The Mark of Halam (7 page)

16.

W
iki Herewini sat in the cab of his Kenworth truck in a queue of HGVs. His wife, Marama, had made a thermos of coffee. He poured a cup and unwrapped his salami sandwich then settled back to listen to talkback radio. As he listened to an endless stream of disgruntled callers he kept an eye on the cranes at work. It didn’t matter how many times he came to the wharf he never tired of watching the cranes.

Auckland’s port stretched across the front of the central city business district from the Westhaven boating marina to the helipads at Mechanics Bay, encompassing six wharves. The Fergusson container terminal covered more than thirty-two hectares and moved more than 800,000 twenty-foot-equivalent shipping containers per annum.

At 10.30pm the forty-foot container was firmly secured onto his trailer. He estimated that, traffic willing, he could get to the bonded warehouse in Mount Wellington and be home before midnight. There was no customs officer available at this time of night. He would leave his truck and trailer in the compound and take a taxi home.

At the departure gate he showed his documents to port security. They checked the container number and customs tag was still in place. Satisfied all was in order, the barrier was lifted. Wiki paid little attention to the black Range Rover that pulled in behind as he made his way through the series of gear changes needed for his rig to gather speed.

Barbara Heywood typed in the final details of her discussion with Brian Cunningham. A quick scan of the five hundred or so words brought the nod of a job well done. She closed her laptop. But before it had time to click into sleep mode she re-lifted the lid, opened a new document and typed in a few book title ideas. An author once told her that writing down a title meant at least the baby had been born. Well okay, the baby still needed a body, flesh and blood. A 60,000-word manuscript. She had tired of the circus that was the media and needed a career change. After speaking with Brian Cunningham the voices that had guided her through journalism were now screaming at her that a big story was developing in the city of Auckland.
And,
she had a ringside seat. She ran the cursor across the lettering of one of her book-title ideas and clicked on a twenty-four font and shaded them in bold black. A smile and a nod and down came the lid.

She had not gone back to the network after meeting with Cunningham. She had ambled down Queen Street window shopping, then along Customs Street to her Quay West Hotel apartment. Now with her notes typed up the work day was done and it was time to wind down. In the kitchen she pulled a half-empty bottle of Chardonnay from the fridge, poured herself a drink and carried the glass to the sofa. The twelfth floor of the hotel afforded her a view of the lower central business area, the ports and the inner harbour. Across the harbour she could make out lights of Takapuna and followed the sparkle along the Peninsular to Stanley point and Devonport. Devonport seemed so close she felt she could reach out and touch it. She loved the scene, it relaxed her, reminded her of a Christmas tree.

The sound of a rap song averted her attention. Lydia must have changed the ring on her mobile. Payback before she resigned. Barbara loathed rap music.

She leaned forward and pushed answer, then speaker.

“Barbara Heywood speaking,” she said, leaning back in the sofa, glass still in hand.

“Hey boss, it’s Amy. Sorry to bother you at home,” said her newly appointed assistant.

“That’s okay. I wasn’t doing much. I thought you were out for the night?”

“I am. I’m in the toilet of the Chelsea Bar. You know the one. Where all the students and wannabe students hang out.”

“I know it but I’m not sure I’m comfortable talking to someone sitting on a toilet.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not doing anything. I needed some privacy. I have information. If I don’t give it to you now I’ll drink too much and in the morning it will be a muddle.”

Barbara thought that unlikely. Amy wasn’t coming across as the type to forget anything. More likely it was so exciting she needed to unload. She took two steps to her desk for a pad and pen then sank back into the sofa.

“Speak to me,” Barbara said.

“I’ve been drinking with a group protesting the arrival of the nuclear sub. They’ve been stirring the pot, as they put it, for the last few weeks. They’re drinking pretty heavily and buying for anyone who comes and sits with them. Not the normal behaviour of cash- strapped students.”

“You rang to tell me you’ve had free drinks all night?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Good. Besides, students these days have rich parents and more money in their pockets than I have.”

“Now listen,” Amy demanded, slurring her words a little. “I asked them how they could afford to protest all the time. Didn’t they need to have jobs? I mean they really were spending lots of money.”

Barbara was growing impatient.

“Anyway. They said no worries. They were being paid. I said to protest and they said yes. I wanted to learn more. So I told them I thought that was bullshit and if it was true then I wanted on the payroll. They said no problems.”

“Okay. That is interesting. But professional protestors are hardly news. They’ve been around since forever.”

“Yes, well I started to get a little closer to the guy next to me. You know. Using my feminine wiles. I can be irresistible when I want to be.”

Barbara laughed. “Just how much have you had to drink?”

“Lots. But listen. I’m trying to tell you something. Where was I . . . ? Oh yeah. They’ve been provided with a free office to organise from, free computers and all the brochures and banners etc, are paid for.”

“Really? Okay you have my attention. Who’s paying for all this? Did he say?”

“No names,” said Amy. “Charlie Agnew the organiser said he was approached by a man to set it up. The man was a foreigner. Had an accent but he couldn’t pick which country. And anyway Agnew said he didn’t care as long as the money continued to flow. The man told him he supported their cause and wanted to help by providing funds. Brian said he wasn’t going to argue and readily accepted the offer. As I said everything is paid for and they get paid weekly. And really good money. Almost as much as I’m getting paid working for you. There is enough money, Agnew was told, to pay for as many people as he can recruit. He also said there are a couple of other offices operating the same way. I’m not sure where they are but one is on the North Shore. This is big money, boss. It might be some multi-national company behind it.”

Barbara said, “For the life of me I can’t think of what there would be to gain for a business.”

“What about solar energy companies? They must all be anti-nuclear.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Greenpeace then?”

“Worth consideration but unlikely, they would hold their own protest. Besides, they’re in the business of raising money not giving it away.”

“Now, I really do have to use the toilet. Want to keep talking?”

“No I don’t. I’ll see you in the morning. Be careful and don’t drink too much.”

“Too late, boss. Bye.” Amy was gone.

Barbara put her mobile on her lap and looked over her notes. Somebody was funding the protesters. Somebody with a foreign accent. That didn’t mean it was a foreign organisation behind it. Could be a new immigrant with an anti-nuclear ideology but it did explain how the intensity had been maintained. Normally protesters would gather in force a day or two before the event and carry it through until the submarine left. But this had been different. She wondered just how widespread the funding might be.

Then she turned her thoughts to the conversation she had had with Brian Cunningham. She decided she should mention it to
Brian. A little quid pro quo. If the police could bring pressure to bear
on the funders it might bring an end to the violence that was becoming a daily occurrence.

Wiki gave the Range Rover a cursory glance as it cruised past. It cut in front of him, forced him to brake then sped forward. He gave thought to yelling assholes but he countered the thought with his self-imposed rule never to talk to himself out loud. The men in the Range Rover would never hear him in any case.

He returned his attention to the conversations taking place on the radio talk show. Should overweight people have to pay for two seats on a plane? Wiki nodded his head. He thought so. The last time he flew he was crushed against the window by a blob of a guy. If the blob had two seats it would have been a more comfortable flight. The minimum they could have done was put him in the aisle seat.

Wiki slowed as he turned his Kenworth into Felton Mathew Avenue, the Range Rover leading the way.

An expert on dieting had called in. Two slick gear shifts and a controlled coast of his big rig down the slope would take him past the sports complex and then into Panmure. Another few minutes and he would be in the holding yards. He was tired. He would be glad when he was home and tucked up in bed.

Marama had phoned. Her parents had arrived for dinner and wanted to know when he would be home. He had been happy to tell her not until late. Her parents hated him. In their eyes he was not good enough for their daughter and they never missed an opportunity to remind her she could have done better.

Like most truckers he had a love hate relationship with car own
ers. They had no idea how difficult it was driving trucks – especially trucks the size he drove – and they were oblivious to the frustrations of constant gear changes. And, now, when he had a clear run, the Range Rover began to slow.

Wiki swore under his breath.

The Range Rover’s brake lights were flicking on and off. Signalling? There was something wrong with the vehicle. He had closed the gap and was now too close to pull out and go round it. Both vehicles slowly ground to a halt. He rolled down his window and put his head out. No one as yet had got out of the Range Rover. Maybe they had stalled. There was no ignition sound. The driver was not trying to restart it. Aggravated, Wiki opened his door and climbed down from the cab. He walked up to the driver’s window. The backseat passenger got out. “Got a problem, mate?” Wiki said turning to him.

“It seems to have stalled,” the passenger said. Wiki noted he had an accent. Maybe they were tourists. “Sorry to have stopped you like that.”

“No problems. Shit happens.” Wiki did not display his aggravation. Better to help them get underway. “I’ll help push your vehicle to the side of the road.” Wiki offered.

“Can’t do that, my friend.”

“Why not?”

There were now three men standing outside of the car. Wiki stepped back. Wary.

“I have to get to my depot.”

They were watching him. Not making any attempt to push their vehicle to the side of the road. Wiki looked about him; nothing but darkness except for a distant street light. He glanced toward the sanctuary of his truck, wishing he had never left it.

“Okay. Please yourselves. I’ll back the truck up and be on my way.”

“Sorry. We can’t let you do that either.” The man standing next to Wiki said. Wiki felt cold sweat dribble down his back. “We are taking your truck.”

In his younger days Wiki had been in a gang. He wasn’t afraid of a fight. He had been in many scrapes because he would never back down. He’d also been on the wrong side of beatings and carried two scars from bullet wounds in his left leg. But now he was older and slower. There were three of them and one more in the car. He might be able to beat one, maybe two, but not all of them. He straightened his back. Let them come. If he was going to be left in a bloody mess on the side of the road he would make them pay. It was dark. He could get lucky.

“I know what you are thinking, my friend.” The speaker went on and moved closer to Wiki, “And it would be very silly for you to try.”

Even in the limited light Wiki had no trouble making out the shape of the shotgun that one of the men was now resting on the bonnet.

“Search him,” the speaker said.

The third man patted Wiki down. He took Wiki’s mobile phone and then stepped away. They were hijacking his truck. Were they now going to kill him? He was mentally preparing himself for his death. He turned and faced the man holding the shotgun.