The Mark of Halam (26 page)

Colville assembled his men in front of the compound that had become the graveyard for redundant America’s Cup yachts. Their target, the boat shed opposite, had once existed as a fish-processing plant but the two-storey building now covered in rusting sheets of corrugated iron had recently received a coat of gunmetal grey paint. The attempt to spruce it up had failed to lift it above derelict. The number forty-nine had been painted on the roller door. To the left of the roller door was a small wooden door.

“What do you think?” Colville said to his second in command.

“I think I would like to be walking in behind a tank. No sign of any movement.”

“Confirm that,” Colville replied, looking through his binoculars.

His second in command said, “The only way to enter is through that door. It’s also a potential death trap. I’ve spoken with Rogers. He has a telescope on the Westhaven side and can’t see inside. No sign of movement, but the bottom of the tarpaulin is flapping in the wind. Access through that would be easy enough.”

Colville nodded. “Tell number one team to go through that sand quarry and make their way along to the rear. We go in through the wooden door. Flash grenades first and then let’s gauge the reaction. If these guys have automatic weapons we pull back and lay siege. They won’t be going anywhere.”

Team one dashed across the open ground and into the sand and on to the water’s edge. They split into two sections. Four stayed in position and the others moved across the front of the shed opening to the farthest corner. He radioed he was in position. Colville nodded at the message. So far so good.

The team leader led his team across the street. There was a small window above the door. A camera was raised. Colville and the section leader watched the monitor. The camera was rotated a number of times but no sign of occupants were detected. They could see through to the tarpaulin but only the upper section. A wall fifteen metres in hid the main floor area. The light was fading. No lights had been switched on.

“Worst case scenario,” Colville said. “They may have been alerted and in hiding. Assume the shed occupied until cleared.”

He spoke to number one leader. In 30 seconds they would smash down the door and lob in the smoke and flash canisters. Then he would lead his team inside. Team one on the waterside would wait and ambush any terrorists trying to escape. Under no circumstances were they to enter until ordered.

“Roger that,” team one leader whispered. They synchronised watches.

Colville held up his hand and counted off with his fingers: 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. A steel ram smashed the door open and the canisters were tossed in; the familiar whoosh of the cylinders emptying followed. Smoke began to pour through the open end. His hand held high once more, fingers counting down 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 then team leader two rushed forward, his men at his heels. As they rounded the wall into the shed proper they dived to the floor, weapons raised. Eyes scanned the area looking for a target.

42.

I
t was a ten-minute walk from Barbara’s apartment in Quay West Towers to the Viaduct. Known to the locals as the Viaduct Basin, now renamed Viaduct Harbour, it was built on the site of the old fish processing factories and the city’s fruit and vegetable markets. Prime real estate in the heart of Auckland’s Central business district and offering water views was never going to remain the home of rotten fish and fruit. The developers moved in and built offices, apartments and restaurants. The inner harbour water ways now featured marinas and moorings for the yachts and motor launches of the wealthy. In the year 2000 the Viaduct had buzzed with the excitement of an America’s Cup defence campaign. Jeff remembered it well. He also shared the pain with his fellow countrymen when New Zealand lost it. But life went on, and the restaurants became popular dining and drinking spots.

At the end of the long line of restaurants was O’Hagans Irish Bar; a popular watering hole for not only locals but tourists and backpackers from round the world. Seating was a mix of high tables and bar stools and four- and six-seater tables. Large screen televisions hung from the ceilings, all tuned into live cricket from Australia. The walls were covered in sports paraphernalia, football outfits, photos of football teams and above the bar a set of golf clubs, old bottles, an old typewriter and a Guinness Stout sign added to the variety.

Barbara chose to sit at one of the outside tables under tent-shaped canopies protecting patrons from adverse weather. A waitress in a red T-shirt and black slacks appeared and Jeff ordered two small beers. He surveyed the environment out of habit. Conversations at other tables were in a mix of English and unrecognisable foreign languages.

Jeff only noticed the slightly built man just beyond the restaurant’s outside seating area because he paced and looked nervous. Dressed in an open-necked cream shirt, dark blue jacket and grey trousers he looked every bit a used-car salesman. The trim beard and neatly cropped hair completed the image. He did not look like the Kosovans Jeff had met, and definitely did not have a terrorist look about him. However, Avni Leka had a single criterion when he chose the men who worked for him and Jeff had little doubt that if this was Myftari then just beneath the surface lay a ruthless killer streak. Jeff stepped out from the table so he could be easily seen from Myftari’s vantage point. It worked – the car salesman nodded and sidled along a row of potted hedging plants which bordered the seating area to the entry point then crossed the slate floor to Jeff’s table.

“Mr Bradley? I am Demi Myftari.”

“Jeff nodded. They shook hands. “I’ve brought an associate, Barbara Heywood.”

Demi eyed Barbara, suspicious, but did little else to acknowledge her presence. Barbara chose to ignore him back.

“Can I get you a beer, Demi?” Jeff asked.

Demi said, “No. Thank you. I only have an interest in speaking with you and leaving as quickly as is possible. Sulla said you were a friend. This is good. He said if I help you then you will help me. That I should trust you.”

Jeff replied, “Whatever you tell us will be held in confidence. If I need to use some of the information no one will ever know it came from you. If I can help you,” Jeff shrugged, “then I will.”

“Please remember, I am not only putting my life in your hands but also the life of my wife and family.”

“What is it you have to tell me?”

“It started in Kosovo. I lived with my family in a village just outside the city of Gjakova. An hour and a half drive from the capital, Prishtina. The name of the village doesn’t matter; it doesn’t exist anymore. I was away on business the day it happened. Every Thursday in Gjakova was market day. I had taken vegetables there to sell. The Serbs, they moved into the village. Everyone, my wife, my father and mother, my cousins were taken out into the field and shot. One hundred and twenty people. The Serbs brought in diggers and dug a trench and the bodies were thrown in and
they buried them. Then they covered the dirt with scrub, trees and
ready-made lawn. You know ready-made lawn?”

Jeff nodded.

“Then the houses were destroyed and the rubble loaded on trucks and dumped at a local quarry. Every piece of timber and brick was cleared away and again covered as before with the lawn.”

Demi paused a moment, wiped his eyes. Jeff sipped his beer. Barbara, appalled but engrossed, leaned forward.

“When I returned from Gjakova later that night,” Demi continued, “for a time I was confused. I knew I was in the right place but there was nothing to see. I stood on the side of the road that ran into the village. Had I gone mad? This was all I could think. Then I walked down the road and found the scars in the dirt. I had heard stories of other villages disappearing. We had all thought they were rumours but now I knew it to be true. I caught a bus to Prishtina and stayed with my cousin.”

“Word filtered through the community that certain countries were accepting refugees. My cousin convinced me this was the right course of action for me. To go somewhere else and begin again. Kosovo would remain a place of sadness and my life still had many years to go. I wasn’t opposed to the idea but had no idea how to begin such a process. I had no money. How could I afford it anyway? Nothing is for free. Then my cousin came home one night and told me he had arranged for me to meet with a man who might be able to help. Money was not a problem.

“This man’s name was Avni Leka,” Jeff stated.

Demi nodded.

“I met with him in his office. He said he would arrange for me to go to New Zealand. He would give me money and help me to start a business but I would be working for him. I would always be working for him and must do whatever I was asked to. The consequences for not obeying him were not discussed but I am Albanian and I knew what the hidden message meant. I was philosophical. I had no choices and there were others he had made the offer to so I would not be alone. So I came to New Zealand and built my business, met a woman and remarried. We have children.”

“How many others?” Jeff asked.

“Six.”

“Were all seven of you set up in business?” Jeff asked.

“Yes.”

“All export businesses?”

“Not all export. I have a manufacturing company but all my produce goes overseas. Only a little into the local market.”

“That’s unusual,” Jeff said. “Very few companies can be totally export focused. What countries did you export to?”

“Mostly to the Middle East but there were some African and Asian countries as well.”

“Countries in political turmoil, I would guess,” Jeff mused.

“It seemed to be that way, yes. Even the New Zealand Export Institute warned me against such countries. They said there might be payment problems but neither I nor any of the others ever had a payment problem.”

“That is interesting.”

“Not only that. Some of the prices paid for the goods were high. I know the customers could have bought cheaper.”

Jeff thought about this for a moment. He said, “Seven men come to New Zealand and establish businesses, all export orientated, and sell goods at higher than normal prices and payment is never a problem.”

Barbara sat quietly as Jeff digested the information. As a journalist she knew when to stay quiet. She had an idea where Jeff’s line of thinking might be taking him. The idea of it horrified her.

“In all this time the seven of you were running your businesses did Avni Leka ever ask you to do anything for him?”

“No, never.”

“What was in it for him them? The money you made? What happened to that?”

“Avni had a holding company and it held a 49-percent share in each business. He was paid a dividend profit share. After tax.”

“And that’s all you were asked to do?”

“Yes. Until two months ago.”

“What happened two months ago?”

“One of our group, our boss, is a man called Sami Hadani. He was one of the last men Avni Leka helped to start a new life in New Zealand. But Sami made it very clear within a few days of his arriving that Leka had sent him to be in charge. To look after Avni’s interests in our companies. None of us protested. When you live in countries such as Kosovo and Albania you quickly learn to recognise the men to be afraid of and steer clear of and Sami Hadani was such a man. Anyway as I said, two months ago he called us to a meeting. He told us some men were arriving and we had to look after them. Provide accommodation and look after all their personal needs. Food, that sort of thing. Warehousing would be needed to store goods. They were coming in groups of four and each of us was assigned a team.”

“Jesus,” Jeff said. “Twenty-eight? And you had no idea why these men were coming to New Zealand?”

“At first, no I did not know and I did not question. When Sami said to do something you obeyed. He is a very dangerous man. But over the last couple of weeks with all that has happened I started to put the pieces together.”

“You didn’t contact the authorities?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“This is when we found out what Avni had led us into. He informed us that he had kept a dossier of all our transactions and these documents showed that the profits we had made for him were funding terrorist operations round the world. If he released these documents to the authorities we would spend the rest of our lives in jail and we would lose all we had built. We had no choice.”

“You always have a choice, Demi.”

Jeff was thoughtful.

“And where are the men you are looking after now? Can you give me the address?”

“It would be no use. I went to the apartment this morning as per the arrangement and they had gone. Their belongings and the vehicle I’d provided also gone. I called the others and for them it was the same. I never rang Sami.”

Jeff nodded.

“I need the names of the other Kosovan exporters, Demi.”

“This I cannot do. They are my friends. They, like me had no idea what was happening and now like me are very scared. Don’t ask me to do this.”

“There is no choice, Demi.”

“Sulla said I could trust you. I want protection for myself but not to betray others.”

“People are dying in the streets of Auckland. Good decent people blown up by bombs set off by the men you and your colleagues are protecting. I want Zahar Akbar, the leader of this little group of killers, and someone in your group knows where he is. Give me the names of the others and I will let you walk away. Barbara, do you have a pad and pen?” Barbara opened her bag. “The names, Demi.”

“I cannot betray my friends. It is a matter of honour.”

Jeff cringed. “I don’t know how many times I heard that term when I was in Kosovo while men like the ones you protect were murdering my friends.”

Jeff moved closer to Demi, his eyes cold. “I have no patience for your fucked up sense of honour. Tell me what I want to know, Demi.”

Demi paled and shook his head.

Jeff shot out his left arm and grabbed a fistful of the front of Demi’s shirt, then swung his right fist up under the Kosovan’s jaw. The loud crack when bone crunched on bone caused heads close by to snap round. Jeff released his grip of Demi’s shirt and the Kosovan crumpled to the ground, unconscious. He threw Barbara a sheepish grin then shook his hand and blew on it.

“Did you have to do that?”

“Yes. Now call the police.”

“Do I have to? I don’t know if I’m up to another lecture from Brian.”

Jeff glared.

Barbara pulled out her mobile phone and found Cunningham’s number on the contact list. She gave Jeff a glare of her own before she hit the number. As she waited for the phone to be answered she looked down at the floor. Demi Myftari had not moved.