him because she had a message. But no, when she kept her distance no doubt lingered in Sami’s mind she was tailing Agnew. Amateurs, he thought to himself.

The second tail surprised him though.

He had noticed the car parked in the bus stop opposite but thought nothing of it. There was nowhere else to stop as the bus stop ran the length of the street. He had seen a number of cars drop off or pick up passengers and assumed this to be another instance. When the female passenger got out, the mousy-haired girl following Agnew turned and gave the woman a thumbs-up signal. The car trailed but kept its distance. Police, he surmised. It could only mean they knew about the payments.

Well, it wasn’t that much of a secret. These kids were getting drunk every night and bragging about being paid. Sooner or later it was bound to happen. It was improbable they would link the protests to Zahar and his men but if they caught the man making payments he might talk. For Sami the security of the mission came first. This part of the operation had run its course anyway. With the submarine due any day the flashpoints had filled with veteran protesters, with more coming. Paid teams were no longer a necessity.

He found his man’s number on his mobile and dialled it. No answer. Lenny must have his phone switched off. There was no need to follow Agnew and the others. Sami hailed a taxi. He knew the meeting place and would get there ahead of everyone.

Charlie Agnew knew the man he was to meet as Lenny. He knew it wasn’t Lenny’s real name and had labelled him Lenny-No-Name. He didn’t care why Lenny wanted to remain anonymous as long as he paid the money. He also didn’t care why Lenny supported the protest as long as the money allowed him, Charlie Agnew, to make a statement. He hated the idea of anything nuclear coming into New Zealand and prided himself that his past activities had helped bring about the nuclear ban. Over the years, for most of his friends, their youthful idealism waned as life took over and family and mortgages took precedence. Not for him. He had stayed active, joined Greenpeace and the countless other conservation groups that came and went over the decades. But none of these other causes had brought the passion that nuclear weapons and nuclear power evoked. That Lenny had sought him out was flattering. Agnew had promised at the first meeting he would not let him down. That Lenny’s money had brought a side benefit of women and booze, Charlie considered a well-deserved reward for long service to the cause.

The meeting place was always different. This time they met in a café off Wakefield Street. Lenny was already seated at a corner table when Agnew entered.

“Hey, Lenny,” Agnew said. “Good to see you again.”

“Mr Agnew. You are on time as always. This is good,” Lenny replied.

Lenny noted the greed in Agnew’s eyes. In another few hours, after a bout of heavy drinking, the eyes would be glazed over. He had watched Agnew for the first week to see if he could be relied upon to be inefficient. True to character, Agnew had turned out to be nothing more than a lecherous drunk. He had chosen well.

“Can I get you a coffee?” Agnew asked. “I’m having a cappuccino.”

Lenny shook his head. Agnew ordered then sat down. “As you asked I have added more people to the group.”

“Yes. This is good. I have been watching. You have done a good job. I am pleased.”

Agnew smiled, then his eyes dropped to the upper portion of Lenny’s jacket. The money envelope would be lodged in the inside
pocket. Lenny noted the shift of focus and it pleased him. Agnew ogled his chest like he would a woman’s breasts. The perfect subservient.

Lenny took the envelope from his pocket and slid it across the table. Agnew grasped it with both hands and subconsciously felt the thickness before pushing it into his trouser pocket. Lenny almost laughed, and then his mouth fell open when he saw Sami Hadani enter the café. Something was wrong. Sami would never show himself like this. His boss nodded towards the toilets then walked through the door.