The Mark of Halam (33 page)

Cunningham saw the look of resignation on Lee Caldwell’s face. There was no regret, no sadness, just an acceptance of who he was and what he had to do.

“Can I drive you?”

“No, I think I’ll walk. Clear the head. That sort of thing.”

Cunningham held out his hand.

“Good to meet you, Lee. New Zealand is as indebted to you as I am.”

“Likewise,” Caldwell said, shaking the offered hand before turning and disappearing into the crowd.

Tomorrow, Aucklanders would wake up to the stories of the men who tried to sink the submarine, the killing of the terrorist leader and the shootout on Ponsonby Road. The inside story would be Barbara Heywood’s, as had been promised. The chief of police had arrived and had taken control of the media and the clean-up process. His team could take a well-deserved three days leave. Another team of detectives would take over hunting down the remaining terrorists and writing the reports.

His mobile rang.

“Percy Croydon, Inspector. I understand there have been developments in the city tonight.”

“Yes, there have, Mr Croydon.”

“Can we expect more?”

“The attack on the submarine was averted and most of the terrorists are either dead or in custody. The threat is over.”

“Excellent work, Inspector. We will talk further.”

50.

J
eff sat in his lounge, warmed by the morning sun.

For the past week, the newspapers and radio and television news programmes had focused their stories on the night of the attack on the
Ulysses
and the events leading up to it. Unbelieving citizens read and listened with wonder at the intentions of the terrorists and the part played by Jeff Bradley, among others, and the police to stop it. He had taken his phone off the hook. He knew eventually the press would find their way to his door, but for the moment he wanted to be alone. His face hurt and the bruises on top of older bruises and the stab wounds were still tender and painful.

He found the energy to move and walked to his window and looked out into the street. He waved to the twins playing on their front lawn. They immediately ran to the back of the house. Jeff smiled, thankful that Larry and his family were safe.

Barbara Heywood and Amy were sitting round the board table with Hank Challis. The meeting had been called to discuss the series that would be the station’s prime time viewing winner for the next few weeks. Hank had already promised extra people for camera work and research. The editing suites would be hers whenever required. Hank, however, needed a better understanding of the story and the shape it would take.

Barbara related the story from the beginning. Albeit an edited version. She left out much of her involvement and the heroics in Kosovo of Jeff Bradley. She omitted the staged abduction in Wellsford. This would remain confidential. It took more than an hour and both Hank and Amy sat disbelievingly. When she had finished she sat back in her chair.

“So that’s most of it, Hank. I’ve probably forgotten a few points.”

“Well, little lady, you have certainly been busy,” Hank started. “International networks will want the story. I spoke to our bosses before this meeting and they agreed that because of my connections with CNN and other US networks, I should oversee final touches and negotiate world rights. We are going to spend a lot of time together, little lady. Prepare for some late nights,” he smiled.

Barbara couldn’t decide if it was a leer or an ogle, then decided that if Hank was as multi-talented as he declared himself to be he had probably managed to achieve both.

Hank turned to Amy. “We need to keep as much as we can under wraps, not a word.”

Amy nodded. “No sir,” she said, then turned to Barbara. The look she gave her boss was unmistakable hero worship. Barbara mused that if she were to stay on at the station Amy would keep her supplied with cakes and coffees whenever she snapped her fingers. But it was over. The thought of working with Hank would be as painful as stabbing herself in the liver.

She left the building carrying a carton filled with her per
sonal effects. Cunningham was waiting on the steps. It was an
awkward moment for both of them. So much had happened and
there was so much to be said but they both knew now was not the
time for talking.

“Just wanted to check up on you. Make sure you’re okay, that sort of thing. I phoned ahead and was told you were on your way down,” he said.

Did they have a future together? Barbara wasn’t certain Cunningham even still had a job. When it all settled down the enquiries would start. Politics was politics. They had cut many corners throughout the investigation and when the euphoria died the heroics would be forgotten and heads would roll.

“You’ve been busy, Brian?”

“Yes I have, but I dare say not as busy as you’re going to be.”

Barbara smiled. “I’ve resigned from the channel. I’m going to write the book. I have a healthy advance from a publisher. Enough to keep me in wine and pasta for a while.”

“Good for you,” Cunningham said. “Look, I might be overstepping the mark here, but how would you feel if I phoned you sometime. Took you to dinner?”

“Like on a date you mean?”

“I guess that’s what I mean. Yes, a date.”

Barbara smiled. “Why don’t you phone me sometime and find out.”

Cunningham nodded and shifted from foot to foot.

“Great. Good. That’s fine then. Well, okay, I might just do that sometime.”

In New Zealand’s capital city, Wellington, the expected parliamentary debate had gone on long into the night. The opposition was supporting a private members’ bill to reintroduce the country’s anti-nuclear stance, and members of the government were crossing the floor to support them. After the incident in Auckland public opinion was firmly against any further visits from nuclear-powered vessels. The government was arguing the point but not vigorously. With an election coming up no one was prepared to be seen to be pro-nuclear. By morning it had been agreed and passed. New
Zealand had again declared itself nuclear free. No more US ship visits.

In the next cabinet meeting the mood was gloomy. The Australian prime minister had already been on the phone informing the New Zealand prime minister that as New Zealand was not prepared to accept its share of security responsibilities it was on its own. The message from the United States was blunter. Friend or foe. Make your choice. Parliament, by appeasing the population at large, had to now face an uncertain future as a defenseless nation.

The prime minister was not totally at a loss. She was convinced that when the time came the United Nations would deal with any threat. And as New Zealand was not a threat then it would not become threatened. The older and wiser heads shook their heads in despair, knowing full well the UN was not to be relied upon.

Five kilometres from the outskirts of Rome, Avni Leka stood on the balcony of his villa. It was a warm, clear day and he could see to the end of the valley stretched out before him. He had checked his bank account and the thirty million euros had been deposited. His clients had been very happy with the events in Auckland. Nuclear ships were now banned. New Zealand was defenseless, and phase two of their operation could begin.

Avni turned his thoughts to the men he had lost. It was a pity to lose Sami Hadani and especially Zahar. Reliable killers were hard to replace, but not impossible. And then there was Jeff Bradley. Once again he had interfered and once again he had proved to be troublesome and once again he had survived. But his time would come. Sooner or later luck runs out, and the day it ran out for Jeff Bradley would be a truly happy day for Avni Leka.

Jeff, his arm in a sling and his chest heavily bandaged, stood in the park outside Mary’s apartment. The small grassed area was now a memorial site covered with crosses, flowers and teddy bears and cards and letters. Mary clung to Jeff’s good arm.

“So many innocent lives lost,” Jeff whispered.

They moved forward and placed their bouquets next to a cross, then said silent prayers before stepping back. Jeff dipped his hand into his jacket pocket and ran fingers across the chain he had ripped from Zahar Akbar’s neck. He made a silent promise to the dead that he would find Avni Leka and shove the chain down his throat.

Mary removed a tissue from her bag and dabbed at her eyes. Jeff put his arm around her shoulders and gave a comforting squeeze. As the wind whistled through the leaves of the oak that stood at the park entrance, he cast an eye one last time over the crosses and flowers. He would carry the image with him until Leka was dead.

“What now, Jeff?” Mary asked.

“I have an auction to worry about, but first, I’m taking you to lunch.”

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Many have helped with the writing of this novel and apologies to those of you I have forgotten. Thank you to Conan and Renay Brown, Emma Skelton, Shawn Rutene and to Bernard and Gaynor
Brown for their continued support. To Capt. Martin Knight-Willis
MC Rtd. and Capt. K.E. McKee-Wright MBE Rtd. for advice on military tactics. To Adrian Blackburn for invaluable assistance in identifying so much I didn’t know. Assessor Cate Hogan (
www.catehogan.com
) for her invaluable wisdom and insights. As always a big thank you to Emilie Marneur and Katie Green and the rest of the very talented Thomas & Mercer team.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo © 2013 Sharlene Ferguson

Thomas Ryan has been a soldier in a theatre of war, traded in Eastern Europe, trampled the jungles of Asia and struggled through the trials of love and loss: ideal life experiences for a would-be author. Schooled by professionals who have helped him hone his literary style, Ryan is quickly establishing himself as a skilled writer of riveting thrillers and short stories. He considers himself foremost a storyteller, a creator who has plunged his psyche into the world of imagination and fantasy. Taking readers on a thrilling journey is what motivates Ryan as a writer.