 
### THE BEGAT LEGACY

by

Jim Payton

A Novel

Published by Jim Payton

Copyright 2012 Jim Payton

Smashwords Edition Licence Notes

Thank you for downloading this eBook. This eBook remains the copyrighted property of the author may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favourite authorized retailer.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are the product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

For my wife Yvonne with all my love.

Table of Contents

March

Nine months later

Auckland four years later

A homicide enquiry

Detectives detect

The investigation begins

Another death

A kidnapping

Evidence gathering

Childhood memories

Under attack

Desertion and help

Retaliation

Betrayal

Enlightenment

A plan

Epilogue

The End

About Jim Payton

Connect with Jim Payton

Other books by Jim Payton

March

Alison reached over to rummage through the car glove box. Where were they? Ah, there. With one hand on the steering wheel, she unfolded sunglasses and put them on.

"That's better," she thought. Running her left hand through her hair, she pushed it back off her forehead. She glanced up at the rear view mirror. Nothing behind her. She glanced at the baby seat beside her. Janice was still asleep. At 9 months of age, she was still demanding, and while she slept, everyone got a bit of peace and quiet. Her pacifier lay to one side of her face where it had fallen. A light sheen of sweat lay across her face and Alison made a mental note to take her jacket off when she next filled up with petrol. In the back seat, two year old Gillian played happily with a toy.

Alison sighed. It would be good to see Dad again. They did not see much of each other these days due to his Police work, and with Robert and her living at the opposite end of the country from him. He was always so good with Gillian though, made a fuss of her, and Gillian thought he was just "Christmas". It was a pity Robert was unable to come, but the visit would give him a break as well. Janice had still not settled into a proper nightly routine and Robert had suffered with the constant interruptions. She wondered if the infrequent visits from Dad had anything to do with the fact that she still saw quite a bit of her mother, Dad's first wife, Elaine. She did not think so, although it was quite possible that his current girlfriend, Suzanne, may well be attempting to keep him away, which Dad being Dad, would go along with just to keep the peace.

It was hot. Alison redialed the air conditioning to make it a bit cooler. She could recall the times when they, as kids, had to make do with Dad's old cars where the only air conditioning came from the rust holes in the floor.

She glanced back up to the rear vision mirror. Another vehicle was behind her now. It seemed to be travelling at about the same speed as her, neither gaining nor drifting further back. Fine. Others were allowed to use the road. Alison looked ahead. The road wound gently through the countryside. The green fields held cows grazing contentedly. She looked at her watch. 3 pm. Those same cows would be headed for the milking shed shortly. She glanced back to the mirror. The vehicle was closer now. She could see it was a four-wheel drive cross-country type of vehicle.

She glanced ahead again. The road curved gently down though a cutting to a bridge across a stream or river.

Back to the mirror. The vehicle was closer now. What was that attached to the side of it?

A road sign indicated a safe speed on the curve to the bridge as 85 kph. She glanced at the speedometer. Ninety kph. That was okay. The signs were only guides to alert drivers to the fact that the road varied from the normal. Nothing to worry about.

The mirror again. Where was that vehicle? Where had it gone to? The side mirror. Oh, there it was. Coming up to pass her. She glanced ahead. The bridge was coming up. A bit of a silly place to pass. She looked across to the other side of the bridge. The road climbed again but visibility was good and the road clear so the vehicle could pass safely.

The vehicle was alongside her now. A mattress. Well it looked like a mattress. It was definitely padding anyway, attached to the side of the vehicle. Why there? Why not on the roof rack? Oh well, some people!

Why would it not pass? It was travelling alongside. Alison slowed slightly to allow the vehicle to pass easily. It slowed as well. The bridge was approaching. What was going on?

The last curve to the bridge was about 150 metres away. Alison was travelling at about 60 kph. The other vehicle was still alongside. "To hell with you," thought Alison. She pushed her foot down hard on the accelerator. The automatic gears changed down. Her car started to accelerate. She glanced across at the other vehicle. It was keeping pace and then suddenly it moved across towards her. What the hell was happening?

"Fuck off you stupid cunt," she screamed. The other vehicle still moved across and now the padding was pressing against her car forcing her towards the side of the road. The bridge was 50 metres away. Alison slammed on the brakes but not soon enough. Her car went to the left hand side of the bridge missing the concrete buttress by centimeters. The front of the car picked up the 6-wire fence as it went past. It caught under the car and the wires snapped from the strainer post. The left front wheel went into a culvert used to divert water away from the bridge. The front of the car stopped abruptly. The rear continued forward and the car somersaulted off the top of the bank. It hit the side of the bank three times on its way to the water. The river was flowing swiftly at that point due to heavy rain in the ranges. This was increased due to the narrowness of the area where the bridge was situated.

Apart from the screeching of the fence wire before it broke, and the bangs as the car hit the bank on its way to the water, there was no other sound. There was no screaming from Alison, Gillian or Janice. Alison was dead before the car hit the water. Restrained by her seatbelt, and held in place with an inflated airbag, a batten from the fence had come through the side window and smashed her skull. Both Gillian and Janice drowned with their cries unheard as water sucked the car to the bottom of the river and rolled it over and over until it exited the narrows and became caught in the shallows where the river widened.

Nine months later

The temperature plummeted. Petra was not expecting this. The weather forecast had been certain that while cloud would encompass the mountains for the next four to six days, the temperatures would remain constant. Not only was the temperature slipping but the wind force was rising. Petra glanced ahead to the man in front of her on the guide rope. His head was down and his gaze fixed about three metres in front of him. A check showed Petra that the same was true of the soldier behind her.

The wind had now become a howl and the first flakes of snow were whipping Petra's face with their cold. Petra stopped her relentless one foot in front of the other, and planted her ice pick into the ground. She wrapped a coil of rope round it and stood still. The climber in front felt the pull on the rope and stopped. The stop signal travelled up the chain of climbers until it reached the leader. The climber behind Petra eventually bumped into her, followed by the other three behind him. The leader uncoupled him-self and worked his way back down to Petra. The noise of the wind made it difficult to communicate but after a series of hand signals Petra and the leader, Captain Tony Martin, agreed that conditions had worsened to such a degree that it was unsafe to continue.

The Section was a group of nine experienced Army mountaineers used by civilian Search and Rescue when needed. None of them had experienced the level of blizzard they were now facing. This did not raise their anxiety levels as the Army has procedures for everything. Radio contact with the base was not possible and the manual advised that in such conditions the group, or individual, should dig a snow cave and wait until the blizzard blew itself out. Martin was the most experienced of the climbers and Petra was the most able. Under their tutelage, the Section dug several snow caves and settled in to wait for calm. Petra was sharing her cave with the least experienced of the Section, Adrian Plank. Plank was shivering uncontrollably so Petra squeezed herself into Plank's sleeping bag and cuddled him in an attempt to raise his body temperature. Plank drifted into a restless sleep. Petra lay feeling Plank's warmth help raise her body temperature. She thought of Janice, and the future, which seemed so bright for them. She was trying to stop herself drifting into sleep when she felt the prod of a stick in her back. She turned on her torch and found that there was a climbing stick being poked into the cave. Thinking it might mean that the storm was abating, Petra extracted herself from the sleeping bag and dug her way out of the cave. The storm had got no worse but neither had it decreased in ferocity. She was unable to determine who it was that stood before her but he was clearly one of the Section as he was wearing mountain whites. Whoever it was beckoned for Petra to follow. She did, and found herself standing beside a crevasse. With a puzzled look, Petra started to turn towards her companion when she felt a blow to the right side of her neck. Turning to deal with the apparent threat, as she was trained to do, her foot slipped on the ice and before she could do anything, she fell into the crevasse. Her body hit the ice walls several times before landing at the bottom. The first hit against the ice had killed her.

At the top of the crevasse, the killer pulled a glass vial from their pocket and threw it after her. They made the sign of the cross and then returned to their snow cave and settled down beside the person they were sharing it with.

"That's that," they said to the stiff figure lying dead in the other sleeping bag. By leaving the cave entrance open the killer had allowed hypothermia to do the rest.

Plank was likewise left for hypothermia to claim him when Petra did not return.

Chapter One

Auckland four years later

The alarm jerked him awake. For a moment, he was unsure where he was. Sleep clogged his brain. He lay trying to orientate himself. God, but was his throat dry. What time was it? Quarter to six in the morning. Ah. Early shift. Those late shifts followed by "earlies" were absolute killers. Simon forced himself to sit up and put his feet on the floor. His head hung down. So did his belly. He ran his hands through his hair and stood up and walked to the toilet. As he walked, he scratched his backside, where his piles were playing up, and he rubbed around his testicles. He did not wear pyjamas to bed. In fact, he wore nothing to bed. Had not done so since he was thirteen years old. As he peed, he glanced in the mirror on the bathroom wall. What a sight. He shook himself and filled the basin with water.

While shaving, he saw a mustached face looking back at him. It was not particularly good looking. His chin was a little on the weak side, but for all that he certainly did not look his forty-two years. His hair was cut short, but it was all there with no sign of gray. His eyebrows were thick and in need of trimming. His hazel eyes were calm but a little bloodshot at the moment. He did not think that was from the booze, but from the lack of sleep. He had not got home until 2 am after finishing the paperwork from the nights" arrests. The drinks had been earlier in the night when they had been visiting the strip clubs and had to have drinks with the owners and managers, and the odd stripper. He knew it was going to be a late night when he had seen a guy assaulting a woman as they returned to the station. Detective Constable Jensen had advised turning a blind eye, but you could not really. It had just been a domestic argument but by the time he and Nicholas Jensen had broken it up and got both parties back to the station, convinced the woman that she did not have to take that shit from her boyfriend, processed the boyfriend, five prior convictions for assault, and done the paperwork, it had been one o'clock. The drive home, a bite to eat, and a read of the paper to wind down had taken another hour.

Shaving finished, he stepped gingerly onto the scales, half hoping that by stepping softly onto them they would somehow read lighter. Fifteen stone. Shit, at 5' 10", he was obviously going to have to go on a diet again. Back to running also. The only way to lose weight was more out and less in, something he had proved more times than he wanted to.

He took a couple of pieces of toast bread from the freezer, put them in the toaster, and switched on the jug. While he showered, and dried himself, the toast cooked and the jug boiled. He dressed in his blue suit, white shirt, red tie, plain gray socks and then sat down for his breakfast. While he ate, weetbix with cold milk and marmite on the toast, he read the junk mail he had pulled from his letterbox as he arrived home the previous night. Well, earlier that morning really. Nothing much there. Nothing he could afford anyway. He drank his coffee, white with sweetener, and then left the house. His car, an older Holden, badly needing a coat of paint and some rust taking out of it, was still parked in the driveway. Shit. He had forgotten to lock it. Still, who would want to pinch it? He got in and drove to the Central Police Station.

He found parking only two streets away where there were no parking meters. Sometimes luck was with you. He walked in the front door of the Police Station and took a lift to the 4th floor. He acknowledged the "good mornings" and listening idly to the chatter. Most of it concerned television programs or movies seen the night before. On the 4th floor he turned left and walked down to the Vice Squad Office. The room was shared with four others. He was the Detective Sergeant in Charge and had two Detectives, Joel Smith and Dwayne Ratana and two Detective Constables, Peter Jones and Nicholas Jensen working under him. None were in the office. He picked up a folder from his own desk and travelled back down to the assembly room on the ground floor. Stepping inside he took a seat beside Dwayne Ratana. He glanced around. The assembly room seated about 200 people and there would have been about 70 to 80 present. Up on the stage area was the Chief of Detectives. The main body of the room was in shadow as there was no natural light available, and the main lights were switched off. The stage area was lit with spotlights. A door on the left side of the stage, as Simon looked at it, opened and a male dressed in jeans and a tee shirt was pushed out onto the stage. The Chief of Detectives called the male across towards him and told him to stand in front of a height reader painted on the back wall of the stage. It indicated a height of 5"6". The Chief read out a list of the person's previous convictions and his current residential address. He had been arrested the night before when caught pinching women's panties from a clothesline in one of the suburbs. Some one called out asking for his previous addresses. Probably that someone had a file dealing with other clothesline thefts.

Next out was the person he had arrested for assault on a female. As it turned out, the offender fitted the description for a number of other assault files held by various uniform branch officers so he was going to be subjected to a lot of questioning over the next few hours. There were no other offenders who interested him.

After the parade of prisoners it was the turn of those with requests for information. Simon got up and advised that he had a file on a transvestite using the name Rochelle, a Caucasian male aged about 20 years, slim build, home made dot tattoos at the base of his right thumb, and believed to be operating in the red light district. "If anyone came across Rochelle (there were guffaws at the expression) could they please obtain a current address?"

At the end of assembly Simon returned to the fourth floor. Ratana and Jones were both in.

"Come on," said Simon. "Let's have a cup of coffee." They left the office and took the lift to the top floor where the canteen was situated. Simon helped himself to a donut as well as the coffee and they sat at a table near a window.

"Anything on today?" asked Simon.

"Yeah," said Ratana. "I've got a 'Dirty Book' buy at Rangers Bookshop and then I've got to prepare a couple of Court files from my last night shift."

"Peter?" asked Simon.

"Nothing much," replied Jones. "There are a couple of addresses I want to have a look at but that's about all. Do you need a hand or something?"

"It's nothing important but Trevor Howe is in town. He's just finished an undercover stint and I thought we might use him on Jane's Place," said Simon.

"Hey, yeah," said Jones. "I'll be into that. I've tried the place several times without success to date. It's pissed me off actually. I know that it's being used and that a lot of gear is going through it but I just haven't been able to catch anyone yet."

"You interested?" Simon asked Ratana.

"Could be. What time are you looking at?"

"Well," said Simon. "I don't want to be too late. Say we do it at about 6 o'clock. We'll put Trevor in then and we should be able to do the bust at about 6.30 to 7 o'clock."

"Okay," nodded Ratana. "That'll do me fine. Count me in." They finished their coffees and headed back to the office.

Waiting outside the office was an older man. He looked about 50 to 60 years of age. He was slim, and balding, with a gray fringe of hair cut short around his pate.

"Trev.," said Simon. "Come on in. How's it going?"

"Could be a sight better and that's for fucking real," said Howe. "Still, at least this is civilization. Better than the arsehole places I've been in lately."

"Successful?" asked Simon.

"So, so," said Howe. "You know the score. You've run undercover agents before. Win some, lose some. For Christ's sake you'd think the bosses would get their shit together but no, they never seem to, do they?"

"Got a bit of a job for ya," said Simon.

"Front or back?" asked Howe.

"Pussy," said Simon. "A brothel up on East Road. Know it?"

"Jane's Place," nodded Howe.

"Yeah," said Simon. "Jane's Place. It appears that it's being used to move stolen gear as well as doing a bit of trade in dope. We've not had any luck there so far but if we can catch someone at it, we may be able to get one of them to 'fizz' to us, or something. You okay with that?"

"Sure," said Howe.

They settled down to discuss the tactics to be used and the timings to apply. Simon then gave Howe $200.00 in $20 notes after photocopying and noting their serial numbers. After Howe left, Simon had the Police Station paged for Ratana and Jones. When they fronted at the Vice Office Simon briefed them on Operation Jane. Having completed that, he checked the time. Almost lunchtime. He headed down to the Royal hotel.

"Lately, my second home," thought Simon. He knew that he probably should not be there, but could always justify it as contacting informants. It was not as though he was on top shelf either. It was only beer, and anyway it was just on midday so it was not as though he was a morning drinker.

At 5.30 p.m. Simon returned to the fourth floor Vice Office. Ratana and Jones were both waiting for him. They glanced at each other as Simon sat down.

"More informant info?" grinned Ratana.

"Nothing worthwhile," growled Simon. "We all set to go?"

"We are." replied Jones.

"Good. Let's get on with it then," said Simon heading out the door. "Trev's due to go in there at 6pm and a uniform car will be available at 5.45pm."

As 6 o'clock approached, Simon, Peter Jones and Dwayne Ratana sat in an unmarked Police car on East Road, down the street a bit from Jane's Place. A marked Police car, containing three uniformed Constables, was in a public car park across the road from them.

"Here he comes," said Simon as he kept observation via the rear view mirror. He watched Howe park his car outside Jane's, glance up and down East Road, and then enter the front door of the massage parlour.

"Let the uniforms know will ya" said Simon. Jones picked up the R/T and advised the Uniform Branch Constables that the undercover agent had entered the target premises.

Fifteen minutes passed before a loud beeping sound, the undercover agent's signal, invaded the Vice Squad car.

"That's it. Let's go," ordered Simon. He started up the car, did a U-turn and headed back to Jane's. Seeing the manoeuvre, the uniform branch car followed suit. Both vehicles braked to a halt outside Jane's and the occupants leapt out. One uniform Constable went to the rear of the building, and everyone else followed Simon through the main front door. One of the uniformed constables was a female. Inside the door they were confronted with a reception area containing a desk and two doorways; one covered with a heavy velvet curtain, and the other leading to a kitchen area. Behind the desk sat a woman, about 30 years of age, with long blonde hair that contrasted with her dark suntan. She had no need of makeup and was dressed in a quite severe dark blue suit.

"May I help you?" she asked and then saw the two uniformed Police Constables.

"Peter. You take this area will you?" said Simon. "Police," he added as an afterthought to the receptionist. Simon then went through the velvet curtain. Beyond it was a lounge area with three doors leading off it. In one corner of the lounge a television set was playing a movie with an Albino woman giving oral sex to a black male of indeterminate origin. Watching were two women and four men. One of the women wore a schoolgirl's gym frock and the other only a bikini bottom, leaving her breasts, with poor muscle tone, hanging towards her potbelly. Simon opened one of the doors as he said, "Police Vice Squad. Please stay where you are for the moment." The door opened onto another passage, off which lead several doors. He looked questioningly at Ratana who had opened one of the doors.

"Empty spa," said Ratana. Simon glanced at the uniformed female Constable who had opened another of the doors.

"Couple in a spa," she said.

"Okay," said Simon. "You (he indicated the Police woman) come with me. Dwayne you deal with those in the spa and you (he indicated a male uniformed Constable) keep an eye on those back in the lounge. Get the cop from around the back to assist."

Simon and the Policewoman went down the passage. All the rooms were unoccupied apart from the second to end one on the left hand side. When he opened the door Simon was faced with Howe lying face down on a massage table. Crouched over him was a particularly attractive young woman. Both were naked.

"Police," said Simon. "Get your clothes on." Both got off the table and proceeded to dress.

"We weren't doing anything wrong," said the woman. "We weren't were we?" she appealed to Howe.

"Sorry Love," said Simon. "He's one of us."

"Oh shit," she said. "Well fuck you then prick."

"See that she stays here," said Simon to the Policewoman. "Trev. Let's have a word if you would?" Howe and Simon stepped out into the passage.

"Well?" asked Simon.

"$120 full sex, $90 for a blow job, and $60 for a hand job. $20 entrance. The $20 is in the till at the front and the $120 is in her purse in the locker by the toilet."

"Cheers," said Simon. "Have a beer out of the money you've got left. We'll put it down as a taxi fare."

Simon went back into the room. The woman masseuse was dressed and sitting on a couch looking as though butter would not melt in her mouth. He looked around the room. In one corner was a shower with a toilet alongside, both discreetly behind a frosted glass shield. Another corner had a small bar, well stocked, and the couch was close by. The rest of the room was dominated by the massage table. A smaller table beside it held a collection of bottles containing oil, talcum powder and a box of strawberry flavoured condoms. The Policewoman was standing just inside the door.

"Okay love," said Simon. "What's your name? Your real name."

"Denise Yarmouth."

"Working name?"

"Debbie."

"Not very original. Address?"

"19 Stormont Road."

"Date of Birth?"

"16th May."

"Age?"

"Eighteen."

"How long have you been on the game?"

"I'm not."

"Well excuse me but what were you and my man doing? Squeezing blackheads?"

"I was giving him a massage."

"How much did that cost him?"

"$20."

"Where's the $20?"

"At the front desk."

"So how much do you get paid?"

"I rely on whatever tips I get given."

"So how much is the average tip?"

"$20."

"How long have you been working here?"

"Six months."

"How many clients would you have in a day?"

"About ten to fifteen."

"So if everyone gave you $20 you'd do quite well."

"Yes."

"How much did Trevor give you?"

"Nothing coz I hadn't finished the massage."

"Will you get Denise's handbag please?" Simon asked the Policewoman. "It'll be in there." Simon indicated the locker by the toilet. Denise said and did nothing as her handbag was passed to Simon. He opened it. Inside the bags purse he located $250 mainly in $20 notes.

"And none of this is from Trevor?" questioned Simon.

"No." said Denise sullenly.

"Okay kid. Let's stop pissing around shall we? In here will be eleven $20 notes, the serial numbers of which will match those I've got recorded back at the Central Police Station. Stop pissing me around and let's tell the truth shall we?"

Denise shrugged.

"$60 a hand job, $90 oral and $120 full sex. Ring a bell?"

Denise shrugged again.

"Do you live at home?" asked Simon.

"You're not going to tell my parents are you?"

"At your age I think it best." nodded Simon.

"No please don't. Look, can I talk to you alone?"

Simon thought for a moment. "Okay. Not here though. Back at the Police Station. The Policewoman will check the money in your purse and note the serial numbers and then she will accompany us to the Station.

"Look into that will you?" Simon asked the Policewoman. "I'll just sort things out here and then meet up with you at the car."

Simon went back down the passage to the occupied spa. He raised his eyebrows at Ratana.

"All sorted boss." said Ratana. "No problems. I've got their details and stories and I'll write them up in a job sheet. I've also got names and addresses and stories given to the uniforms and they'll also put in job sheets. Where to now?"

"I'll just check with Pete and then he can give you a hand to tip the whole place over. Do a pretty good search and let me know if anything turns up. Use the uniforms if you want, or need, a hand. It'll give them a bit of excitement in their lives. I'll take the tart back," said Simon. He went back out into the reception area and spoke briefly to Peter Jones before returning to the Vice office with Denise Yarmouth and the uniformed Policewoman.

In the 4th floor Vice office Simon thanked the Policewoman and let her go. He indicated a chair to Yarmouth and sat behind his desk opposite her. He ran his eyes over her.

"Mmmm, not bad," he thought. He agreed with the age of eighteen. Her hair was blonde but there was dark re-growth just beginning to show. He put her height at about 5"7" and slightly chubby, but not excessively so. Her breasts were full and appeared firm. As she crossed her legs he caught a glimpse of white knickers. Although he had seen her naked the glimpse caused his penis to stir.

"Shit," he said to himself. "A bit wouldn't go too far astray about now." He laughed at 'a stray'. Naughties had been few and far between since Suzanne had left, and hey, brewers droop had taken care of more opportunities than it should.

"Well?" asked Yarmouth.

"Well yourself." replied Simon. "You wanted to talk."

"Look," said Yarmouth. "I don't want Mum and Dad to find out about this. Can't we come to some arrangement? I'll do anything you want."

"What I need to know," said Simon "is what is going on at Jane's."

"Like what?"

"Like you bloody well know what," replied Simon. "Now don't be pissing me around girl. I want to know who is working there, who is dealing, clients real names, where stolen property is stored, how it is paid for, who is selling it, who is buying it, the lot."

Yarmouth licked her lips and crossed her legs the other way. She saw Simon's eyes go to her crutch. Leaning forward she said, "I could get into a lot of trouble you know." Simon saw her breasts hanging down and the outline of her nipples was clear through her bodice.

"Shit. I'd like to slap the 'old fellow' between those," he thought.

"Well," he said. "The deal is that you either give me the info., or I lock you up. It's as simple as that."

Over the next half an hour Yarmouth filled Simon in on the various deals that she was aware of. The information provided was of reasonable value as far as he was concerned. Of some minor interest was the fact that one of her clients was a Roman Catholic Priest. While that in itself was of no real interest, the fact that he had confided to Yarmouth that he knew of contract killers operating in the country was. Simon was uncertain as to whether or not he was being feed a line by Yarmouth. She could give no further information other than that he said his name was Father Joe. She did not know if that was his real name.

"I'm interested in Father Joe," said Simon. "I would like you to make contact with him again. Is there anyway you could do that?"

"Probably," advised Yarmouth. "Some of the others have had him, and I think he is likely to be at Club 66 most week nights. I don't know that I would be able to approach him though. At work it's different, but now I won't be able to go back to work at Jane's."

The telephone rang. It was Ratana advising that they had found nothing at Jane's Place and were off to attend to other matters. While he talked, Simon watched Yarmouth. She kept re-crossing her legs giving him that tantalizing glimpse of her underwear, and the movement of her breasts was fascinating to watch. He put down the telephone receiver.

"Okay young lady," Simon said. "This is what we'll do. At this stage, we won't prosecute you. In return, I want continued information from you. I'll check out the stuff you have given me and then tomorrow night I want you to go to Club 66. I'll meet you outside at 1.30 am. I'll be on the opposite corner and you can describe this Father Joe to me if he's there. Okay?"

"Sure," said Yarmouth. "Now can I go home?"

"Yep," said Simon. "Come on. I'll run you there."

They went downstairs and Simon drove Yarmouth to the corner of Stormont Road and Lester Streets in an unmarked Police vehicle. He stopped on Lester Street.

"Okay kid," said Simon, "I'll let you out here and see you tomorrow night."

Yarmouth leaned towards him, put her arms around his neck, pulled him to her, and kissed him on his lips. Involuntarily Simon's arms went around her and he joined in the kiss. She smelt young, sexy, and available. They broke. Yarmouth opened the car door.

"See ya tomorrow," she smiled, "and ta."

She closed the door and he watched her turn the corner into Stormont Road. Simon started the car and drove across the intersection stopping again just out of sight of Stormont Road. He left the car and walked into Stormont Road, on the opposite side to that taken by Yarmouth, and followed her up the street. She neither looked back, nor hesitated, as she approached number 19 and turned in through the front gate. He saw the front door open and close behind her. He continued to the far end of the road and then returned back past number 19 to confirm the name and number. There was no name on the letterbox but the number 19 was clearly visible. Simon returned to the Police vehicle. The clock was indicating nearly midnight. Deciding he was hungry, and thirsty, he drove to a late night bar that he knew did a bit of a counter meal. He ordered a beer, a plate of wedges and some rabbit food. It took him half a dozen beers to get rid of the food. He then returned the car to the Central Police Station. The Vice Office was empty. The job sheets in relation to Jane's Place were on his desk along with a note that the $120 marked money from Yarmouth's purse, and the marked $20 from Jane's till, were in the safe. Simon tossed up whether to get a lift home or take the risk and drive. He took the risk and got home at 2 am. He had a couple or so glasses of Port before crashing on the bed fully clothed.

Chapter Two

Simon reached the Vice Office sometime after lunch. He officially listed Yarmouth as an informer and then went down to the Criminal Intelligence Section office. Nobody had heard of Father Joe as a real person nor as a nickname or alias. The Criminal Intelligence Section's contact with the Government's Secret Intelligence Service checked to ascertain if they had heard of a Father Joe. There was mention of a group of religious 'nutters,' as the Secret Service called them, but little was known of them, and no record of a Father Joe existed.

At 1 am Simon parked his old Holden in a garage under an office block not far from Club 66. As he sat in the dark, he watched a couple walk into the garage. Simon's car window was partly down and he listened to an argument as to cost and services and then the act being completed between a transvestite and a drunk male. Simon decided that he was going to have to keep an eye on the place; that was two arrests that he was letting go. Just before 1.30 am Simon arrived on the corner opposite Club 66. He looked around as if lost. Yarmouth approached him from across the road.

"Hi big guy," she said, "Looking for a good time?"

"Let's go," said Simon starting to walk away towards the garage containing his car. Once in the car he turned towards Yarmouth.

"Is he there?" he asked.

"Sure," she said. "He's in the back corner by the emergency exit. There's nobody else at his table. He's wearing a brown bomber jacket and his hair is starting to thin. You can't miss him."

"Stay here," said Simon "I'll give you a lift home once I've checked him."

Simon walked to Club 66. He showed his identification at the door and the security guards nodded to him. Simon went to the bar and ordered a brandy and dry.

"On the house Sir," said the bartender recognizing him as Police, and having received the nod from the security guards.

"Not on your life Sunshine," replied Simon.

He threw down some money. There was no way he was going to compromise himself by accepting what could be construed as a gift or bribe. He sat on a stool at the bar and turned to survey the Club. The bar was situated along one wall. There was a dance floor area at the far end of the bar with tables and seating in a rough L shape. At the top of the L was the emergency exit. Seated alone at a table by that exit sat a man. He was seated so that he could survey both the exit and the room while his back was against the wall. Clearly someone who knew a thing or two about protecting their back. Simon turned back to the bar and watched the man for a while in the mirror behind it. The lighting was subdued and it was hard to make out any detail of the club's occupants. Just as Simon wondered how to get a better look at him, Father Joe left the table and went to the toilets. As he opened the door he was clearly revealed by the light. Simon put his height at 5"10" to 5"11", aged about 50 years, trim well built body, broad shoulders, aquiline nose, bushy eyebrows, furrowed brow, and thinning hair brushed straight back. While 'Father Joe' was at the toilet Simon finished his drink and left. Back at his car, he found Yarmouth asleep laying the length of the front seat. He gently sat her up enough for him to sit behind the wheel and he drove to the corner of Stormont Road and Lester Street. He turned off the engine and regretfully shook Yarmouth awake. He had enjoyed the feel, warmth and presence of a woman leaning against him again.

"Where are . . ." Yarmouth began as she came awake. "Ah, oh. Home. Go to the house. Mum and Dad are away."

Simon restarted the engine and parked outside number 19 Stormont Road.

"Come on in for a coffee," invited Yarmouth. Simon followed her up the short path and through the front door. Yarmouth threw her jacket casually over a table in the passageway and lead Simon into a lounge.

"Sit down," she directed as she clicked on a standard lamp that threw discreet light over the room.

"Money," thought Simon. "Plenty of money." He sat on a couch.

"Drink?" asked Yarmouth.

"Why not. Do you have any dark rum?"

"Sure."

"Go easy on the coke." He watched her movements as she prepared his drink at the cocktail cabinet. She handed him his drink and sat beside him with a gin and tonic for herself.

"Funny drink for a girl her age," thought Simon. "Cheers."

"Closer ties," responded Yarmouth waving her glass at him. "Now, is this where you interrogate me? Torture me?"

"I don't think so," said Simon. "I'm only here to drop you off and thank you for what you've done so far."

"You know I've never had a Detective," said Yarmouth turning to look directly at Simon.

"That surprises me," responded Simon. "You know I could get into serious trouble with you."

"That's what I hope," smiled Yarmouth. "See what this does for you." Yarmouth put her drink down, went to the stereo and pressed the play button. With only a standard lamp on, the room and music combined to produce a seductive atmosphere.

"She really can move," Simon said to himself as Yarmouth proceeded to strip. "Whoa, this is real trouble. I need to get out of here. No, bugger it. I can handle it. When the time comes I'll be able to leave." He felt his penis stiffening. He took in the stockings and suspenders. Black stockings, red suspenders, red panties, red bra. "Panty hose sure had ruined a good thing," he thought. Slowly the stockings were unclipped and removed one by one. As she did so, using the coffee table in front of him to support her legs, Simon could see a wet patch on the panties between her legs.

"Shit, that's it," he thought. He stood up and stepped around the coffee table to head for the door and stepped straight into Yarmouths arms. He could feel her thighs pressing against him and he knew she would be able to feel his hardness. He tried to pull his groin away but Yarmouth's hands slid to his backside and pulled him to her. His arms automatically went around her and he kissed her upturned mouth.

Looking down on her, he hesitated, and glanced towards the front door, and freedom.

"If only I really did have the will power," he thought. "Well I don't."

Afterwards he lay on his back looking up at the ceiling.

"Brother," he said to himself. Aloud he said, "That was my best ever."

"Mine too," responded Yarmouth leaning over him, "Want to stay?"

"Surely," said Simon glancing at his watch, which indicated 3am. "But there're a couple of addresses I have to check first so I can't."

"You will come again won't you?" begged Yarmouth unaware of the double meaning. "This wasn't just a oncer was it?"

"Of course not," replied Simon as he dressed. "I couldn't let anyone like you go."

"What shit." He acknowledged to himself. "You fucking idiot. You bloody half-wit. You've got to get out of this as fast as you can. God, no condom either. Should I ask if she's on the pill? Is that what you do in a situation like this? She could be my daughter. Oh you fuck wit."

Chapter Three

The day dragged as Simon went through the motions at work. He mostly stuck to his office doing paperwork. Various other cops came in to have a yarn and waste his time as well as their own. Four o'clock eventually arrived and Simon went up to the Police bar for a couple of pints of beer. He shouted a round and at about 5 o'clock he left the bar heading downtown to his favourite pub. He entered, nodding to some of the locals who waved back accepting him as one of their own. He settled into a booth towards the back and drank while he thought things over. He talked and argued with himself. Nobody came near him. The locals had seen him like this before and, like before, left him alone. His thoughts were dark and ranged over a wide landscape although he and his life were the central theme.

"What a fine pickle you're in." Simon said to himself, paraphrasing the comedians Laurel and Hardy, or was it Abbot and Costello, he could never remember. "Your life is fucked. What's the use of pretending otherwise? Why oh why didn't I just become a simple old uniform branch cop. Get to a country station and just rot. Why was I so competitive? Dad wasn't. Was Mum? No, not really I don't think. Just my own inferiority complex driving me on. Doesn't piss make you honest? Hey but look what's happened to me. My plea of mitigation. My defense. It's enough to wipe out the strongest among us. First, there was Elaine. They had just got married too young. They had been friends really. Only looking back on it was it possible to see that. They were too alike to survive. Still they had produced two wonderful kids: Alison and Petra. Shit what a waste. Two lives gone. Two promising lives. There was a sure argument against God if ever there was one. And Ali's kids. How can you justify that God? Punishment because I didn't stay with you? Sins of the fathers and all that? Gillian and Janice, G & J. God but Gillian had been a cracker kid Poor Elaine. She certainly had never got over those deaths. Well you wouldn't would you? Nor had he really. They had died and he had just accepted that, but they were always there. Always there in the back of his mind. Probably that's why Sue had left him as well. Too many ghosts. That and the drink of course. Always the drink. It was really only to be sociable. Sometimes to forget, but not too often. Stuff her kids. They'd always resented him. There was no way he could be as good as their father. The fact that he had bashed their mother, played around on her and everything else didn't matter. He was still number one and Simon was basically an arsehole. The pity was that they hadn't fucking died. Still, life wasn't like that. The arseholes got on and the good died young. Let's really get honest though. Face it. Face up to the facts. Right now, you're looking pretty pitiful. You may not have a drinking problem but if you carry on the way you're going, you pretty soon will have one. But then anyone in your line of work is allowed the odd drink. Shit it helps to keep the stress at bay. You even have to be in the bars to find out what is going down, and to meet and retain informants. There you are then. You're justified. Piece of piss. Fucking hell, on top of all that look at all your other problems. Really, you're not pitiful at all. You're a shining light. You're good at your job. You get results in a results driven world. So what if the women can't see how great you are? Stuff them. Who needs them? Hey, when it really comes down to it you can still pull them though can't ya? Even an eighteen year old. God, how did I ever get into that? What a mess. Back to square one. A drunk? Not me. One more though and I'll have to be off. Shit, when did I go to the top shelf? Doesn't time fly when you're having fun?"

Simon got up from the booth and headed for the door. Half way there, he changed his mind deciding a pee had to come first. With his mind ahead of his body, he bumped into two tables executing the change in direction. The urinal rocked back and forth as the urine flowed. He stumbled from the toilets with a wet patch on his trousers and urine splatters on his shoes. Outside he leaned against a lamp post and took a deep breath. That did not help much.

"Now where's the car?" asked Simon. "It must be around here somewhere. Shit, when did it get dark?" While continuing to mumble, Simon staggered, fell, and then crawled along the footpath.

"Okay Sunshine, on yer feet," a voice said. "On yer feet I said." Simon became aware of hands pulling him to his feet.

"Pissed to beat the band," said the voice. The voice continued. "Hey, don't I know you?"

Simon could feel the vomit coming. He pulled away from the hands and vomited into the gutter. Shaking his head, he looked up to see the open doors of a Police van and two uniform branch members watching him from the safety of the footpath.

"There you are young man," said one of the Policemen to the other, "the pride of the Criminal Investigation Branch. Mark my words lad, that's about all the C.I.B. is worth. The real work's done by us."

"What are we going to do with him Sarge?" asked the second Policeman.

"We'd better do the right thing and take him home I suppose," said the Sergeant. Turning to look at Simon he continued, "Okay, get in the back and don't spew again or you'll be washing it out."

Simon remembered little of the ride home. Certainly the driver did him no favours. There was only the stainless steel floor for him to sit on and nothing to hold on to for security. When he climbed out the back doors of the van at his home, he knew that he had collected a large number of extra bruises.

"Thanks. Thanks a heap. I'll repay you. I owe you one." Simon mumbled to the Sergeant.

"Yeah, sure," replied the Sergeant. "Keeping off the turps would be a great start."

As Simon arrived at the Vice Office the next day, Peter Jones met him.

"The boss wants to see you. Shit, you look a bloody mess. Rough ride home last night?"

"Some people can't keep their mouths shut can they?" Simon responded. "I suppose it's all over the station?"

"Pretty much," agreed Jones.

"What's Shorty want? Do you know?" Simon asked.

"No idea," was the reply.

Simon nodded and left the office taking the lift up one floor to the fifth. He knocked on the door of room 506 and went in. Detective Inspector Robertson, universally known as 'Shorty', was at least 6"5" and built like a brick out house. With his ginger hair, the impression was of a powerful man. He looked at Simon and gestured towards a chair. There was only one chair. Simon was obliged to take it. It put him at a disadvantage, as he knew it was designed to do. With Robertson framed by the window Simon could only see a dark outline while his own face was lit up.

"Hard night Simon?" asked Robertson.

"You could say," agreed Simon.

"Was it worth it?"

"Who knows," shrugged Simon. "Those I saw may come through with some stuff. You know how it is. You have to keep them happy."

"Simon," said Robertson. "I've had some concerns mentioned to me and I need your comments and attention regarding them." He paused. "How are you feeling? Are you all right? I mean health-wise. No problems?"

"Nothing that I know of," replied Simon.

"And what about your kids and Grandkids? Do you think you're over their deaths, or do you need to have more time off?"

"How do you think I feel," asked Simon? "Of course I'm not over them. I'll never be over them but you just have to get on with it don't you? You can't live in the past can you?"

"No you can't," stated Robertson. "And you can't let it affect your work either. Now what's the story on last night?"

"Nothing really," said Simon "I don't know what caused it. Maybe it was something I ate. I don't know. All I do know is that I got really crook. I guess I was lucky that the uniform guys helped me."

"You don't think you have a drinking problem?" queried Robertson. "Alcoholics Anonymous run a great twelve step program."

"Come on Sir," exclaimed Simon. "I'm no alky. Okay, I have the odd drink, and get a bit pissy eyed now and then, but nothing out of the ordinary."

"Would a less stressful job help?" asked Robertson.

"Look Sir," said Simon. "Take it from me. I'm no piss head. Last night was an aberration. As I said it was probably something I ate. I don't know. I'm more than happy with my job."

"Have you seen the shrink?"

"There's no need to go down that track," replied Simon. "No need at all."

"At this stage I'll take your word for it," acknowledged Robertson. "But if your behavior comes to my attention again, I'll be forced to act, and then you will do what I tell you. Do I make myself clear? I'll not have my department ridiculed."

"Yes Sir," agreed Simon contritely. "Is there anything else Sir?"

"Yes Simon there is," replied Robertson. "Jane's Place. You turned it over the other day?"

"Yes Sir," said Simon cautiously, wondering where the question was leading.

"Is there going to be a prosecution?" Robertson asked.

"Ah, not at this stage Sir," said Simon. "We didn't find anything major but we've hopefully turned up an informant who may be able to assist us in the future."

"That's this Yarmouth girl you've listed as an informant," stated Robertson.

"Yes Sir," replied Simon.

"And what's she given you so far?" queried Robertson.

Simon thought; "Wouldn't you be surprised," but said aloud, "She's produced a couple of bits of info that I've passed on to the Break Squad and she's come up with some information that the Spooks like the look of."

"Really?" Robertson sat up. "The Secret Service? What's that?"

Aloud, Simon said. "Some information about a terrorist group attached to some religious organization. I'm not sure of the full details. You know the Spooks. Take all the credit and give nothing in return. I'll keep you informed of any developments though." To himself he grinned knowing that with Robertson being the big noting bastard that he was he would not be able to wait to spread that information far and wide. "Is that all Sir?" he finished as he stood up.

"Pretty much Sergeant," admitted Robertson sounding formal. "You should however consider yourself counselled in regard to last night, and a note will be made of that action on your personal file. You should also be aware that we are not happy over the Jane's Place matter. We will take no further action at this stage but unless something concrete develops from it, you may be called to account. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly Sir," responded Simon.

"Take my advice," continued Robertson, "make sure something does develop so you stay clean. I don't want any trouble over this."

"Thank you Sir," said Simon.

He turned and left the office as Robertson commenced writing something on the file open before him. Simon went down to the Vice Office and sat at his desk. He spoke softly to himself. "Now what the fuck's going on here? The pricks are out to get me. There's no doubt about that. But why? Is it Jane's Place or is it something else? I'd better be careful around this one. Shit. Just something else to fuck me off." He glanced at his watch as he continued talking. "Court time. I'd better be going and tell the truth." Simon glanced through his notebooks and, selecting the one he wanted, left the room.

Chapter Four

"Just answer any questions Sergeant," the Crown Prosecutor said as he sat down. Simon turned his attention to the defendants Barrister. As he did so he glanced around the Courtroom. Number one Courtroom was about as formal as you could get. The walls were dark wood. Probably native! About a third of the room, provided seating for the public. The seats were hard wooden benches and they, the public, were kept in their area by a solid wooden barrier with a lift up portion providing access to the body of the Courtroom. The barrier's brass hinges shone brilliantly, as did the handles on the doors leading from the public area to the corridor. There were four long tables across the body of the Courtroom with seating at right angles to them along the sidewalls. The jury occupied those seats on one side and reporters on the other. In front of the railing constraining the public, was the dock. Steps led down from the dock to the cells underneath the Courtroom. Looking over the long tables from the dock, one faced a most intimidating sight. There were two raised platforms, the first one lower than the rear one. The lower one contained the stenographers and the court Registrar. The rear one was raised a good three feet from the floor of the Courtroom. It was backed with a dark red crushed velvet curtain in front of which was an intricately carved high backed chair. A sheepskin cover was draped over the chair to provide some backside comfort. Over the top platform there was a wooden overhang with the New Zealand Coat of Arms prominently displayed. The witness stand, where Simon was situated, was located between the reporters" area and the lower platform, so the occupant faced the jury at a 45-degree angle. The occupant of the sheep-skin covered chair was Judge Levet. He was known generally as 'Level Levet,' or just 'LL,' by Police and lawyers alike, because of his insistence on what he called a 'level playing field'.

"How could anyone be so naïve?" Simon asked himself. Levet gave the impression of being asleep. His glasses were lowered on his nose, his lips were pursed. His white wig sat squarely. If he opened his eyes and looked out over the Registrar and stenographer seated at the lower platform, he would see the twelve jury members, two bewigged Barristers acting for the Crown at the first long table, and two more bewigged Barristers acting for the accused at the second table. In the dock was Joseph Read, accused of being a male permitting another male to perform an indecent act upon him. He had a prison guard sitting beside him.

One of Read's barristers stood up. Being on the short side he looked awkward when he rested his elbows on the stand in front of him.

"Sergeant," he said looking at the jury, and not at Simon. "You say that you spoke to my client initially at Federal Street and then back at the Police Station."

"Yes Sir," agreed Simon turning from looking at the side of the Barristers head and speaking to the Jury.

"Did you record in your notebook what was said?" asked Read's barrister.

Again Simon replied to the Jury, "Yes Sir."

"And do you have that notebook with you?"

"Yes Sir," Simon replied. "Well, not really," he said to himself. "After all he didn't say anything did he? But you can't argue with a Policeman's notebook can you? Jury's love notebooks. It makes them think of PC49, everyone's image of the upstanding constabulary. What a bloody laugh. The ordinary man in the street must be the last person on planet earth who didn't realize that Policemen wrote up their notebooks as and when the occasion demanded. It was thought that when a suspect was interviewed with a video camera operating it would stop Police 'verbal's'; those occasions when Police told lies about what a suspect had said to them. On numerous occasions now, however, it became necessary to make up a story, and threaten the suspect into incriminating themselves on video, or accepting a video denial and then making up a false confession afterwards. Altering or planting evidence to make it look as though the suspect was lying during the interview was another method. On this occasion, Simon had made up a story, written it in his notebook, and then, during the video taped interview, respectfully referred to that story even though Read kept denying it.

"Produce that notebook Sergeant," demanded the Barrister?

"No Sir," said Simon.

"That's because you've made up this entire scenario isn't it Sergeant? You have haven't you? There is no notebook entry is there Sergeant? When my client says he did not answer any of your questions, either in Federal Street, or in the Police car going back to Central, he is telling the truth isn't he Sergeant?"

"No Sir," said Simon.

"Produce the notebook Sergeant."

"No Sir."

"Your Honour," said the Barrister, "I would ask that the Court order the Sergeant to produce his notebook."

The Crown Prosecutor, Reginald Sharpe, rose to his feet. "If it pleases Your Honour," he started.

"One moment Mr. Sharpe," interrupted the Judge. "Sergeant why haven't you produced your notebook?"

"I have not referred to my notebook Sir and am therefore under no obligation to produce it," responded Simon.

"Thank-you Sergeant," frowned the Judge. "I don't think I need a lesson on the law as it relates to evidence. I suspect Mr. Sharpe that you were also going to attempt to interpret the law for me?"

"I'm sorry your Honour," responded Mr. Sharpe. "It was actually my Learned Friend I was intending to remind."

"Yes. Thank-you Mr. Sharpe.

"Mr. Elvie, surely you do not need the witness to teach you the law. You may continue but the witness does not need to produce his notebook," said the Judge to Read's barrister.

Mr. Elvie rose to his feet. "Thank-you your Honour," he responded. "I am obliged to you. We will accept the ruling as correct and we will leave it to the Jury to take whatever impression they wish to from the Sergeant's refusal."

"Mr. Elvie," thundered Judge Levet. "You are bordering on contempt. The Jury should not have any impression about the Sergeant's notebook. To all intents and purposes the notebook does not exist. I will not have your sort of behaviour in my Court. I require a level playing field and I will ensure I have one. Now carry on."

"Yes your Honour," said Mr. Elvie. "Sergeant..."

Simon interrupted him. "Excuse me Sir," Simon said to the Judge. "If it will assist the Court I will produce my notebook."

To himself he acknowledged that by doing so he would show himself to the jury as an upstanding, trustworthy and believable Policeman. In their minds the notebook would back up what he had already been saying. It was a game he had played many times before.

"There is no need for that Sergeant," advised Judge Levet. "But if the notes were made contemporaneously, then it will obviously carry considerable weight with the Jury."

"Thank-you Sir," said Simon aloud while privately saying to himself, "Take that you wanker Elvie."

Simon produced his notebook, read aloud from it in Question and Answer form, and the notebook was then entered into evidence as exhibit 5. Simon saw Elvie flick through the notebook checking dates.

"You won't get me there," thought Simon. "It took me the best part of a night to completely re-write that notebook from an old one, and I used different pens in the process."

Elvie asked a few more pointless questions, and Simon was then allowed to leave the stand. He sat in the back of the Court and listened to the rest of the case. Guilty was a forgone conclusion, but Read did not help himself when he agreed with the Crown Prosecutor that some of what was written in the notebook had been said by him. Simon smiled to himself.

"They'll never learn," he said to his men afterwards. "Every time, they have to say something. The whole question and answer thing in that notebook was rubbish. He didn't say a word, but that habit he has of saying 'you know' at the end of each sentence, sank him. Adding that convinced the jury that what I had written were literally Read's words."

By this time they had all had a few beers. After the guilty verdict Simon had taken the Crown Prosecutor and some of the witnesses to a pub for a few celebratory drinks. Read's barrister had turned up and Elvie accepted a few Jack Daniels's from Simon before he became abusive and had to be lead away. Now there was only Simon left. He downed his beer, picked up his change from the bar, and wandered outside. The evening was cool. It was not possible to see any stars, the street lights and the general reflection of large city lights precluded any chance of that. He missed the stars. He could remember going outside on the farm when he was young. Far away from the city lights the stars hung low in the sky. There was no pollution to filter the light. Night sounds were friendly; opossums, owls, hedgehogs, the movement of cows in nearby paddocks, the rattle of a dog chain as its wearer moved. That was then. This was now. Concrete and glass buildings. Parking meters marching authoritively along city streets. Paper and plastic turned slowly as it meandered towards an appointment with a collector. Groups of loud noisy people passed followed by lonely shuffling individuals going nowhere. Racing car engines accelerating from traffic lights, sirens in the distance, breaking glass down an alleyway. The sounds of city life. The sounds of his city. Yes, his city. He and his ran this place. They were the gods. They had the power. They had the authority.

Chapter Five

Simon reached his car and headed home but for some reason found himself outside Elaine's place. He looked at his watch. 10.30 pm. Lights were still on in the lounge. His first wife was still up, probably reading another of those historical romances. Plenty of sex in them. He got out of his car and pressed the door bell. Elaine opened the door.

"Hullo Simon," she said. "Coffee to sort you out again I suppose?"

Simon followed her into the kitchen and sat at the table while she put on the electric jug.

"I'm not intruding at all am I?" asked Simon.

"If you mean have I got a toy boy waiting in bed for me, then no," said Elaine reaching up to get the coffee jar. She automatically put in one coffee, two sugars and milk in Simon's old 'The Worlds Best Dad' mug. "What's the problem this time Simon?" she continued. "Nobody love you anymore?"

"No, no," said Simon. "Just in the neighbourhood you know."

"Don't hand me that shit," retorted Elaine. "The only time I ever see you is when you're pissed, in the shit, or feeling sorry for yourself. So which is it this time?"

"No El.," said Simon slipping back into the use of her nickname. "There's nothing unusual up."

"So what are you doing now? Still on Vice? Still picking on the working girls?" She poured the hot water into the mugs and sat down opposite Simon, putting the mugs onto coasters he had automatically put out. They saw each-other occasionally. While there had been a bit of animosity between them when he left her for Suzanne, they now understood they had married too young. They did have a pretty genuine friendship going for them however, and after the kids had died they had remained in touch. Perhaps that had upset Suzanne as well, and had just been another nail in that coffin. As Simon went over his problems with the official warning about Jane's Place, and other matters, he considered Elaine and her home. It was a home, a real home. It was also spotless. While the shelves were covered with ornaments and little objects that had taken her fancy over the years, there was no dust in sight. Crystals hung at the windows and Simon knew there would be a crystal buried at each corner of the house to keep out the evil spirits. To whistle inside was also forbidden. Such would whistle up the bad spirits. She had matured well and retained her looks, but she was probably heavier than she would want to be, although it suited her. No re-growth showed at the roots of her hair and her nails, real not false, were neatly shaped and polished. She still wore their wedding ring. Her green eyes followed Simon's conversation. There was a haunting familiarity about them. They were comfortable together. He knew there were no other men in her life on a regular basis. She had a steady income from investing the money she got from their property split, and she had got help from her moneyed parents. Tom and Jane Wallace were big commercial property owners. Simon had got on well with them and still saw them from time to time.

"So what are you going to do about Jane's? What's got up Shorty's nose about it?" asked Elaine.

"Fuck knows," said Simon. "I'm not sure. Something's wrong some where."

"How's the booze Simon?" asked Elaine with genuine concern.

"Same as always," he replied. "It's under control, nothing that I can't handle."

"What time did you start today?" she queried.

"Three or four this afternoon," he guessed. "After the verdict."

"Look at the time now. Simon you've got to face up to the fact that you do have a problem."

"No I don't."

"How many times this week have you only had a single pint or, even better, nothing, to drink? No don't be stupid. How many? I'll even bet you had a few on Sunday somewhere didn't you?"

"I've got too," defended Simon. "It's part of my job."

"Bullshit," exclaimed Elaine. "Simon"" she said quietly, "You've got to face up to the fact that you're an alcoholic. You are pissed more often than you are sober. I know you are under pressure. I know that you have to drink on occasions. I know that drinking relieves the pressure, but Simon, in moderation. In moderation. You're using it as an excuse and a crutch. It's affecting your work. You'd never get yourself into a position like the one you have with Jane's Place if the booze wasn't affecting you. Wake up before it's too late for God's sake."

Simon could feel the tears beginning to well up in his eyes. Elaine saw them. "Yes that's the way," she said. "Feel sorry for yourself. That'll be a great help. Typical of you though Simon, everyone and everything against you. It's nothing you've done. It's always them, them out there. They, whoever them and they are."

"Ever since Ali . . .," started Simon.

"Crap," said Elaine. "Don't blame that Ali and Pet. They were mine too. They belonged to lots of others. They weren't just yours Simon." Her voice softened. "I know it still hurts. It still hurts me too. You really don't know Simon how much their loss still hurts me. I don't think you ever did know. All you cared about was yourself. God but how I tried to explain it to you, but no, you were just the staunch cop. Keep it all bottled up inside eh? Don't show any weakness. Oh Simon, tell me your tears are for real and not just booze self pity."

Simon sat at the table with tears streaming from his eyes. He did not try to wipe them away. He kept his hands clasped round his coffee mug. He did not look at Elaine. He sniffed back the mucus.

"I'm sorry El.," confessed Simon. "I'm sorry. I know I've been pretty selfish. It's always been me, me, and me. I don't know any-other way though. I thought I was doing the right thing by you, and the kids. I fucked up though didn't I? What an arsehole I really am."

"Pretty much," agreed Elaine. She reached across the table and took his hands in hers. "Have you thought of AA?" she asked.

Simon nodded his head. "Oh yeah, but I wouldn't want the job to find out. No, no, it's something I'll have to do myself. I can you know."

Elaine stood up and walked around the table to stand behind Simon. She put her arms round him and kissed him on the top of his head. "Oh Simon, Simon," she sighed. "You'll never learn will you?"

Simon reached up and placed his hands over hers. "I miss you, you know," he said.

"Me too," she said.

He stood up and held her. She was familiar, like an old favourite something.

Their lovemaking followed the pattern of years before. While there was no screaming climax it was fulfilling and satisfying. He did not wear a condom, and did not know if Elaine had taken any precautions, or if she even needed to. As he got up from her bed, dawn was breaking and she mumbled something to him.

"What's that?" he queried.

"I said that if you went to AA and got off the booze then maybe we could see more of each-other."

"Could we?" asked Simon. "That would be nice."

As he arrived at work his mind kept going back to what Elaine had said. "Do I want to go back to her?" he asked himself as he continued his musings. "She was okay really, wasn't she? There wasn't the great passion but they were nice together. At least there would be decent meals cooked. There would be some one to go home to. Some one to talk with. Some one to listen. Some one to offer advice. Some one to nag. Some one to go on and on about a bloke having the odd beer. Well, maybe she was right. Maybe I do need to cut down on the amount I drink. Even if I did, I don't need AA do I? Do I? I'm not an alcoholic am I? I have a place to live, I have a job, and I'm not perpetually drunk am I? I do have the odd blank spot though don't I? Maybe. No, no, I'm not an alky. I can control my drinking. Just you wait and see. I won't have a drink today. That will show I'm okay. That will show that it's just a matter of self control. Maybe I won't have one the next day either. That is all supposing work doesn't require me to have a drink. Shit. Making excuses already. Not a good look."

Chapter Six

Simon looked through the notes on his desk. Yarmouth had telephoned and wanted him to return her call. He dialed the number.

"Hello, Denise speaking."

"Hi. It's Simon returning your call."

"Hi," the voice softened. "Look, can you get to see me today? I've got something you may be interested in."

"Oh yeah," said Simon.

"No not that silly," giggled Yarmouth. "Something else."

"Okay, where and when."

"Well, Mum and Dad are still away, what about here?"

Simon could see the bed, he could feel her body under him.

"Ah, how about somewhere else?" he asked.

"I can't," explained Yarmouth. "I have to stay here, I promised I would. Come on, you asked me to do something, I have, and now you don't want to know me."

"Okay," Simon gave in. "See you soon." He hung up the telephone. "I shouldn't be doing this," he told himself. "This is going to be trouble. No, I'll be stronger this time. Shit, I had it last night, I probably wouldn't be able to get it up. Not this soon anyway."

At noon, Simon formally noted that he intended visiting Yarmouth as an informant, responding to a call from her. He booked out a car and headed for Stormont Street. He went over the information Yarmouth had previously supplied, particularly the Father Joe bit. He had checked Criminal Intelligence Section photographs, and also sent surveillance pictures of Father Joe to the Secret Service, but nothing had come back so far. He parked just off Stormont Street and walked to the door of number 19. As he raised his hand to knock the door opened showing Yarmouth had been watching for him.

"Come on in," she invited standing to one side. She was dressed in a black leather mini-skirt and a white see through blouse. She was wearing a black bra. Her hair was hanging loose. On her feet she wore calf high black leather boots and her legs were encased in black stockings or panty hose. He could not place her perfume but it flowed over him. He stepped past her. She closed the door.

"In here," she said opening the lounge door. She stayed standing in the doorway so that Simon had to brush past her. His penis twitched. He sat in a single chair. Yarmouth sat on the couch opposite him and crossed her legs. Stockings, not panty hose, and no underwear. The blood flowed into his penis and he had to adjust his position to allow for the expansion. He formally took out his notebook and noted the time, date and place. He cleared his throat and tried to maintain eye contact with Yarmouth.

"Okay," he croaked. "What have you got for me?"

"Can't you see?" she asked re-crossing her legs.

"I can see," he nodded. "But I want to hear."

Yarmouth pouted. "Don't you like me anymore?"

"Of course I like you," snapped Simon. "But right now I want to hear what information you've got."

"You'll have to fuck it out of me," smiled Yarmouth uncrossing her legs and opening them just slightly but enough to show her pubic triangle.

With what he considered magnificent control, Simon stayed in his chair. "Don't play games with me girl," he tried to be authoritive. "Tell me what you have or I'll have to deal with you officially."

"What'll you do?" asked Yarmouth. "Spank me? Here, spank away."

With one movement she stood up, pulled her skirt away and bent over presenting her bottom to him. It was too much. Simon stood up and dropped his trousers and underpants. His penis sprung erect and he lunged forward. She braced herself with her arms on the couch armrest and pushed back against Simon. He reached forward and pulled her breasts free from the constraints of her bra. Holding her breasts he rode her. She reached back between her legs with one hand and played with herself until with a yell they collapsed onto the couch.

Chapter Seven

A homicide enquiry

Distantly a bell was ringing. It moved closer then further away and then closer and closer. Louder and louder. It penetrated until it could no longer be ignored. Simon opened his eyes and closed them again. The heat was awful. He could feel the sweat on his body and kicked out against the blanket covering him. Still the bell continued. No not a bell. The telephone. The telephone, where the hell was it?

"Yes?" he croaked into the receiver.

"Simon?" a voice asked.

"Of course it's me," Simon replied. "What do you want Dwayne?" he continued as he recognized the voice of his fellow Detective.

"You're in deep shit man," warned Dwayne. "Deep shit."

"What the fuck are you on about?"

"That informant you've been fucking is dead," said Dwayne brutally. "You know that I shouldn't be warning you, but I am, so you'd better sort yourself out and do it real quick." Dwayne hung up.

Simon replaced the receiver. He took stock of himself in the dressing table mirror. Where there were no cracks, and where the reflecting paint had not worn off, he did not make a pretty sight. His hair stood on end and he had developed another chin. His penis hardly put in an appearance below the folds of fat that now tumbled from his gut.

"How the fuck did I get like that?" he asked aloud. "I'll certainly have to get my shit together and start eating less and exercising more.

"Shit," he gasped as he turned his head suddenly and pain shot through it.

"So," he continued aloud, "Denise is dead. So what? Another good bit wasted but what's that got to do with me? People die all the time? Shit, how many sudden deaths have I been to in my time? Hundreds. What's one more got to do with me? What's Dwayne on about? Shit, I wish I could think properly. Fucking head. Ah, I know, the Post Mortem will show she's had recent sex and they'll put two and two together with my DNA and decide I've been boofing an informant. Shit, how will I get out of this one?"

The headache continued.

"Fuck it Simon," he said. "Get your shit together. Don't jump to conclusions. Don't admit anything."

His one sided conversation was interrupted by loud knocking at his door.

"Now what?" he asked. He pulled a towel that had been hanging over the back of a chair around himself and opened the door.

"Hello Simon." said Detective Sergeant Walker. "How's it hanging?"

"What do you want?" asked Simon ungraciously. If there was one person he could not stand it was Alan Bloody Walker. A wanker if ever there was one. Always pushing his own barrow and grovelling to the hierarchy.

"Aren't I invited in?" asked Walker.

"No you're fucking not," snarled Simon.

"Fine," said Walker. "Then get yourself together and come with me. D.I. Robertson wants a word."

"He'll have to wait," said Simon starting to close the door. "I'm on late shift and he doesn't own my private time."

Walker's foot and hand pushed against the door.

"You want to play it that way? Fine," said Walker. "This is official. It is also a direct order. Get dressed and come with me now. No shower, don't touch anything other than what you have to. Now get your arse into gear arsehole."

The pain in Simon's head intensified. He considered retaliatory action, but then thought better of it.

"Okay, okay," he said starting to dress. "What's it all about? What am I being fitted up for now? Who's doing it? You? Are you going to read me my rights? Keep your hands in your pockets Walker, I don't want you planting any incriminating evidence here."

Simon pulled on underwear, a tee shirt, shorts and then slipped his feet into jandals.

"Not dressing up for Robertson," he said to himself. "He's found out something and decided to get rid of me once and for all. Yes, that's what this is all about. He's going to fit me up for something regarding Yarmouth. Well he needn't think that I'm going to grovel."

"Not like you eh Walker?" he said aloud.

Simon and Walker went to an undercover police car. The journey to the Central Police Station was accomplished in silence. Simon noted that the car's two way radio was turned off but did not comment on it. Instead of going to the fifth floor Walker lead the way out of the lift on the fourth floor and directed Simon to an office at the end of the North corridor. As he walked towards the door, in front of Walker, Simon noticed that the incident room was in operation. Detectives were standing in groups either around white boards or computers. Folders were open on desks and typists worked furiously at word processors. Simon frowned. It was obvious that a homicide enquiry was in progress. Walker knocked on the office door and, upon being bid to do so, opened it.

"Detective Sergeant Simon Allan," announced Walker as he stood back to allow Simon to walk into the office.

Detective Inspector Robertson sat behind the standard issue Police desk. As always the desk was tidy with files neatly arranged. The standard issue Government print of an unidentifiable street scene hung on one wall. Although it was not his usual office, Robertson had the obligatory photograph of his wife and children on the window sill beside his copies of Police Regulations and General Instructions.

"Sit down Sergeant," said Robertson indicating a lone chair across the desk from him. Simon sat.

"Careful boy," he said to himself. "There's trouble here, big trouble. Get yourself together and tread real careful. Something is very, very wrong."

Walker closed the door and leaned against the wall, behind but to one side, of Simon. He took out his notebook and opened it. He took a fountain pen from his jacket inside pocket, and removed the cover preparing to take notes.

"Sir?" asked Simon.

"Where were you between Noon and 10 pm yesterday Sergeant?" asked Robertson.

Simon's mind raced. "Why the time frame? What's happening here?" he asked himself.

"Why Sir?" queried Simon aloud.

"Just answer the question please Sergeant," demanded Robertson.

"I am entitled to be informed of the reason for this interview Sir," stated Simon. "If it is for a disciplinary reason then I am entitled to have a witness of my choice present. That it is official is obvious by Walkers presence with his open notebook. No Sir, I do not intend to answer your question until I am in receipt of further information."

"I am ordering you to answer my question Sergeant," demanded Robertson.

"Sir," replied Simon. "The Police Act and Police General Instructions require me to submit a report if ordered. I accept that. In no way though Sir will that report be made voluntarily."

"Now get out of that you bastard," Simon said to himself knowing that the report could never be used against him as it would have been made under duress by a person in authority over him.

D.I Robertson looked as if he was going to explode. Simon watched the red slowly creep above his collar and engulf his entire face. He noted, with detached interest, that Robertson's ears twitched slightly with every blink of his eyes. Robertson leaned slowly forward and then stood up. With his fists closed he rested on his knuckles, leaned further across the desk, closed his eyes fractionally, and rasped out, "Sergeant Allan. As of now you are no longer a member of the Police. Your conduct in regard to the enquiry on Jane's Place, and your failing to adequately account for Police funds used in that operation, amounts to fraud. Now get out."

"Fuck," thought Simon. Aloud he said, "Sir, I deny any wrong-doing. You have not given me any opportunity to defend your allegations. It is my intention to take action against you and the department regarding this wrongful dismissal."

Simon stood and left the room, noting Walkers smirk as he did so. As he reached the ground floor Simon was met by a Uniformed Sergeant who took possession of his handcuffs and Identification card.

Simon opened the front door of his flat and stepped inside to semi-darkness. Although it was well after midday, he had not opened the curtains when he had left. That, and the warmth of the day, made the flat like an oven. He pulled back the lounge curtains and opened a window. It made little difference and only allowed another fly to join those already circling the room. He went to his bedside and picked up his wallet. It was the only reason he had returned. Simon opened it and checked that he had his bankcard and plenty of cash. As he went back to the front door to leave, there was a knock upon it. Pulling it open he was again confronted by Detective Sergeant Walker. Walker was accompanied by three other Detectives, a photographer, and two people he recognized as ESR staff, Government scientists who assist the Police with scene examinations, holding their crime scene kits. As Simon opened his mouth Walker spoke.

"This is a search warrant. You might like to read it. It authorizes us to search these premises for evidence in connection with the murder of Denise Yarmouth. It further authorizes us to take possession of clothes, fibres, papers, etc. You know the drill. You're fucked boyo."

Automatically Simon accepted the warrant handed to him. Walker stepped past him with the photographer, guiltily nodding at Simon, at his heels.

"Right," said Walker to the photographer. "General first of each room, and then standby until we need more detailed ones."

Once that was completed plastic mats were laid down and the 'team' went to work. Dully, Simon stood to one side watching what he was normally involved with.

"What a fucking brothel," said Walker. "You've been working with whores for so long you've become one Allan."

Simon looked at the scene before him. He accepted in his mind that he had let things slip a bit lately. Outside the front door were five or six crates of empty beer bottles. Inside the door, the rubbish started. Dust and dirt and cat fur gave the carpet a gray tinge. Newspapers lay on the floor, over the table, down beside the bed and beside the toilet bowl. The sink and bench were miraculously clear of dirty dishes apart from a couple of glasses. Dirty finger and hand marks had turned the refrigerator and freezer doors a yellow colour. The linoleum in the kitchen area was sticky from spilt goodness knows what, while behind the toilet bowl dust clung to where urine had splashed when he had missed the bowl. The yellow sheets on the unmade bed clearly had not seen the inside of a washing machine for sometime. The washing machine lid was up and it contained clothes that had been left in there after washing. They had turned into a solid ball. The sink was stained yellow and the hand basin in the bathroom held the remains of a cake of soap that had turned into glue. Thick dust covered everything. Dead flies lay along the window sills. Empty wine and spirit bottles were lined up beside the armchair in the lounge. Odd items of clothing lay on the lounge floor, with many more on chairs and the floor in the bedroom. Each area was searched systematically. Drawers were opened and inventories made of the contents. The sink, hand basin, bath and shower traps were all checked, and Simon's clothes and underwear bagged for removal. Finishing in the flat, they loaded Simon's car onto a trailer and took it away for examination. Simon was left in no doubt that this was a crime scene search and they intended to link him directly to Denise Yarmouth's death.

"Have a nice day," said Walker as he and his team left.

The days passed in a blur. Simon neither knew where he was, nor who he was with, or what he was doing. He could recall names: Liz, Rita, Cynthia, Alana. He could recall bodies; warm and comforting. Bodies he used to forget. Bodies to keep his mind from thinking. They did not really work. Sure, they provided him with something, but in the end not what he wanted. The past. The controlled past. The ordered past.

One morning he found himself lying on a gravestone. He was cold, sore and smelly. His head rested on a scroll forming part of the headstone. Above him part of the sky was blocked by an angels concrete wings.

"Fucking appropriate," he thought. He attempted to run his fingers through his hair but found it matted and greasy. It took several attempts for him to make it to his feet. He finally succeeding by getting onto his hands and knees and then, using the angel for support, dragging himself upright. He staggered to a drinking fountain and washed out his mouth. He pitifully splashed some water over his face. Looking around he recognized where he was. The gravestones left him in no doubt; the old cemetery by the Grafton Road bridge. Uncertainly he made his way out onto Karangahape Road. His legs seemed to be making a poor job of supporting him. He sat down upon a seat provided for shoppers, walkers, or those overcome with grief, or whatever, from having visited their dearly departed. Passersby gave him a wide berth.

"Hi Simon. How are ya today?"

The voice came from an attractive, but not particularly beautiful, young girl. Well, Simon decided she was a girl, although on closer inspection she was about 26 to 30 years of age. She wore clothes that resembled a uniform with a white blouse and dark skirt.

"Fine," said Simon. "Fine." He went to stand up and fell heavily.

"Oh dear," said the girl woman. "Here, let me help you up." With assistance Simon made it back onto the seat.

"You don't remember me do you?" asked the girl woman.

"Of course I do," contradicted Simon. "We met at some night club, the Crypt wasn't it? We ended up back at your place. Hey, wasn't that some night? Maybe we could do it again. We were good together weren't we? How about tonight? Even better, how about now?"

The girl woman laughed. "Don't be silly Simon," she said. "I help out at the Mission kitchen by the Night Shelter. I'm not one of your legendary girlfriends. I'm Pamela."

"Oh yeah, Pam," said Simon blankly.

"Come on," said Pamela. "We've got to get you sorted out. Where do you live?"

"Ah, fucked if I know actually," confessed Simon.

He watched as Pamela took a mobile telephone from her pocket. He could not quite catch the words but when she came and sat beside him, she told him that things were being sorted out. Within ten minutes, a van pulled up in front of them. The driver was wearing the some style of uniform clothes as Pamela, but trousers instead of a skirt. Simon had no idea what organization it represented. Aided by Pamela, and the driver, he managed to climb into the van and strap himself into a seat. The doors were closed and Pamela and the driver sat up the front. Simon could not hear all the conversation between the two of them but caught snatches:

"A drunk."

"Needs a bath...a feed."

"Looks familiar."

"Several times with various working girls."

The van stopped after entering an underground carpark. Simon was helped from it and taken through double swing doors and up a flight of stairs into an empty hall. He sat down on a wooden bench and had a small table pushed in front of him. Pamela produced a mug full of liquid and placed it before him. He recognized the smell and texture of tomato soup. At Pamela's urging, he drank the soup, although his shaking hands caused the mug to chatter against his teeth. A second mug and two pieces of hot buttered toast appeared, and while he attended to those, he allowed Pamela to remove his wallet from his hip pocket. He watched dully as she opened it. Just inside was a perspex holder with his name and address written on it.

"So it's Simon Allan is it?" asked Pamela. "I suppose this 14A White Street is your current address?" Simon shrugged. "Is anyone home there?" queried Pamela. "Anyone who can look after you?"

"I dunno," responded Simon. "Can't remember too well actually."

"Let's see then shall we?" said Pamela. She lead Simon back to the van and drove them to 14A White Street. The front door was closed but unlocked. This was just as well because Simon was unable to find his keys.

"Welcome to my humble abode, I think," mumbled Simon leading the way inside. Pamela followed. The place was a pig sty. It was worse now than when Simon left it following the Police search, as far as he could recall. Memory was not his strong point at the moment. All the drawers had been tipped out and garbage littered the floor. Some-one, or something, had defecated on a pile of bedding. Something had blocked the toilet, which had overflowed and then dried leaving bits of toilet paper in hard little lumps over the floor. No structural damage was apparent. He glanced around and then his gaze settled on Pamela. Even though the smell was almost unbearable, and the drone of flies incessant, she gave the appearance of finding the surroundings as nothing out of the ordinary.

"Well," she said. "Clearly you haven't been home for a few days. It appears as though you have had visitors though doesn't it?" Simon nodded his head. Although the soup and toast had settled his stomach a little he still felt queasy.

"I'll make a cuppa shall I?" asked Pamela. "Then we'll get stuck in and sort this place out. Where's the tea?"

Before Simon could answer, the front door was pushed open and Detective Sergeant Walker and a companion walked in.

"Simon me old mate," said Walker. "We've been waiting for you to return. We need to have a bit of a chat. At Central would be a good place and now would be a good time."

"Fuck off," said Simon.

"Now, now," smiled Walker. "Language, language. After all there is a lady present. Well I suppose she's a lady. Being with you though I doubt that she is. How much do you charge love?"

"Mr. Allan has asked you to leave so please do so," said Pamela primly. "I don't know who or what you think you are but he is not well and not in any condition to speak with anyone."

"See this lady," snarled Walker thrusting his identification card at Pamela. "This gives me all the right I need. Your boyfriend here has been a naughty boy. He's been fucking a carnie, she's been murdered, and his cock was the last in 'er. In my mind that makes him a prime suspect, so whether you like it or not he's coming with us."

Walker and his mate grabbed Simon by his arms. Simon automatically attempted to shrug them off. He was immediately thrown to the floor and handcuffed.

"Alright big boy," puffed Walker. "If you want it the hard way then that's how it will be."

Walker, and his mate, hauled Simon upright and marched him towards the door. Pamela stepped forward as though to prevent them leaving. Walker thrust his hip at her and knocked her to the ground.

"Better leave pretty boy here to us," Walker advised.

"I'll have a lawyer meet you at the Police Station," Pamela shouted to Simon.

"Don't bother," mumbled Simon. "It's a fit up. I'll catch up with you later."

The back door of the Police car was opened and Simon was pushed in. Unable to support himself, a combination of being handcuffed behind his back and his general weakness, he hit his head against the door armrest. He groaned. A wave of nausea flowed through him. With difficulty he held back the vomit that rose in his throat. He noticed nothing on the journey to the Police Station. The sun beating down on him through the window caused his head to throb. His mouth was parched. The handcuffs were cutting into his wrists. The cool of the Police Station, as the car drove down the ramp, was welcome. Simon heard the grilled gate closing behind the car and then felt himself being pulled from it. Once out of the car, Simon stood swaying on uncertain feet. Walker's right fist drove into his stomach. Simon doubled over. Vomit spewed from his mouth. Red vomit. Tomato soup, but it looked like blood.

"Shit man," said Walker's companion. "You've really done it this time. That's internal bleeding."

"You didn't see nothing, okay?" ordered Walker. "He must have hurt himself elsewhere. Now, help me get him upstairs."

Chapter Eight

The interview room on the 5th floor was like interview rooms in Police Stations the world over. The walls were painted enamel green and there was a table chained to the floor with four chairs similarly secured. A video camera lens pointed down at Simon as he sat in a chair on one side of the table. Across from him sat Detective Sergeant Walker and Detective Inspector Robertson. Robertson intoned the usual time, date, place crap and who was present, as if it wasn't obvious. Robertson then cleared his throat, leaned back on his chair, lifting the two front legs of the chair off the floor, and spoke.

"Okay Simon. We got off to a wrong start the other day. I apologise. Let me put you fully in the picture. At 1000 hours on the 10th July, Denise Yarmouth, a fifteen year old prostitute, was found dead at 19 Stormont Street by her parents. They had returned from a visit to out of town relatives. The front door was unlocked but the rest of the house was secure. Yarmouth was lying on her bed in her room. She was killed by a gun shot to the head. There was no sign of a struggle. The post mortem showed that she had had sexual intercourse approximately twelve hours before her death. It also showed that she was pregnant."

"Fuck," thought Simon. "Fifteen and pregnant." The words had penetrated his pain. "Couldn't be mine that quickly, could it?" he thought, not daring, at that stage, to voice his belief aloud.

Robertson continued, "Our scene examination confirms your presence at Yarmouth's. That is to be expected of course, and you did note your involvement, albeit allegedly professionally, with her as an informant. It has also, through DNA obtained from your flat during the execution of a search warrant, confirmed you as a sexual partner, and possibly as father of the unborn child. Local area enquiries have confirmed your arrival at Yarmouths at 1215 hours on 9 July and your departure at 1430 hours. That would near enough confirm you as her last sexual partner. Nobody else was seen to leave or enter the property until her parents arrived home.

"You clearly have a motive for the murder; several motives actually. First, if there was the possibility of you and your wife getting back together, that wouldn't happen if she knew you had impregnated a minor. Secondly, if you knew she was pregnant to you, then you would be aware you faced statutory rape charges. Thirdly; her diary indicates she was undertaking some enquiries, on your behalf, into a subject code named Father Joe, whom she believed to be involved in drug importation or contract killing. Perhaps the contract was on her, by you.

"At this stage Sergeant an awful lot of evidence points to you. As a matter of fact I have reviewed the evidence with the Crown Solicitor and as a result of that I must now caution you and advise that whatever you do say may be used in evidence against you. You are also allowed to instruct a Solicitor and if you do not know one, or cannot afford one, one will be provided for you."

Simon shook his head. Not a good move, the pain rocked from side to side. He tried to figure out what exactly was going on. The only thing that kept repeating itself to him was, "Shit, shit, shit, you're in deep shit boy and there ain't no way out of this."

"Do you have anything to say?" asked Robertson.

"Only that I am innocent. I did not kill Yarmouth and had nothing to do with her death in anyway what-so-ever."

"What did you discuss with Yarmouth on the 9th July?" asked Robertson.

"No," thought Simon. "Don't go down that line." Aloud he said, "I have nothing to say Sir."

"Did you have sex with Yarmouth right from the beginning of your relationship or did it develop? Did you go back to Yarmouth's for a second time on the 9th July? Come on Simon. You're in trouble here. Get it all out and we'll do our best to see you right."

"Yeah," said Simon to himself. "Right into the crap." He slumped lower in his chair. "Look," he said aloud. "I'm not well. I'm ill. Can't you see that? I need medical help. I'm not in any condition to be questioned. Either charge me or let me go."

"Okay," advised Robertson. "We could hold you for sex with a minor. It is, however, not our intention to charge you at this stage. There is a minor discrepancy regarding the actual time of death so you are free to go, but we are not forgetting you. Even a loser like you are turning out to be, must realize that you're the prime suspect for her murder. We'll get the clinching evidence in due course, rest assured.

"Sergeant, escort Allan from the premises will you?"

Simon found himself standing on the public's side of the Watch-house counter.

A uniformed Constable indicated a young man in a smart two piece suit with a red striped tie and said to Simon, "Your Solicitor."

"Mr. Allan?" queried the suit.

"Possibly, no make that probably," said Simon. "Where do you fit in?"

"Miss Stevens asked that I act for you at this stage. She believes you are in some serious trouble. Criminal work is not my specialty but at least I can assist in stalling matters until we work out something better."

"Ah, thanks, but no thanks," said Simon. "Mr. . . who did you say you were?"

"I did not. Thomas Williams." A card mysteriously appeared. "I work for Jones-Thompson and act for the City Mission in their property matters. It is in that capacity that I know Miss Stevens. Actually it is only as a favour to her that I agreed to attend on you."

"Miss Stevens?" asked Simon.

"Yes, Miss Stevens, Miss Pamela Stevens. Her father is Sir Albert Stevens, the Head of the Stock Exchange. Surely you know of him?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure," said Simon. "Probably."

"What she could possibly want with the likes of you I do not know," continued Williams. "As it appears I am not wanted, I will be on my way. I would recommend you approach some one with a view to applying for legal aid. Get yourself tidied up at the same time." Thomas Williams lifted his briefcase, nodded to the constable behind the counter, and left the Watch House.

"Well done Sarge," said the Constable to Simon. "Now you better be on your way as well."

Chapter Nine

Noise rose and fell, sweeping over him but not registering. From time to time the table was jolted by people intent on other tasks and destinations. Steadily Simon worked through his drinks. Refill after refill initially had little effect upon him. He was aware that what he was doing was not helping, but was powerless to do anything about it. He tried to consider his position but his mind kept wandering. He knew he was in serious trouble but could see no way out of it. Okay, he had not killed Yarmouth. He knew that, even if nobody else did. Any normal person would accept the fact that if he had not killed her, then when all the evidence came out, no jury would be able to find him guilty, as there would be reasonable doubt. Simon knew better though. He had ensured convictions against innocents from time to time. He had reasoned that while they might not be guilty of that particular crime, they were guilty of others so they were only getting their just desserts. Shit, but the shoe was on the other foot now. Look at facts. Denise was dead. Someone had killed her. It was not him. If he had not killed her, then there had to be a killer loose out there somewhere. Surely he could not be the only suspect? After all she was a whore wasn't she? God knows how many clients she had had in her lifetime. Anyone of them may have killed her. She may have been blackmailing one. Father Joe. How had he got onto him? He tried to concentrate, to reason, but his mind kept slipping away. Hey, he was drowning. Simon jerked up knocking a glass from someone's hand. Fuck. It was not water he was drowning in, it was piss on the table where he had hit his head as he slumped forward. He wiped his nose with the back of his right hand. Blood from his nose stained it red. Rough hands grabbed him and pushed him towards the side door of the bar room.

"On your way Sunshine," said an unknown voice as Simon was propelled from the premises, only to trip and fall on the footpath. He was aware of grazing his right knee and elbow before falling into unconsciousness.

Voices, unknown voices, dragged Simon back to consciousness. Starched sheets, starched pillows, echoing sounds. The squeak of rubber shoes on polished floors. The 'beep, beep' of electronic gadgetry. The huffing, puffing and hissing of pumps. A hospital.

"Mr. Allan. Mr. Allan." The voice was somewhat insistent. With reluctance he grunted an acknowledgement. He tried to swallow but there was an obstruction. In attempting to lift his arm and clear whatever was in his mouth he found his arm restrained. His other arm was in similar straights. He willed his brain to open his eyes but they would not respond either.

"Mr. Allan," that voice. "Don't upset yourself. You are in hospital. My name is Mr. Paul. I am a neurosurgeon. You have been the subject of some considerable violence and as a consequence we have been keeping you in an induced coma to stabilize you. Quite frankly it was touch and go all round. You have quite severe head injuries but the prognosis is excellent. We will remove most of the life support assistance later today, along with the eye covers and restraints. You'll then be well along the road to recovery. There are Policemen here who wish to talk with you, but they will not be permitted to do so at this stage. Your only visitors will be family. I will check you again later this afternoon. Good day to you Mr. Allan."

Another voice followed the receding squeaks of the surgeon's shoes.

"Well there we are then Mr. Allan. You'll be up and about in no time. My name is Jennifer and I'm your nurse." Simon felt hands adjusting and tucking. "There is a tube down your throat at the moment but that'll be coming out shortly and we'll release your arms. You must promise to be a good boy and not use the left arm. It's got a drip in it. Once that's done I'll let Mrs. Allan in to see you. Now, that'll be nice won't it?"

"Hello Simon." Simon recognised Elaine's voice.

"Hi love," said Simon. "I seem to have made a bit of a fuck up of things eh?"

"This is the end Simon. I know it's not a good time to say this but it really is over between us. You've a real problem with booze that you won't acknowledge. Now I find out that you've been having an affair all the time you were saying you wanted to get back with me. Not only that but she was only 15 for God's sake. Simon how could you? You promised. But that's it. I can't take, and won't take, it anymore. I don't know you. You're not normal anymore. You do know they'll lock you up for her murder don't you? Simon, you're a murderer. I just can't take it anymore. Here." Simon felt paper being placed on his chest. "This is a trespass notice. You're not to come near my place. In the next few days you'll receive other papers. It is all over. Goodbye Simon. Oh, and by the way, your whore is waiting outside. I pity her."

Simon heard the doors see-saw to a stop. He had not had a chance to defend himself. Well he could not have anyway could he? He drifted off to sleep after the eye-covers were removed, to reawaken the next day as he felt his bedding being adjusted. A tall thin man in a sombre suit stood beside his bed.

"Well Mr. Allan," said the suit. "I'm Richard Paul. As far as I'm concerned you are well on the road to recovery. I have given permission for the Police to speak with you. I understand that it relates to a serious matter but my opinion is that you are sufficiently recovered to be able to understand and handle an interview. You will not be well enough to leave our attention for at least a fortnight however. Now, I will leave you to the Police."

Simon watched Walker and Robertson enter the room. Robertson moved to Simon's left hand side.

"You are still under caution. Do you understand that?" he asked.

Simon nodded.

"Do you wish to have a solicitor present?"

Simon shook his head. Walker made an entry in his notebook. Robertson continued. "I hereby charge you that you did, on or about the 9th day of July, at Auckland, murder Denise Ruth Yarmouth. Do you have anything to say in answer to the charge?"

Simon shook his head.

"We will convene a Court here tomorrow at 9am so you can plead or do whatever you want to at that stage. In the meantime you are in Police custody and a Constable will keep you under guard at all times."

Robertson and Walker left.

He had known despair. Well he though he had, but none of it compared with the blackness that now engulfed him. Tears poured from his eyes. He could feel vomit rising in his throat. All sound disappeared. It was as if he was in a vacuum. He tried to speak aloud but was unable to force the words from his mouth. He tried to picture peace in his mind, but his brain refused to contemplate anything other than the darkest deepest night he had ever known. Nothing could penetrate the all engulfing blanket. How long it actually lasted he never knew. Judging by subsequent conversations it must have lasted for some weeks. The period was a complete blank. All he could recall were the words "that you did murder Denise Ruth Yarmouth" until one day, he found himself sitting at the table in his flat eating a McDonalds hamburger with an open flagon of beer nearby. One moment he had no memory other than his being charged, and a black curtain descending, and then suddenly he was sitting at his table in his flat. He felt unreal. Sounds came to him. Louder than he had ever known. Sounds that were foreign, yet familiar. Music, voices, traffic. All the sounds of a life that he was unable to recall having been aware of recently. He looked around himself. Booze lay deep about him but there was also a certain degree of order. There were no dishes in the sink. Clothes were not piled everywhere. The clothes he was wearing were clean. The kitchen linoleum had been polished and the carpet vacuumed. He got up from the table and found he could do so with only a little bit of unsteadiness. His hands were shaking violently, however, and he pushed them into his pockets in an attempt to still them. Dying for a pee he found the toilet clean but his aim unsteady. A glance in the mirror caused him to stop and examine himself. A complete stranger stared back at him. His hair was now gray, although most of it was still thick. His eyes were yellow and sunken. Only a day's growth was apparent so he must have shaved recently. His shirt collar was several sizes too large for the scrawny neck that sprouted from it. He found his belt several notches tighter than it had been. Although his bed was unmade the sheets were clean. His out of date calendar had been replaced with a current one depicting religious scenes. Days had been crossed off or circled with a red marker. There were notations made that did not make sense to him. Ct., Nxt 26/8, Dr. 10am, Mr. Calci 2pm. The crossed out dates ceased on the 15 September, a Saturday. Simon looked at the clock on the stove. It read 12.30pm. A newspaper lay beside the sofa. He picked it up and looked at the date; Saturday 15 September.

He sat down as an awful emptiness entered him. Clearly he was missing a large chunk of his life. Today must be either Sunday the 16 September or later. Where had he been? What had he been doing? What, why, where, how? Questions chased each-other round and round in his head. He got up from the sofa and went back to the table. He lifted the flagon of beer and amid much shaking, clattering, and missing, poured a glass. He took one sip and almost gagged on the taste. Obviously he did not like beer anymore he decided. The number of bottles laying around suggested otherwise. The sound of a key in the door lock! He turned. The door swung open and in walked . . .

Chapter Ten

A Detective detects

"Who the fuck are you?" Simon asked. "Hey, wait a moment don't tell me. I recognize you. You are, um, you are . . ."

"Pamela," said Pamela. "Well Praise the Lord you've come back from the dead, or wherever you were. You've had me and every one else so worried Simon."

The concern in her voice triggered something inside him and Simon could feel the prickle of tears starting in his eyes. He could feel a comfort within the woman called Pamela, yet was unable to relate it to his past.

"Now, now," she said. "None of those tears with me. They won't get you anywhere. Ah, I see you found your last nights tea."

Pamela put the plastic bag she was carrying down on the kitchen bench, and picked up the remains of the hamburger and threw it into the bin.

"No more drinks for you today either, although I know you'll be at it once I leave," she continued. She put the flagon into the refrigerator. "Now, you sit down and I'll rustle up a little something to eat before I get the place tidied up again."

Simon found himself sitting quietly at the table watching while Pamela wiped it, and worked at the kitchen bench making ham, lettuce and tomato sandwiches with the ingredients she had taken from the plastic bag. Once the sandwiches were made she prepared tea in the teapot and set the table. Simon took a bite of his sandwich and realized he was famished. As he ate he felt a sense of comfortableness flow over him. The sandwiches were eaten in silence, but it was a companionable silence. It did not need breaking.

As they were washing the sandwiches down with a cup of tea, Pamela settled back in her chair and gazed quizzically at him.

"Clearly you're getting back to your old self Simon," she said. "How do you feel, and how does it feel?"

"I honestly don't know," said Simon, somewhat hesitantly. "There's a large chunk of me missing. I can remember that some one I know was killed but I feel as though it was a long, long, time ago. If the paper and calendar are anything to go by then it's now sometime in September, or later, and the last I remember is sometime in July, I think." Simon's voice faltered. "I know that this is not like me. Not like what I had become anyway. And," he looked around the room, "clearly something has been going on here. As you let yourself in and intended cleaning, some of it's to do with you. Where you fit in and why though I have no idea. I'm sorry. Can you help me?" It sounded like begging to Simon but he could see no other way.

"You've had a bad time Simon. A really bad time. What's the very last thing you can remember?"

"Well it's a bit hazy but I think I am suspected of killing that person who died. I know that I am a Policeman but everything else is pretty hazy."

"There's a lot of catching up to do," said Pamela. "Pour yourself another cuppa and let's sit down over on the sofa while I bring you up to date."

Several cups of tea later Simon said, "It's amazing how everything is coming back to me. So, to sum everything up, I was charged with murdering Yarmouth, an informant of mine, a court was convened at the hospital, but no plea was taken. I was remanded in custody but your lawyer friend got me out on bail straight from the hospital on the grounds that the evidence, at that stage, was insufficient to support the charge and the presumption of innocence should apply. Conditions of that bail were that I was to be supervised by you. While this is so at the moment, the charge remains with a long remand period while the Police continue to gather, or fix, enough evidence to nail my arse? Sound right?"

"My but you are good aren't you?" replied Pamela. "That's exactly it."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Well you didn't do it did you?" queried Pamela. "While I have no evidence, I can sense, in you, a deep down sincerity, a basic goodness."

"Well I'm sorry but I'll have to disappoint you. Things are starting to jell in my mind now and I think that I'm rotten to the core. I believe I am the original sinner in a big way. I'm afraid your Girl Scout bit won't work on me. To coin a phrase, I'm bad to the bone."

"There is good in everyone," said Pamela primly.

"Not this boyo," retorted Simon. "Believe you me, the best thing you could do is leave right now and never look back. If all you say is true, then you've done the world for me, and because of that I'll probably miss you. I can guarantee though that if you stay I'll ruin you. As I recall at this stage, I've done the dirty on everyone else so I doubt you'll be the exception that proves the rule."

Pamela tipped her head to one side. Some of her hair strayed across her eyes but their green glowed like emerald fire.

"Simon Allan," she said. "I'm big enough and old enough to look after myself. I'm not the frail flower you seem to think. Okay, life has been good to me with moneyed parents and the like, but it's also because I've chosen to find the good in the bad and the hopeless. With the Mission I work for, I search out the bad, the ugly, the sick, the unforgiven, and the untouchables. I find them and I care for them. Alright, I also try and put them on the straight and narrow. I do try and turn them on to our Lord. In the process I've been hurt more times than you've had drinks, and that's uncountable. The same way I've battled for hopeless cases before, I'll battle for you and expect no thanks for it. I'll not walk away until I've lost you forever."

"Shit," replied Simon, adding ungraciously. "I suppose that means I'll have to put up with you for a while then." As if he knew how bad that had sounded he continued, "I'm sorry. I should be more grateful but people have tried before and failed. Most of it is my own fault I know, but there it is. That's me. I can try and change but I'll fail again. It's great you care but let's face it, what can you really do for me? What can I do for myself? If I recall things properly, Shorty Robertson and Walker will stitch me up real good. Don't believe they won't. The end result will be me inside looking out and the inside bit won't be too cosy. I've put a fair few there over the years, and some are still there. Life, my life, won't be worth two pence."

"I don't believe that," retorted Pamela.

"Well you're thick as shit then," snarled Simon.

"There's no need to talk like that," said Pamela sharply. "I'm not going to listen to it. Now, I've got to be going. You're not my only concern. I'll look back in on you this evening. While I'm gone I expect you to make some attempt to keep the place tidy. You could make your bed for a start. Once you've done that I think you should try and remember all you can about the woman you are meant to have killed. Write it down and then try and find an answer. If you didn't do it, then someone else must have. You're a Policeman, a Detective. Do what a Detective would do, detect. Whatever you do, don't sit around feeling sorry for yourself. That won't work."

The door shut on her final words and Simon was left alone in his flat. The silence pressed in upon him. He looked at his shaking hands and folded his arms across his chest in an attempt to keep them still.

"It's alright for her," said Simon aloud. "She's not the one facing a lifetime inside. She doesn't know how it is with coppers. Especially that prick Walker. He'll fit me up no trouble. Pay a witness here, leave a bit of evidence there. I haven't got a show. Christ. I need a drink. Just one and then I'll be right. Yeah. It'll help me steady my nerves. Now, where was that flagon?" Simon spilled some beer into a glass and took a swallow. He spat it straight out.

"Fuck," he exclaimed. "It's off or something." He suddenly did not feel like having a drink. "It'll just be a temporary thing," he consoled himself.

He sat down again, and picking up the newspaper, stared at it blankly. He put the newspaper down. He picked up the television remote controller, pressed the 'on' button, flicked through the channels and pressed the 'off' button. He stood up, went to the window and looked out. The trees were bare and he could not tell if it was because the leaves had just fallen or the buds were about to appear. He registered the unmarked Police car waiting for him to move but there was no reaction. He went to his bed and pulled up the duvet.

"There," he said aloud. "That should keep you happy." He picked up the book lying on the drawers. The Holy Bible. He gave a sort of half grunt and dropped it back down. He sat again. His eyes wandered the room and settled on a picture of two children. It was a Polaroid snapshot pinned to the wall with a tack. The edges were partly curled up but that did not matter. Simon did not need to see the picture. Alison and Petra! Tears welled up in his eyes. They spilled over and he could feel them running down his cheeks. A sob escaped him. He could feel the darkness about to envelope him.

"Don't sit there feeling sorry for yourself." The words penetrated, dragged from somewhere. "That won't work." The darkness was held at bay momentarily. He swallowed. "You're a Policeman, a Detective, do what Detective's do." The words hung in the air, the fetid air of the flat. A ray of light pushed at the darkness.

"But I'm not a cop anymore," argued Simon. The darkness advanced. His eyes fell on a manual lying beside his chair. The gold title had faded into the green of the cover but Simon did not need to read it. Detectives Manual!

"You are a Policeman. Once a cop always a cop! Not a cop but a Demon, and a good 'D' at that.

"Who said that?

"You did. Pull yourself together." The light intensified. The darkness receded slightly. Unaware he had been arguing with himself Simon shook his head and reached out for the Police Department's Manual for Detectives. He opened it up at the heading, Homicide. As his eyes ran down the list of points to prove, steps to take, and appointments to be made, the darkness moved further and further away. His mind wandered over previous homicide enquiries he had been involved with. It ranged over suspects he had interviewed, offenders he had arrested, enquiries he had made.

"Yes," said Simon aloud. "I was a good cop. One of the best thief catchers around! Okay, things have been a bit rough lately but the touch won't have deserted me. That Pamela girl was right. I'd better get my arse into gear."

"But what about Walker?" The words came busting through Simon's brave words. The darkness hovered again. "He'll set you up. You know he will. It's been done before." The darkness crept closer. "You could have killed her you know. You were there. You were fucking her for God's sake. Oh Christ she was even pregnant." The recalled accusation from Robertson brought the darkness to him. It wrapped itself round him. There was no escape.

"Someone's at the door! Someone's at the door! Someone's at the door." Finally the knocking penetrated the enveloping cloud and Simon was able to sense that some part of his mind was telling him there was knocking at his door. The sound pushed the cloud slightly away.

"Alright, alright," he shouted as he levered himself up from the chair and crossed to the door. From habit he checked through the peephole but could not see anyone or thing. He then noticed part of an envelope protruding under the door. Knowing it was pointless he never-the-less put the safety chain on the door and opened it as wide as the chain would allow. He could see no-one so closed the door, removed the chain, and opened it fully. All there was to see was the envelope. A plain white envelope. Sealed. No writing on it. Simon picked it up and shut the door. He could feel that there was something solid inside the envelope. He crossed to the kitchen, opened the cutlery drawer and slit the envelope open with the knife he picked up. His Police notebook fell out. Picking it up he automatically flicked it open to the last entry. Time, date and place. The Police standard entry drummed into you at the college.

1330 hrs. 9 July. 19 Stormont Street. Informant D.Y. advises: Father Joe's real name Peter Donahue. Nationality U.K. To N.Z. about 20 years ago. Works with Slum Patrol.

The darkness receded and Simon's mind slipped into gear. He started, just a little, to think like a Policeman. Searching through drawers he found an old scrap of paper. It had yellowed through exposure to the sun at some stage, and had numerous creases criss-crossing it where it had been folded and shut in a door to stop it banging when the weather came from the east. Another search located two pencil stubs too short to sharpen, three biros that would not write, and finally one that did, with the message 'Jesus Lives' on it.

"I'm glad about that," muttered Simon.

Smoothing the paper out on the table he headed it up 'Thoughts'. A time of silence ensued during which he gazed up at the ceiling while tapping the biro against his front bottom teeth. Eventually he pulled his legs back from under the table, wrote the number 1 and circled it before writing beside it 'notebook'. A few more taps of his teeth and then he wrote (a) entries, (b) taken from?, (c) taken by?, (d) returned by?

With that accomplished, he supported his chin with the pen still between his first two fingers and thumb of his right hand, his elbow on the table, and stared, unfocussed, towards the stove. More time crept past until he wrote 2, circled it and then followed that with the word 'Yarmouth'. He then followed this with sub-headings; (a) background, (b) associates, (c) haunts, (d) clients. Again he paused, and again he supported his chin, but this time used his left arm to assist in the support while he focused his gaze on the middle distance. More time passed. Simon stirred again. He wrote 3, circled it, and wrote the word 'local enquiries', then a sub-heading of (a). He dropped the pen onto the paper and crossed to the kitchen area where he made a cup of coffee, Bushels instant, in a cracked mug with the words 'Worlds greatest star' emblazoned on the side. He returned to the table, leaving a ring on the kitchen bench where he had over-stirred the liquid sweetener into the coffee, and picked up the pen again. He completed the sub-headings; (a) regulars, (b) strangers, (c) vehicles. The pen was then put down on the paper and his right hand replaced it with the handle of the mug.

As he sipped, he stretched his legs out under the table and leaned back in the chair. His mind wandered, touching on items in his thoughts, moving on, returning to examine them, skipping to something else, darting off on a tangent, returning to the present, examining the past: Petra, Alison, Elaine, Suzy, his Mum and Dad, the army, the Police, past investigations, friends, associates, vehicles, dreams, his sisters, booze. He lifted his mug to find it empty, the last drops consumed during his reverie. He crossed to the kitchen area to make another coffee. Evening was well advanced and it was necessary to turn on the lights.

A key rattled in the door but Simon had replaced the safety chain so he had to remove it before Pamela could enter.

"Well," Pamela stood and looked around the flat. "I take it things are looking up?"

Simon grinned in a stupid fashion. "I took your advice. Yes I am a cop. Well, was a cop, and a good one. Perhaps not the absolute best, but a bloody good thief catcher. Okay, I'll admit to unlawful sex but I'm buggered if I'm going to go down for something I didn't do. There's the odd chance I may have killed Yarmouth, or been involved in her death somehow. If I was, then I'll face up to it. If I'm not then I guess the only way I'll prove my innocence is by catching the 'perp.'

"Coffee?" Without waiting for an answer Simon set about boiling the kettle. He re-used his mug, without washing or rinsing it, and took another from the coffee mug tree for Pamela.

"Ah, how do you have it again?" Simon queried.

"Black thanks," said Pamela sitting down at the table. She dropped her hand bag on the floor beside her and placed stained beer coasters into position for the mugs. Simon sat opposite her. A period of silence ensued as they sipped their drinks and looked at each-other.

"So?" asked Pamela.

"Meaning?" countered Simon.

"Life starts again does it?" asked Pamela with raised eyebrows. "By yourself or what? How? Where? When? You know. All the big questions of life."

"Well I guess what they say about today being the first day of the rest of your life can be true," stated Simon. "I know it's not going to be the least bit easy but hey, I reckon with a bit of guts and determination I'll make it. How you ask? Well I'm not really sure. I guess if I follow the old alcoholics adage about changing the things I can change, and accepting those things I can't change, then I'll be well on my way. Another coffee?"

At her nod, Simon crossed to the sink, re-boiled the kettle and returned to the table with re-filled mugs.

"So, how do you see this new direction and all?" asked Pamela as she turned her mug round and round. The coaster turned at the same time, fastened to the mug by the spills from it.

"Well I've sort of got some ideas," volunteered Simon. He pulled his list over and read from it. As he listed the items Pamela stared up at a spot on the ceiling. Simon finished the short list.

"Okay," said Pamela returning her gaze to Simon, and pushing her mug toward one side. "You're not going to be able to do all that by yourself. Now, I'll help you as much as I can, and on top of that there is money available . . .

"No," interrupted Simon. "No money."

"Don't be silly," retorted Pamela. "Face facts. You know money will be needed. I have more than enough. In the interests of Justice it's yours. If you want to go funny on me then you can consider it a loan. To start with we'll make it $10,000. We'll arrange a credit card with that already loaded on it, and with a $10,000 limit as well. If you must repay it, then do so to a charity and give me the receipts in due course. Will that arrangement fit with your feelings?"

"Humph," was the reply.

"I'll take that as a yes," smiled Pamela. "However, there is one string attached. There is the requirement that I be your partner."

"No," she held up her hand as Simon started protest. "Them's the rules. While you may feel as though you can take on the world at the moment, that will not last. I'll try and help you on the investigation side when, where and however I can, but the one thing I can do is keep you up and focused when you have your down times, and you will have them. Deal?" She held out her hand.

With his silly grin on his face Simon took it. "Deal".

"Good," said Pamela. "That's sorted. So what's the plan?"

"Well I want to do this exactly as though I was still a Detective. Everything must be detailed. All the enquiries I make will be job sheeted and statements taken will be witnessed."

"What's a job sheet?" asked Pamela.

"It's a Police form on which all plans are written, all visits noted, all tasks listed etc. It outlines the enquiry and the results obtained.

"Now, can you get your lawyer friend to get us a copy of the Police file? They won't give it all over, but what we do get may be of some use. It'll give us an idea of what the Police have got and could produce some leads for me to follow."

"I'll ask," responded Pamela. "What else?"

"Well it's a bit late to do much tonight," said Simon. "I guess it's time for a bit of supper. For some reason I'm suddenly hungry, and then tomorrow I'll set this place up as an office and we'll be off.

"Cheese on toast?"

Pamela leaned back in her chair. "What a change. I'd never have believed it. Praise the Lord, I do think you'll be a success. Yes, cheese on toast would be lovely, and then I'd better be on my way."

Simon busied himself at the sink bench grating cheese. He then toasted one side of the four pieces of bread , buttered the other side, sprinkled the grated cheese on the buttered side and melted the cheese and browned it under the grill.

"Mm, yummy," praised Pamela as the crumbs sprinkled down her front. "This is the best I've ever tasted. You really do have hidden talents don't you?"

Simon nodded. "Indeed I do."

For a while they sat in comfortable silence, then Simon pushed his plate to one side.

"Look," he said to Pamela. "I'm not much good at saying 'ta' for things, but I really do appreciate what you're doing, and what you've already done for me. I guess this is as good a time as any to let you know what a hopeless and bad bugger you've got involved with."

"Now don't start that feeling sorry for yourself bit again," protested Pamela.

"No, no," Simon held up his hands. "None of that. Just a reality check. It's so you'll know who and what you're dealing with. While I can't recall a lot of the recent events, the past is pretty clear."

Simon went on to detail his life as he saw it. He covered his childhood on the family farm with his sisters. His parents; a capable but compliant mother and a father who kept himself aloof and distant from his family and society in general. His days of being bullied at school, his educational mediocrity, his sporting ability, his time in the army including the duty with the Special Air Service, time with the Secret Service, and finally his time with the Police. He sketched briefly his matrimonial past, his girlfriends and the death of his children.

"And there you are," he wound up. "The life and times, helped along with the odd beer."

Pamela, who had listened without interruption as the recital carried on towards the bewitching hour, now stirred.

"Well I see nothing wrong there. Okay, you've let your drinking get the better of you but with cause I'd say. It's a miracle you held together as long as you did.

"Simon, you know it's not going to be easy. You've got a lot to get over so that you can be effective again. Just saying that you're not going to drink again won't do it. It'll be a constant battle and you'll need help. On top of that, if you're right, the Police will be sitting on top of you. I'll do whatever I can to help but is there anyone else? A friend? Family? Anyone who could help you and support you?"

Simon sat staring into the middle distance. His legs were crossed at the ankles and likewise his arms were crossed hugging himself. She could see he was reviewing an internal list. Finally his eyes refocused and he met her gaze.

"No, not really. There are people I'll be able to use to a degree, but they'll have their own agendas so they'll be strictly you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours. Then there are some others that would help if I ask but I don't want them involved with this. No, in this I'll be on my own."

"I don't mean the investigation Simon," Pam said softly. "I meant personal support."

"No," responded Simon. "No-one I would want to involve at this stage."

Silence enveloped them for a period, each engrossed with the possible and the impossible. Finally Simon looked over at Pamela.

"Hey it's late. Do you want to stay the night?" He saw the change in her eyes but before she could say anything he continued, "Nothing wrong or anything. You can have the bed and I'll do the couch bit, or something. It's just that it's a bit late and hey, I like having you around."

"I knew that," acknowledged Pamela. "I have to go though. Early start and all that."

After Pamela left Simon relocked the door and latched the safety chain across. Temptation lead him to the refrigerator. He picked up the beer cans and chucked them into the rubbish bin followed by the soda, and then he emptied the flagon and his bottles of spirits down the sink. A search of the cupboards unearthed some Milo that had solidified. He broke it up and put a few lumps into a mug, three-quarters filled it with milk and micro-waved it for three minutes. Removing it from the microwave oven Simon stirred in a generous teaspoon of liquid sweetener and leafed through a paper until the Milo mug was empty. Putting his mug in the sink Simon took off his clothes, tossed them onto a chair, turned out the lights and collapsed into bed.

He lay listening to the noises of the night. A glance at his bedside clock showed that the time was 2.30 am. He did not know what had awoken him. Was it a dream? One that he could not now recall. Was it a noise? A noise foreign to his subconscious. Was it a thought? One of those that jogged your memory. As he listened with one part of his mind the other part ticked off matters that would require his attention later that day. Gradually sleep spread her blanket back over him and he drifted into a fitful sleep from which he awoke when a neighbours car back-fired as they left for wherever they were going.

Chapter 11

7 a.m. A dull cloudy day with gusts of wind driving rain against the bedroom window. Still, this was the first day of the rest of his life. Simon climbed out of the bed and did some stretching exercises. As he had not done any serious exercise for some time these were difficult, but he persevered. He then pulled on some old clothes, a raincoat, and a cap, and took a brisk walk around the block. All in all it would have taken twenty minutes from go to whoa, but internally it made him feel as though he had at least achieved something. He showered, and listened to a 'Golden Hits' radio station that reminded him of his younger days, while he ate his muesli and toast and washed it down with a couple of cups of weak tea. After washing his breakfast dishes, Simon pulled up his bed and tided the flat. It was while sweeping in the lounge area that he noticed a few small specks of saw dust on the floor. Without pausing he continued to clean up. He emptied the dust from the hearth shovel into the dust bin and casually picked up a swivel mirror that he set on the table and then proceeded to check his face for blemishes. Apparently satisfied with his appearance Simon replaced the mirror. While examining his face he had noticed that a small hole had been drilled in his ceiling. His experience told him that above that hole would be a pin-hole surveillance camera designed to note and record his movements. He took a jacket from its peg and shrugged himself into it. He automatically reached for his car keys and then realized he did not know where his car was, or even if it had been returned to him by the Police. As he stood undecided there was a knock at the door.

A courier driver had him sign for a small parcel; sender, P. Stevens. Simon ripped open the parcel to find a Visa Card in his name and $200 in $20 notes. A small 'post it' note advised, 'As agreed. Small stuff for extra! P.' Smiling, Simon pocketed the card, and money, marveling at how quick things could be done when money spoke.

As he locked the door behind him Simon pushed a small portion of broken match between the door and the jamb. It took less than a couple of seconds to do and anyone watching would not have seen what he did. He looked up and down the street, could not see his car, but noted the surveillance team parked almost opposite. As he walked down the street one of the occupants of the car made a point of walking abreast of Simon, but on the opposite side of the street. While clumsy and obvious, Simon knew they were there solely to apply pressure to him, and divert his attention from any other more covert surveillance. He did not doubt that a covert surveillance team was present. As if he had an endless day stretching in front of him, Simon walked to a bus stop and caught a number 93 bus into the city centre. 'Obvious' followed him onto the bus and the surveillance car followed the bus. Once in the city Simon purchased some stationary, including two hard covered notebooks with numbered pages, a folder and sheets of loose leafed A4 paper. He then went to a Telecom dealer and purchased the latest model cellular telephone. He listened with half his attention as the salesperson explained the security of the telephone with its constantly shifting frequency and bite information transmission. He willingly gave his name and address to the dealer. After all he was a law abiding citizen wasn't he? Simon then found himself a coffee shop and settled down with two pieces of cake and a pot of tea. He took two sheets of paper from his purchase. One he headed up Job Sheet, and the other Personal/Private. He took a couple of bites from his custard square, custard squeezed out the sides, and stared at the sheets of paper as he munched away.

"No, bugger it," he said aloud. He screwed up the sheet headed Personal/Private and walked across to a rubbish bin and threw it in making sure that 'Obvious' saw him do so. Returning to his table Simon took another piece of paper and wrote the date in the margin and in the centre of the page wrote the word; Outline. He then neatly wrote the following: I am accused of murdering Denise Yarmouth of 19 Stormont Street, on or about 9 July. This file will be the results of my investigation into the charge. The investigation and the results will be made available to the Police and the Prosecution team prior to the trial date and I formally advise that I am aware of my legal rights and that this file and its contents, as they relate to me, are made freely and voluntarily. He then signed his name, dated it, and timed it. He clipped the page into a folder.

Simon then took one of the notebooks. On page one he noted the time and date and wrote beside it, Copper Kettle. Surveillance present. Planning enquiry.

Going back to the sheets of paper, Simon made another heading, Investigation Plan, and after consulting the list he had made the previous day wrote another list.

1.Establish secure area to hold investigation file. Signs of covert surveillance at home address. Sawdust indicates that a pin hole camera has been installed.

2.Obtain current Police file.

3.Local enquiries.

4.Yarmouth background enquiries.

5.Identify covert surveillance.

6.Notebook enquiries.

7.Own background.

After pouring himself another cup of tea, Simon clipped that page into the folder and then proceeded to make heading pages in the folder equating to numbers 2 to 7 on his list, and making an index listing them. Satisfied that the enquiry was underway, Simon picked up his mobile telephone and dialed the number Pamela had given him as her contact number at the Mission.

"Pam speaking," it was answered.

"It's me, Simon, hey, I got what you sent me. I bought this cellphone so here is the number. What say we meet for lunch? Any ideas where?"

It was agreed that they would meet at the City Mission at 1 pm and take it from there. Simon got up from his table and walked out onto the street. His surveillance team followed, after picking up the paper he had discarded in the rubbish bin. As he window shopped, he made his way towards the Mission, from time to time wandering through shops with the 'obvious' team in his wake. In the course of his travels he purchased a Hessian bag with a marijuana leaf design on it.

"That'll confirm their suspicions," Simon said aloud, much to the surprise of the sales assistant. At another shop he purchased a cheap briefcase, a dictaphone, and a box of tapes. At a security business, a padlock, lock-picking tools and a car door opening rod. By 1 pm he was outside the Mission and upon his arrival Pamela walked out of the building. In a seemingly completely natural gesture she reached up and gave him a kiss on the cheek and a quick cuddle before taking hold of his hand and swinging it as they walked off. Following her lead, Simon purchased some sandwiches, a piece of cake each and two take-a-way coffees before finding somewhere to sit in the nearby Albert Park.

Sitting on the concrete sides of a fountain pool, they ate in silence. With the food gone, and the coffees in hand, Pamela turned to Simon and asked, "Okay?"

"The best," he said nodding and smiling.

"What have you done Simon? Today, this morning I mean."

"Lots," answered Simon positively. Animatedly he told her of what he had done. He pointed out the surveillance to her and showed her the start of his file.

"Why all that stuff about legal rights and all that?" queried Pamela.

Simon smiled. "Well I guess you must have got to me. No, not really. While I'm no angel, and I have killed people before when that was my job, I don't believe I could ever be a cold blooded killer like Yarmouth's death would make me. The whole thing just doesn't ring true to me. As a result I've decided I have to be right down the middle for once. Everything I do will be recorded, and if indeed I am guilty, then I'll front up and face the consequences. As I said, I'm guilty of underage sex but I don't think I am a murderer. If I am, then I need to be off the streets. There, how's that? Makes me sound a right dork I reckon."

Impulsively Pamela squeezed his arm. "No, far from it," she responded. "You make me proud of you." Simon had the decency to blush. "Tell me," continued Pamela. "What happens next?"

"Well," said Simon. "Where we are sitting the water will drown out any audio surveillance so I'll tell you. Just remember that whenever we are at my flat we will have to act as though we don't know we are being watched. The surveillance I have shown you is not the main team. The obvious is to put pressure on me and they half expect me to ditch them. It is then that the covert team will pick me up, and believe you me they will be good. I'll need all my wits to slip them if I ever have to. I know they're there because they've got a camera in the flat. I saw a couple of specks of saw dust on the floor and spotted the pin-hole camera later when I pretended to be checking out my face for something.

"Now, there are a couple of things I would like you to do for me if you could. I need you to get a dope bag and briefcase exactly like mine. Keep them at your work in case I need to do a swap at some time. In general we'll be able to meet and talk like this okay, or by telephone, but now and then I may need to disappear and I'll have to contact you differently."

"Are you sure?" asked Pamela worriedly. "Surely the Police are not all that bad?"

"Indeed they could be," asserted Simon. "But apart from them, there is still a murderer out there. Now listen. About a block down from the Mission there is a bank of three public telephone booths. Do you know them?"

Pamela nodded.

"Well," continued Simon. "On the middle one at the back is the word Telecom. When I need to contact you there will be a round yellow sticker in the middle of the O. You'll be able to see it from across the road. You won't have to go up to the booths. You should check it every day you don't see me, or I use the word 'Libran' in any telephone call. Are you with me so far?" Pamela nodded again.

"And what do I do if the sticker is there, or you say 'Libran' to me?" she asked.

"Remember the grave-yard where you first met me?" Another nod. "There is a headstone two along from the big angel statue. you know the one?" Another nod. "It's a child's grave. My message will be in the flower container. Okay?"

"Simon," protested Pamela. "Are you sure all this is needed? It all seems very dramatic. Like something out of a movie or something. This is a civilized country after all."

"Pamela girl," responded Simon. "You really have no idea what is going on. Actually, come to that, I don't really know myself. I've seen innocent men convicted, I've seen break and entries done by agents acting for the Government. I've killed people, again while I've been acting for the Government. I've seen media and events manipulated in the interests of our Government. This is the Government of our Democratic and free civilized country. Could I tell you some tales! One day I will. Some of the methods used by our leaders are less than desirable, and if they are after me then life is likely to get very rough and very nasty in the not to distant future.

"Because of that I want to minimize your involvement. Unfortunately I can't do without you. I not only need you to do certain things for me, but you are the one person I believe I can trust, and besides, heck, I like having you around."

"Oh Simon," said Pamela shaking her head. "I find all this so, so very unbelievable. I am not entirely innocent however, and I do know that some unpleasant things do need to be done from time to time. All for our own good no doubt! Some of the ramblings I've heard from the down and outs I deal with indicate the truth of what you say but still . . . However I'm here to see it through." She held his gaze. "I believe that there is true goodness in you and I want that to be apparent to all who meet you. While I would like you to find Jesus and live in his love I am a realist. However I will stand by you. Don't shut me out. Remember our agreement?"

Simon nodded. "Indeed, I won't forget it. Now, getting back to the task in hand. Has your lawyer friend got my file from the Police?"

"I've asked him," replied Pamela. "We have an appointment with him tomorrow at 11 am."

"Good," said Simon. "Now I reckon it's time you were back doing good. Oh, by the way, do you have a safety deposit box at all?"

"No," Pamela shook her head.

"At some stage over the next few days, will you please organize one? It would be best to get it in your normal bank or a bank that you visit on a regular basis. That way nobody will necessarily be suspicious of you accessing it."

"Are you sure?" she queried.

"Indeed I am," Simon responded.

"It still all seems so unbelievable," worried Pamela. Seeing her confusion and disbelief Simon decided to try and put her mind at rest.

"Well," he said. "Best to be prepared. Probably there will be no need to worry and in years to come we'll laugh about it all. Let's forget it for now. God, look at the time. You'll be without a job and then where would we be?"

"Where we are now," stated Pamela. "I don't need to work. I do so to help; to help those who need help and to help myself." For the first time Simon could see a shadow in her eyes. A shadow of what, he could not tell. Suddenly it dawned on him.

"Look Pam," he said earnestly. "What an ignorant old bastard I am. Everything's been me, me, me. All I've done is take, take, take from you and there's not been one word of complaint from you. I've been so very selfish. Hey, I'm sorry, Look, let's call all this off and forget about it. You forget about me and I'll do the same about you and we'll read about each-other some day in the future."

"Is that what you want?" asked Pamela.

"No of course it's not," responded Simon suddenly realizing that he certainly did not want that. While saying the words he had realized the empty feeling her loss would cause him.

"God help me," Simon said to himself. "I'm doing the impossible. I'm feeling for her. What a stupid old prick. You're going to make a fool of yourself, again, and you know there's no fool like an old fool."

"No, of course not," he repeated. "It's actually the last thing I want."

The colour rose in Pamela's cheeks.

"I'm glad," she said. She reached out and took his hands into hers and for a moment they held each-others gaze. Jerking back into reality they suddenly let go and looked around guiltily as though they had done something wrong.

"Right," said Simon decisively. "Let's get you back to the Mission."

They set off together, in silence, and parted at the Mission with Pamela's promise that she would meet him at his place that evening. Simon walked away with a noticeable spring in his step. Everything seemed rosy. He even waved at his surveillance escort. He walked down the main street and as he passed the Plaza Hotel suddenly turned and walked into the foyer. Once through the self opening doors he walked straight to the lifts. Fortunately the doors to a lift stood open. He stepped in and pushed the buttons for floors two, four, six and eight with his elbow. As the doors closed he still had not seen the surveillance team. At the first stop Simon left the lift and pressed the down button, again with his elbow, to add to any confusion that the lift might cause the surveillance teams, before re-entering the lift and then getting out at the fourth floor. As he exited he pulled on latex examination gloves. He then tried the doors to each room until he found one that was locked. A few seconds work with the hand pick let him into the room.

"Thank God," he said seeing that the room was occupied but with the occupant absent. Quickly Simon rifled through the drawers and suitcases until he found a cap and jacket. He then emptied a suitcase and into it went his briefcase, Hessian bag and folders. He pulled on the cap. A bit small, but it did the job. The jacket fitted better. Back outside the room Simon took off the gloves and put them in his pocket. He then carried the suitcase down one floor and pressed the lift down button. When the lift arrived he pressed the button for the car garage. Luck was clearly on his side as the lift passed the lobby and opened onto the underground car parking area. Without hesitation Simon walked to a car nearby and used the car door opening rod he possessed to gain entry. Within seconds he was seated behind the steering wheel. He broke the steering lock and ignition and drove out through the Plaza's rear exit. There was no sign of the surveillance team. He could not be sure that the covert team had been fooled though. Two blocks away he parked the car in another hotel car-park and taking the suitcase with him walked to the Downtown Branch of the Bank of New Zealand where he arranged the use of a safety deposit box for two months, paying in cash and using a false name. He then placed a sliver of wood in the hinge area and locked the box. He left the Bank. At a nearby shop he purchased a different hat, a pair of sunglasses and a pull-over. He put his stolen hat and jacket in the suitcase and returned to the Plaza Hotel, this time entering via the front door. In doing so he passed one of the 'obvious' surveillance team but was not recognized by her. He took a lift to the fourth floor where he re-entered the room he had previously broken into, and returned the cap, jacket and suitcase. He put his recently purchased pull-over and sunglasses into his brief case. Back out in the corridor, he went to the stairwell area and then walked up to the fifth floor where he pressed the lift down button. He exited the lift and walked across the foyer to the bar and purchased lemonade. As he sat at the bar he watched the surveillance team reassemble. He could imagine their consternation. He had been in similar situations himself. He knew they would be uncertain if he had deliberately evaded them or if they had just accidentally los" him He had been out of their sight for less than thirty minutes. They could not be sure if he had met someone or even if had left the building. Sure, the stolen car would be an indicator because cameras would show it leaving the Hotel Carpark at the same time as his disappearance, but his basic disguise would make any identification of him uncertain. Likewise the foyer camera would not be able to identify his return.

"No," thought Simon. "All in all I've probably got away with it. Well, as far as these three goons are concerned. Actually it's doubtful they will even let anyone know about the possibility that they lost sight of me." He was a lot less confident of the covert team however, and knew that if they ever heard of the Plaza incident they would sit on him a lot harder. Finishing his lemonade Simon left the Plaza nodding to the surveillance team as he did so. He then hailed a taxi and went to the City Central Library. He spent the afternoon checking electoral rolls, local authority rating lists and telephone directories to make a list of Denise Yarmouth's neighbours and their occupations. He also brought his notebook up to date and transferred those details to his job sheets. They included his purchases and receipts, his actions at the Plaza and a description of the surveillance team. He was still busy when he was asked to leave as the library was closing. He was surprised to see it was dark.

Outside, Simon hailed a taxi and returned to his flat. As he approached the door the security lighting automatically switched on. While unlocking the door he casually checked where he had placed the match stick in the door jamb. It was still there but was no longer lined up with a fly spot as it had previously been.

"So," said Simon to himself. "The professionals have been in." He went inside and made himself a cup of coffee, trying to put aside his craving for a beer. It had been fine up until arriving home, but suddenly the need for alcohol became urgent. He tried to sideline the urge by concentrating on his coffee and commencing preparations for a meal. He glanced through his cupboards and decided on tomato flavouring for his spaghetti. As he pottered, his hunger pangs over whelmed the drink urge. Just prior to completion of the meal the front door opened and Pamela came in. As she approached, removing her overcoat, Simon automatically stepped towards her and gave her a hug and a light kiss.

"I'm pleased to see you too," smiled Pamela.

"God," thought Simon. "Don't go down that path." Aloud he said "Oops, I don't know what happened there. It was very nice though." To cover his confusion he turned back to the stove.

"You're acting like a school kid," he muttered. "Get a grip dickhead."

"What's that?" asked Pamela.

"Oh nothing important." responded Simon. "Everything alright this arvo?"

"Just the usual," advised Pamela. "Mm it smells nice. Enough for me?"

"Do I look like a selfish guts?" queried Simon. "On second thoughts you'd better not answer that. Of course I've got enough. Do you mind setting the table?"

Having demolished the spaghetti and washed the dishes, they sat down with coffee, cheese, and crackers. Simon went over what he had done that day but omitted the small matter of the Plaza excursion.

"What's on the menu for tomorrow?" asked Pamela.

"Well first of all we'll do the lawyer bit. You will want to come along I suppose?" asked Simon.

"Of course," replied Pamela. "And then?"

"We'll see," replied Simon. "Probably I'll do the local enquiries around where Denise lived and then see where to go from there."

"Okay." said Pamela getting up from the couch. "I must be getting home."

"You're welcome to stay you know." said Simon. "No pressure or anything."

Pamela's hand brushed his cheek. "I know," she said. "Some day perhaps, but not yet. You can see me to my car however."

Back in the flat Simon put his day's purchases together in his briefcase and placed it in the bathroom while he showered. Prior to getting into his bed he removed his notebook and job sheets and placed them inside the singlet he wore to bed. There was no way he was risking the loss of the information or any tampering with it even if the chances were slight.

The alarm jerked him awake at 6.30am. He made himself immediately put his feet on the floor. He made a cup of coffee, ate two weet-bix and two pieces of toast with marmite on them, and then showered and shaved. He ensured his brief case was always within his sight. The job sheets, somewhat creased, had been returned to the folder.

Chapter 12

"Wanker," said Simon. "Did you see the way he looked at me like I was a piece of shit he couldn't get off the sole of his shoe. "Are you certain you wish to continue assisting this individual Miss Stevens?"

Thomas Williams of Jones Thompson had made his dislike of Simon extremely obvious and his fear of Pamela's association with him clear.

"Oh don't worry about him," calmed Pamela. "He's into money that's all. You are not money and he's just covering his backside so that if it all turns to custard he can say "I told you so."

"Yeah, I know," retorted Simon. "He was just so . . .so sanctimonious. You know, like he had turned over a stone and found something obscene. Christ I could do with a drink. Something to get the taste of Tommy boy out of my mouth." And thinking about it he found he really could do with a drink. The urge was suddenly bad. So bad it was almost like a cramping in the bowels, a pain, a sharp searing pain.

"Let's look at the file," urged Pamela seeing the distress on his face and wrongly thinking it was a reflection of his dislike for the position in which he found himself. Her words pulled him back into the present.

"It'll take a while Pam," said Simon. "Something like this needs close examination. I'll tell you what," he continued seeing the disappointment reflected in her eyes, "Come over tonight. No that wouldn't work, ah, let's see. Pick me up at 7pm tonight in your car and we'll go for a little drive and I'll bring you up to date. Okay?"

"Truly?" asked Pamela doubtfully.

"Cross my heart and hope to die," affirmed Simon.

After leaving Pamela at the Mission, Simon walked slowly down town until he found a building with a sign advertising Offices for rent. He went in, paid for a days hire, and settled down at the desk with the file the Police had given to Thomas Williams under his discovery application. He could see immediately that some of the job sheets were missing, and some names had been blanked out, but he knew that the majority of evidence would be there as the Police would not want to risk a mistrial at any later date. Simon glanced at his watch, 11.45am. It was going to be an interesting afternoon. He opened the file and began making notes as he read.

At 5.30pm he rang Pamela and asked her to pick him up from outside his rental office at 7 pm rather than his flat. At 7pm Simon put his work together, packed it back into his briefcase, and walked downstairs. Pamela was waiting outside. Simon opened the front passengers door, sat down and put his fingers to his lips signaling that Pamela say nothing. He then opened his briefcase, got a small piece of paper out and wrote on it 'airport'. Pamela nodded and drove. At the airport they parked the car and then hired a rental car. Once in the rental car Simon drove Pamela to the beach. On the way they stopped briefly at a takeout and purchased some Chinese food.

Simon explained to Pamela that there was every chance that her car had been 'bugged' in some way and that he did not wish their conversation to be overheard. Using the tactics they had, nobody would have had the opportunity to put a listening device in the rental and listen to them. Likewise, the car radio going, and the car engine left running, ensured that no other listening device situated outside the car would be able to pick up what they were saying inside it. Briefly Simon told Pamela how he had rented the office again denying any surveillance team the chance to ascertain what he was up to. He explained that he had as he had said, intended using his flat as an office but the pin-hole camera had ruled out that idea.

"Is it all really necessary?" queried Pam.

"Indeed," said Simon. "Indeed." He opened his briefcase and took out the précis he had made of the Police file.

"In a homicide enquiry," Simon began. "The police follow a set laid down pattern. It doesn't matter if it's a minor one, if any murder can be called minor, or a major enquiry, it will always follow exactly the same pattern. That pattern is laid down in the Police Detectives Manual. In theory, by beginning at the beginning and following it step by step you should end up with the offender."

Pamela nodded.

"Look," advised Simon. "I know this all seems possibly unimportant but you said you wanted to be kept informed so I'll need to outline the methods so you'll see where I, or we, are going. Understand?" Pamela nodded. "Once a death is classified as suspicious, a homicide team is formed. One of the main people is the O/C, or officer commanding, body. Clearly the body is the absolutely major piece of evidence at that stage. The O/C body stays with the victim until the post mortem is complete. They must be capable of explaining to the Court every little detail about that body. If there is an ingrown toenail they must know about it. No detail can be too small for the O/C body to miss.

"The next most important member of the homicide team is the O/C scene. Many people under-estimate the importance of this team. A lot of them are cops as well. Everything needed to convict the offender is present at the scene but often the vital piece is missed or misunderstood. God, but could I tell you of some stuff ups. I could write a book about them.

"After those two come the locals team and the suspects team. The locals team do the door to door enquiries around the scene. They speak with every person within a set radius of the scene to find out who and what were present at either the time of death as well as before and after it. This information points towards anything suspicious in the area or suspicious activity. Often the offender will be identified by this team.

"The suspects team is obvious. Their job is to follow up enquiries into people nominated as suspects either because of their links to the deceased, or because they were in the area or are known to have a tendency to commit that type of crime etc.

"You get the picture?"

"But sometimes they get things wrong don't they?" questioned Pamela.

"Indeed," said Simon. "Indeed they do."

"And this is one of those times," stated Pamela. "Isn't it?"

"If they think it is me, then yes, this is one of those times. Look," continued Simon. "I've got to try and get the whole thing down to a manageable size, both to explain it to you and for me to be able to manage it. After a day with the file I've got it all down to this." Simon showed Pamela what he had written on the précis. It showed four headings; Body, scene, locals, suspects. A vertical line below the word body was followed by a horizontal line with four more vertical lines below that.

"Looks like a family tree, sort of," offered Pamela.

"A bit," agreed Simon. "So from the O/C body we have the following five bits of information: The injuries apparent on the body, the cause of death, my DNA via sperm, and an unknown DNA located from other sperm in the body."

Next was the heading, scene, followed by another vertical line and horizontal line and more vertical lines leading to: Yarmouth bedroom, inside house general, outside house, ESR report. Simon had seen Pamela wince when she had seen acknowledgement of his sperm so he looked into her eyes and said.

"Look, I know it's not nice, and I'd give anything to turn back the clock, but I can't so I just have to live with it."

Pamela nodded, biting her bottom lip.

There were similar lines below the headings locals and suspects. Under locals the words were; my visits, clients, unknowns about same time as me, videos from service stations etc. Below suspects; me, clients, and unknown.

"Well kid," he said. "That's the case, but not all of it. If this were all, then I'd be pretty happy as there's not enough to convict anyone, let alone me."

"So there's more. Something I don't want to hear," stated Pamela.

"Oh yes indeed," confirmed Simon. "There's the bits added by Robertson and Co. According to Robertson, Walker the wanker located a cardigan in my car that belonged to Yarmouth, and to top things off, Walker managed to get a statement from a Joseph Read. He obligingly said that he overheard me telling an unidentified person that I was in trouble with a girl and that the only way out of it was to get rid of her."

"Oh my dear Lord," whispered Pamela. "It's not true is it? Tell me it's not. I couldn't stand it if it were."

"There, there," said Simon patting her shoulder somewhat awkwardly. "Of course it's not true. If it was then I'd be in big trouble. No, what we have here is a set up. Obviously whoever is overseeing the investigation has doubts about the evidence as well or I'd be already inside. I put Read in jail recently for doing an indecent act upon another male and this story of his is a made up one. A way of him getting back at a wrong I did to him. I'm afraid I told a bunch of lies to get him convicted. Now, while it looks bad it's not all bad. Bad enough to drive a man to drink, but not bad enough to really worry him. No indeed. I have to say that the whole thing has given me a huge shot of hope."

"There's hope?" asked Pamela.

"More than that my love," Simon hesitated having said the dreaded four lettered 'L' word. "This gives me the chance to silence Robertson and Walker once and for all, and I'm sure that in the process I'll find the killer or killers."

"You think that there is more than one?"

"Well it's only a gut feeling, but yes I think so. The bigger question is why."

"Why they killed that poor girl?"

"No, no, no," said Simon. "We know why she was killed."

"We do?"

"Of course. It's obvious. Oh you poor thing," consoled Simon. "I keep forgetting you don't know how the other side operates. She was killed to get at me. She was just the wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time. The thing is that it could have been anyone. The big question is why did I have to be set up? What do I know? What have I done? Perhaps what am I going to do? This is very much to my liking. Very much." Suddenly anger took over. "Who the fuck do they think they're dealing with? Well they're soon going to fucking well learn."

Seeing the stricken look on Pamela's face Simon reigned himself in. "Sorry love, sorry," mumbled Simon, again frightening himself with the love word.

"Simon," whispered Pamela. "This is so, so, I don't know, so scary. What sort of person would kill a human being just to get at someone? Simon, I'm scared. Really scared. Who or what are you? You're not just a cop are you? You are something else. You are aren't you?"

Simon sat in silence for a while. His hands held onto the steering wheel in the approved ten and two position. He stared ahead at the sea. He watched the waves reach a crescendo, and then crash like cymbals down to a lower key, and end as a drawn out finale in spume along the sand. Overhead the stars winked in conspiracy. There was no moon. The silence lengthened. Finally Simon turned his head to look at Pamela. His hands stayed at the ten and two positions. He could see her eyes shinning brightly, the unshed tears collecting what little light there was and magnifying it.

"I'm me," said Simon. "Just me. Well, so I've always thought. To answer your question honestly, I can only say that I am me. As I have told you, while I've done some things I'm not proud of, I'm still just me. I don't think I'm any worse than most other people, nor any better. But you are right. There is something here. Something I can't get a hold of. The thing is, is it something I've done or not done? Is it someone I have wronged in some way? Is it something I know but don't know?

"Shit Pam. Believe me, I am me.

"Oh Simon," sighed Pamela. She reached out and covered his hand closest to her. "What are you going to do? How do you find out what's going on?"

Simon turned to face her and took both her hands in his.

"I must do this logically. It's no use me going off half cocked. What I'll do, is work at the murder enquiry as I'm doing, but look for the unexplainable. I'm not just a good detective, I'm a fucking out of this world detective. You can rest assured I'll crack whatever this is.

"My worry now though is you. You're clearly associated with me, and that may well make you some sort of target. Perhaps it would be best if we limited our contact."

"But Simon you promised."

"I didn't know the half of it then though did I? At that stage I just thought, well I don't know what I thought, but it never occurred to me that anyone other than me would be involved."

"But . . . " started Pamela.

"No buts," interrupted Simon. "Look, I'm probably way out of line here but it's best that it be out in the open."

"What are you on about?" asked Pamela.

"Don't interrupt me please," begged Simon. "This is hard enough as it is. Just hear me out. I find you to be quite an extraordinary person. I admire what you do. I am in awe of the fact that you shun your money and position and fight for what you believe in. You are moral and honest. Me, I'm a cop. I lie to get convictions. I have planted the odd bit of evidence, and as I have said, even killed for this Country. I'm exactly the opposite of you, but I admire you. I admire you so very much. I think, no I know, I more than admire you. When all this is over I would like to get to know you even better. I know you have this love for your God and therefore walk a path I know nothing of, although the conscience I use to have was once pulled in that direction.

"Look, I'm making a shambles of this. Perhaps I can just say I like you a lot and don't want to risk you getting hurt and that's why I want to distance myself from you.

"Christ I reckon I need a drink.

"There that's it. I'm not breaking my promise. I'll keep you as up to date as I can but I won't make any promise to fully include you. You do understand don't you, or have I made a complete dick of myself?"

"Oh Simon," Pamela blinked back tears. "No you've not made a fool of yourself. Far from it. It's just that all of this is so overwhelming. I'm in a world that I didn't even know existed, like a world of good and evil from a time long ago. Every day in both my faith and work I face evil, but this is way outside my experiences. I am scared that if I allow anything to develop further between us then it will all end badly. I know it is against my beliefs but there is just this fear deep inside me that if I risk hope, I will lose all. I believe in you Simon. However much it hurts, I accept the wrong you did to that poor girl, but I know you didn't kill her. When all this is over I want us to carry this conversation to its logical conclusion, a conclusion I know we both share, but for now I want us to sort out this mess. You're the one with the experience so I'll do whatever you decide. I've watched heaps of television where the woman goes against the experienced advice but I'm a realist, and know that this is much more serious. Just please keep your word and let me help whenever and wherever I can.

"Now, dear Simon, let me go home please."

Simon sorted through his mind for a reply. He considered many, and discarded them as each came to mind. Without a word he started the car and drove back to the airport. Nothing was said at any stage, but they held hands until, with a little squeeze, and a kiss on the cheek, Pamela went to her car. Simon waited while she started it and drove away. As Pamela left the long term car park, Simon spotted the Police surveillance team in position. He had not seen them at the beach and that meant that the covert team had probably been doing it. Likewise, no-one obviously followed Pamela, but Simon acknowledged to himself that a team was probably following her too.

"Okay," thought Simon. "Time to get serious!"

He checked in the rental, and caught a shuttle bus back into the city. As he left the bus he signalled a taxi and gave his home address to the driver. He sat back in the seat for ten minutes and then told the driver to stop. He threw some money to him telling him to keep the change. He ran from the taxi down a driveway leading to some flats, and then travelled parallel to the street by climbing over fences and squeezing through gaps. Possession of the brief case did not help. After he had negotiated six or seven properties he began to check cars parked at the various houses. Fortunately he did not come across any dogs. At one set of five flats he found a Ford Escort car unlocked in an open garage at the rear. He pulled on surgical gloves, hot wired the car and drove openly out onto the street. He could see two cars in the street but was unable to confirm if they were occupied. He drove into the City and parked on the third floor of a public car parking building. He then broke into another car and pulled on a wig before driving out. He parked outside a pub a few minutes later and, leaving the engine running, went inside. He walked straight to the pub toilets, took off his wig, put it in his briefcase, and then left the pub through the back door. Simon walked on using dark alleyways and constantly checking for any indication of surveillance. Travelling this way, he approached the Downtown Bank of New Zealand where he had his safe deposit box. Putting his wig back on he went to the safe deposit box lobby, keyed in his code, and went to his box. As he opened it, he checked that the sliver of wood he had placed in the hinge area was still present. Finding it still in place confirmed for him that the surveillance team had not checked the locker, and therefore probably had not followed him to the bank when he had arranged the box. He congratulated himself on his ability to have evaded them. He emptied his briefcase into the locker and, leaving the Bank, took to the alleyways to reach the main street. He popped his wig into his pocket before stepping out onto the main street and hailing a taxi. It took him home.

Simon did not bother to check for surveillance signs at the flat. He knew that the place would have been checked. He made a meal, showered and went to bed. He was amazed that the urge for a drink had not put in an appearance. He awoke at 6.30 am and went for a brisk walk. A run was out of the question at this stage.

The surveillance team kept pace.

Back at the flat Simon ate breakfast, showered again, and dressed in jeans, tee shirt, sweater and cap. He caught a bus into the city where he again went through the surveillance avoidance routine.

Chapter 13

The Investigation begins

When he was as certain as he could be that he had lost any surveillance, he travelled to a suburban shopping centre in Ellerslie, and hired a rent-an-office. With his key he also got a code allowing him 24 hour access to the premises. Leaving the office, and using cash, Simon bought a suit, shirts, ties, new shoes, a black tracksuit, 3 pairs of cheap glasses, 2 caps, a balaclava and a box of surgical gloves. He removed the lenses from the glasses retaining only the frames.

Back in the office Simon changed into his suit and ordered a taxi. When it arrived he gave the driver the address of Peter Donahue, also known as Father Joe. That fact he had gained from his returned notebook. The street address was in the Police file. It had listed him as being the Spiritual Director of Denise Yarmouth, a fact she had not told him. The Homicide Squad suspects list consisted of Simon, followed by a long list of Yarmouth's clients. Donahue had originally been on the list as a client, but after being interviewed had been changed to her confessor and Spiritual Director, when his vocation had been identified. Obviously he had either been picked up on CCTV footage, Yarmouth had named him somewhere, or he had been identified from Simon's checking on him through Police resources. Bearing in mind what Yarmouth had told him, Simon knew that he had to take the confessor role with a pinch of salt.

The address for Donahue was somewhat seedy. Was that normal for Roman Catholic priests? Simon had the feeling that they normally lived on the church premises. Still, Catholicism was not Simon's strong point. It was down market suburban made of weatherboard, but with a question mark over how the weather stayed outside. The letterboxes atop the back rail of the mostly picket-less fence showed three flats; A, B and C. A and B were at opposite ends of the front veranda. A faded letter 'C' with an arrow indicated the direction to Donahue's residence. Simon followed the uneven concrete path, slippery with moss, to the rear of the building. The door to Flat C was ajar. Round the door knob was black mildew. The outside of the windows had green mould filling the gaps between the frame and the panes where the putty had disappeared.

"Anyone home?" called Simon as he used his shoulder to push the door wider. "Anyone home?" repeated Simon as he stepped further inside. The inside of the flat was in marked contrast with the outside. The polished floors gave off the smell of beeswax and shone brightly. To call it a flat was a misnomer. A bed-sit would be a better description. While it was spartan with only a bench-top stove/oven, a small table with an upright chair, an easy chair, a neatly made bed and three books on the table, everything had its place and appeared to be in its place. A small adjacent room contained a toilet and shower. Obviously there was a communal laundry somewhere. Finding the flat empty Simon pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and quickly went through what drawers there were; cutlery, plates and tinned food. The books were a bible, Emerson's essay on compensation and one written in what Simon thought was Latin. Nothing obviously untoward. He felt behind the frying pan and the saucepan hanging above the stove. Nothing.

Simon turned at a noise from the doorway.

"Hello Simon," said a figure standing there. "We meet at last."

"Peter Donahue," responded Simon. "Or should that be Father Joe?"

"I answer to both," said Donahue as he walked across the room and put a pile of washing on the table.

"Sit down. Sit down," he said as he quickly folded track-pants, sweatshirts, and underwear and then placed them in a neat pile on the end of the bed. "Cup of tea?" he asked. "I'm afraid I don't have anything stronger. Anyway, I'm sure you're probably off the hard stuff by now aren't you?"

The coolness of Donahue put Simon off for a minute, but he switched back to Detective mode quickly.

"Sure, why not," agreed Simon. "A cup of tea would be great. I take it the same as my women; white with two."

"That's an old one," chided Donahue. He then set about boiling water in a saucepan on the stove. He got two mugs out of the cutlery drawer and UHT milk from another drawer. The tea came in the form of tea bags with sugar from McDonalds. Donahue motioned Simon towards the easy chair. Simon sat in the upright one. With a slight smile Donahue placed Simon's mug on the table and settled into the easy chair.

"Now," said Donahue. "Who goes first? By the way, you can remove those gloves if you like."

"It's not a case of who goes first," replied Simon. "It's a case of you providing answers. I've seen your Police interview. For a man of the cloth you sure have a fine line of bullshit. I suppose being able to confess your sins allows you to purchase prostitutes, use them and then get forgiven and go back out and do it all again. I'll keep the gloves on thank you."

"You have the wrong end of the stick," said Donahue calmly.

"I don't think so," retorted Simon. "My old sergeant said that there were only two people you didn't trust; a man wearing a bow tie and a man of the cloth. From my experience I would have to agree with him.

"You admit you know Denise Yarmouth?"

"Of course I do."

"And you purchased her services?"

"Yes."

"And your faith allows you to do that?"

"In this case I can justify it."

"I can justify it he says. How can you justify sexual intercourse with a minor? I can't. Look where it got me."

"I couldn't justify that either," responded Donahue. "Sex had nothing to do with our . . . how shall I say this . . . with our arrangement."

"Don't talk rubbish," retorted Simon. "You forget how well I knew Yarmouth. She told me what you two got up too. She even pointed you out to me."

"She was acting on instructions from me," said Donahue. "Look Allan, perhaps it would be better if I spoke to you. Going at this rate we'll never get anywhere."

"Okay," agreed Simon. "Go to it."

Donahue settled back into his chair. His elbows positioned themselves on the arm rests and his chin rested on the steeple of his hands. His eyes were fixed on Simon and remained there. His gaze was almost unblinking. Simon thought it was something he strived to do.

"Where to start?" wondered Donahue aloud.

"Try the beginning," suggested Simon.

"Life is a strange thing," offered Donahue. "So many things happen. Some are connected, some are not. Some come to eventually be connected. As a young man growing up in England I was attracted to the Church as an occupation. Being a bit of a rebel at heart I chose to convert to Roman Catholism from the Church of England. That was a serious blow to my devout parents, but the history, the way, the mystery of it all, appealed to me. I never really aspired to parish priesthood. The secrecy of the Vatican 'goings on' interested me. I could see myself furthering Gods design by working behind the scenes. As things transpired I became privy to secrets so mind boggling that I struggled to take them all in. They would make a book that people would class as pure science fiction. They would never believe the truth. If I told you all I know, you would have me certified. Those secrets though, have brought us to this place at this time. Events are happening throughout the world that lead directly to you. It is not exaggerating to say that to many in the Christian world you are the most important person in their world."

"Yeah, right," sneered Simon. "I'll just take off my mask. There. I'm really God. For Christ's sake."

Simon pushed back his chair, and moving nearer to Donahue, suddenly grabbed his shirt bunching it at the throat. The involuntary move backwards by Donahue dragged Simon towards him and their combined weight tipped the chair over backwards. As they fell there was a 'crack' noise followed by a buzz and they were showered by glass as the window imploded. Instinctively they both stayed on the floor but rolled towards the window to be below it's sill.

"Who the fuck?" asked Simon pointing to the far wall through which the bullet had continued its journey.

"As I said," retorted Donahue. "You are an important person."

"Not to some. Alive anyway," Simon pointed out.

Another crack, another buzz, another hole in the wall.

"This is getting real serious," said Simon. He pulled his cell-phone from a pocket. "I'll get the cops."

"No," Donahue put a restraining hand on Simon. "They're not all good. In the bathroom there's a loose panel over the shower. It gives access to the attic area and via a trapdoor to the front porch. Go. You are more important than me. Once you are away then get the cops here."

"Not bloody likely," exclaimed Simon. "This is bullshit. Someone has obviously mistaken us for dealers or something."

"Simon," said Donahue. "You are the secret. Your family is the secret. Trust me, I know. Now go. Get out of here. Find out what is so special about you and yours."

"You don't know?" asked Simon incredulously.

"No, not all of it. I know your family are in terrible trouble. Terrible, terrible trouble. That's why I got Denise Yarmouth to hint to you that a killer or killers are operating here. Simon, I believe your family are the targets. Why you are not the target I don't know. All I have been able to do is verify that you are involved. Now go before it's too late. If I survive I'll get word to you."

It was all too much for Simon to take in and he did not have the time to try and figure it all out. He did not believe Donahue one little bit, but he briefly gripped his shoulder and then slithered across the floor and through into the bathroom. Within minutes he was dropping down onto the front porch, and a few minutes later he was back in his rent an office after having anonymously contacted the Police to advise of hearing gunshots, and given their source as Donohue's flat. He had briefly considered attempting to locate and subdue the rifleman but decided, for once in his life, that discretion was the better part of valour. For several minutes Simon sat turning over in his mind what Donahue had told him. He decided that he had two choices. First that the whole thing was rubbish. Second, that there was something to it all. If it was the first then there was no use even thinking about it, let alone doing anything. However, and it was a big however, Simon had a feeling about it all. He did not believe for a minute that he himself was of any great importance, but perhaps he knew something that he was unaware of, or perhaps someone else in the family knew something. Highly improbable, but one never knew. Maybe it was something to do with one of his cases, past or present. Perhaps 'they', whoever 'they' were, thought he knew something important from his time in the Special Forces, or Intelligence work, in which he had previously been involved.

"Christ," said Simon aloud. "Do I dare open up those cans? There could be worms everywhere."

Simon decided that he would have to give the matter considerable thought, but that at this stage he would leave it to his subconscious mind, as he continued with the immediate concern of his murder charge. This was a technique that had always served him well, and one that he had come to very much depend upon.

Simon checked the local news, via his cellphone, and confirmed an armed Police response to an incident in progress. No clear information was available, but no deaths were mentioned. So far so good. Mind you no offender or offenders were mentioned either. Putting that to one side Simon decided to check out the scene of the Yarmouth death, 19 Stormont Road.

Chapter Fourteen

The memories flooded in. With them came a strange melancholy. That surprised him. He had met death in many of her guises and had regrets, doubts and similar feelings about it, but melancholy was a new one.

It had taken only seconds to enter the house contained by the police crime scene tape. The key, given to him by Denise Yarmouth, helped as the locks had not been changed. Typical oversight by the Police. Simon was aware that the Yarmouth family had been unable to return to the house so knew he had the scene to himself. As it was still early afternoon Simon knew he had plenty of time to do a reasonable search and that he was unlikely to be disturbed.

From the Police file he knew Yarmouth had been killed in her bedroom. He also knew that the cause of death was a gunshot to the head. The Police file had also stated that there had been no forced entry to the house, and they had therefore assumed the murderer had been let in by the victim. No weapon had been located to date. Simon decided to start with the bedroom and move on from there.

The scene was not a pretty one. There was a spray of blood and brain up a wall and door. Standing in the doorway, Simon roughly drew the scene in his notebook, sketching the blood pattern. He knew it had all been recorded by the Police, but wanted the information himself for comparison and self knowledge. Having done that, he then went over the room visually prior to touching anything. He had covered his feet with a set of shoe covers kindly left behind by the search team. One thing that struck him as unusual was a disturbed blood spray. It was across the back of the bedroom door. Several overcoats and raincoats hung from hooks on the back of the door. The blood spray went right across them. Simon found it appalling that all the clothing items were still there. All of them should have been taken to test the blood and DNA to ensure it was only that of the deceased. It was always possible that the offender had bled and that their blood might have been on any of the articles. The Police had left themselves wide open. Slack work! Not only that though. What interested Simon was the blood close to the top hinge. The force of the blood hitting the door and garments had been such that there was a splatter effect spreading upwards and part of that splatter spray was missing. Simon carefully drew the arc in his notebook and noted the area. A couple of reddish threads attached to the coat hook closest to the door hinges went into an envelope and then into his briefcase. The rest of the room yielded little, but Simon was exalted by what he had achieved. He believed the cardigan allegedly discovered in his car had probably hung on the hook where the secondary splatter was missing. While there may be an explanation different to Simon's thoughts, it was apparent that something had been hanging on that hook and it was no longer there. If that item was the cardigan found in Simon's car, and was present in the crime scene photographs, then it had been removed from the room after the murder, and planted in his car.

Leaving the bedroom, Simon walked through the rest of the house. He did not undertake any particular search pattern, he just walked; slowly. He let his eyes roam and gave his sixth sense the freedom to do whatever it wanted to do. He did not content himself with just once, but walked through several times. He did not know what he was after. He did not know if he would find anything. He just allowed his senses to catalogue, assess and discard. Something. His mind was trying to tell him something. What was it? Something in the hall. Simon reigned in his subconscious mind. Time to actually concentrate. Something in the hall was not right. He catalogued the hall. A door from the back porch, a door opposite to the kitchen entrance, a power switchboard with a telephone jack beneath it, a linen cupboard, a door to the bathroom, and the front entrance. What was it? Look up, always look up. Most people did not look above eye level his old instructor had said. Look up. Simon looked up. There it was! A power lead from the switchboard up into the ceiling space. Tucked in behind it was another wire, all but invisible. What had caught Simon's eye was that the main lead had been painted over but the extra lead, while similar in colour, had not been painted. Perhaps there was an explanation, but perhaps not. With some difficulty, Simon shifted the manhole cover and gained entry to the ceiling space. From there it was simple. A few boxes of Christmas decorations were stored in the area but he paid no attention to them. He followed the electrical lead to a small power pack and transmitter taped against one of the rafters. From there it was easy to locate the pinhole camera concealed in the light bayonet of Yarmouth's bedroom. Simon left them in position, pausing only to note the technical jargon on the transmitter and power pack. He returned to the manhole, and as he started to lower himself back down into the hallway his hand touched something caught in the ceiling insulation. Once back down in the hall he discovered that he had located a small crucifix. He placed it in an envelope and also placed that envelope in his briefcase.

Simon left the house and returned to his rent-an-office, well satisfied with the visit. He sat down to reassess the situation. For sometime he sat at the desk letting his mind freewheel. Facts, possibilities, scenarios of this, and that, all took their turn entering stage left and exiting stage right. Some of the players stopped briefly before continuing on their journey. Finally Simon brought his mind back to the office with several points.

He was listed as the prime suspect but Police local enquiries had revealed another male visiting the Yarmouth address either just before or just after he had left. That male remained unidentified and his importance was being downgraded by the cardigan allegedly located in his car by Walker. That cardigan was probably the item that had been hanging on the back of the door in Yarmouth's bedroom and that is how her DNA reached it. Yarmouth's bedroom was being videoed and the pictures transmitted out of the house to an unknown receiver. This would suggest Yarmouth was unaware of its existence so she would not have been using it for blackmail purposes. Possibly the video could identify the murderer while clearing him. For an unknown reason he was being set up as the murderer. Possibly the set up related to something he had knowledge of, or that the offender, or offenders, thought he had knowledge of. While Simon justified his last point with what Donahue had told him, he also conceded that such was obvious or why bother going to the lengths they had?

Having completed that little exercise Simon wrote up all that occurred on job sheets. With that finished, he headed up another job sheet with the words; To Do. Under that he wrote three points: Check crime scene photographs and/or video to ascertain if the cardigan was present in them and if so where and when. Ascertain video transmitter range and attempt to locate the receiver. Do self back-ground check.

Pleased with what he had achieved, Simon decided it was time to reappear. He left the building after changing back into his original clothes. He had no illusions about the fact that it would be harder than ever to drop the surveillance next time, but believed he needed to be himself in order to do justice to his background checks. He walked for some distance before catching a bus to the Downtown bus depot, and then walked to the Bank of New Zealand having seen no sign of any surveillance. He put his job sheets into the safe deposit box and then changed buses three times before arriving back at his flat. There were no signs of obvious surveillance. That it was there, Simon had no doubt. Close by there would be an observation post from which they would be observing the flat, and monitoring the bugs and cameras in it.

Simon went through his normal routine, went to bed, slept, arose in the morning, went for a walk and had breakfast after showering and dressing. On the walk he had not positively tried any tradecraft to identify surveillance but had noted vehicles in the vicinity and committed them to memory. Simon walked to the nearest bus stop and travelled into the city. He then caught another bus out to a suburban shopping centre, walked through the centre for a while, sat and drank a cup of coffee and then caught a taxi back into the city. Having completed the exercise that was designed to identify possible surveillance operatives, he felt satisfied that he had identified two vehicles and three operatives. The vehicles were a grey Camry with a small kink in the aerial, and a white Nissan with a rust mark on the rear stop light surround. It was no use memorizing registration numbers because in the long term they would be changed. The operatives were all very similar; about 5" 10", medium build etc but one had slightly longer earlobes than normal, one had two small skin cancer spots on his nose and the other had a little finger on his left hand that angled away from his ring finger. Simon had also noticed one woman, who was possibly a surveillance operative. Time would tell. While Simon knew that the operatives would be recycled he also knew that it was important to continue identification procedures, both to force a large change over of operatives, and therefore cause them to use inexperienced ones, but also to alert himself to surveillance when not expecting it.

Simon went into a McDonalds and ordered a Filet o' Fish Combo, and while he munched his way through it started to think about himself both past and present. He again let his mind wander and then headed up his notebook; Me. He started to write up basically a C.V. He was aware that this would not necessarily indicate someone, or something, of interest, but knew it would assist his breakdown of areas to investigate further. After sitting thinking for a few minutes he commenced to write. Instead of listing his qualifications, achievements, and personal details he made a note of past work related matters that could be causing his current problems. While he had worked with various Special Forces groups throughout the world, and in places that no New Zealander knew their troops were involved with, he noted three main items.

The first related to his service with the British 22 Squadron S.A.S in Ireland. There were allegations of torture concerning an I.R.A member named Darryl Simon Coughlan, and the later ambush of an I.R.A unit known as the Dublin Deltas, which resulted in four I.R.A deaths.

The second related to his work in Columbia with U.S Rangers operating against the Escoban Groups Alpha Guards, and the death of eight of it's members while closing down Route 7 being used for drug smuggling.

The third related to his Police work in New Zealand.

Simon sat looking at the pages with his left hand unconsciously tapping on the table. His mind ranged over the names mentioned. He doubted that Coughlan would waste his time trying to locate any of the team that took him down, if he was physically capable now, or even still alive. None of the relatives of the Dublin Deltas would be seeking him as their killers were never identified. No it was doubtful that his Ireland problems were coming back to haunt him. Still, if all else came to naught, it was an area that could be looked at.

The Escoban problem was another doubtful starter. Okay some of the Escoban Alpha Team had been taken down and one route closed, but it was unlikely Escoban had been seriously inconvenienced by either action. The likelihood that Escoban could obtain the details of the Special Forces personnel used against him was not to be underestimated, but Simon thought the effort would not be worth it to Escoban. No, again this was only something to look at if all else failed.

Now, of course, he came to the Police. He wondered how he could quantify that area? In reality he had to admit that the Police were the likely source of any problems. When he went over to the Police, charged with setting up a Police Section to operate against terrorist threats, things had initially gone well. There had been a bit of resistance from the Police Armed Offenders Squad Command but even they, in the end, could not argue with his expertise. All had gone well after that until an operation had turned to custard. A prominent Member of Parliament was suspected of being used by an Arab Agent to lobby for sanctions against Israel. While possibly this was more of a Security Intelligence Service operation, the Police Anti Terrorist and Rescue Unit had been asked to assist. A stake out had been set up to catch the M.P. and the Arab meeting. Everything had gone to plan as far as Simon and the team was concerned. Tasked with apprehending the Arab after the meet they had 'kidnapped' him as he left the Wellington Botanical Gardens where he had met the MP. An exchange of something had taken place but the Secret Service had been unable to confirm what that had been. Camera trouble, they had said. In addition to that, the MP had evaded S.I.S. interception and made it back to the houses of Parliament. Under vigorous and robust interrogation, the Arab had admitted paying money to the MP to lobby for a Palestinian State, and to have sanctions imposed against Israel as a protest against West Bank violence. Allegations against the unit, and Simon in particular, by both the Secret Service and the Prime Minister concerning the use of excessive force in the interrogation and apprehension of the Arab, resulted in Simon being reassigned to C.I.B General Duties. From then on he had made a name for himself as an exceptionally gifted thief catcher. While his means were often unorthodox, and at times boarded on the illegal, well make that actually illegal on occasions, he did clear his files and made the Police apprehension figures look good. As a result, of course, he made enemies, both inside and outside the Police. While the criminal world accepted his methods, they complained, bitched, and resorted to violence and threats as a means of trying to destabilize him. On the other hand some of the Police were worse. He was seen as an outsider, not having come up through the ranks. Time and time again he found his offenders were given advice, and/or assistance, by officers both junior and senior, on how to evade conviction. Robertson and Walker were two prime examples.

So, concluded Simon, out of his Police time there were probably a few who would want to cause him some grief. From his Police Anti Terrorist and Rescue Unit days, there were several possibilities. There was the Honourable Jack Shaw (retired) along with several Secret Service agents whose incompetence had been revealed during the Arab incident, officially code-named Operation Time Glass.

After them, came the possibility of some of his convicted offenders, but to be honest with himself, he admitted that in general they would seek revenge in the more usual way; a bullet, knife or beating. No, the most obvious was inside the Police Department. Robertson and Co. were suspects, and on the surface of it appeared to have already planted and fabricated evidence against him. If he was honest though, Robertson and Co. seemed to be indulging more in spur of the moment stuff. Donahue had indicated that it was his own family that was causing the problem, so perhaps all this speculation was leading him off on a tangent.

Suddenly Simon sat up nearly spilling his coffee. He thumped his left palm against his head. His actions were so violent that several people glanced towards him.

"Of course," exclaimed Simon aloud. Seemingly out of the blue the thought came that perhaps his children were somehow involved. Maybe it was not him. Maybe Petra or Ali? No, no that would be too much. Sweat broke out on Simon's forehead. He could feel the perspiration running down his back. His hands were shaking.

"Are you alright? I said are you alright? Excuse me," the voice penetrated through Simon's thoughts. "Are you alright? You look awfully white. Pale as a ghost."

"Ah, no, no I'm okay," said Simon. "Just a little upset. Some bad news. Thanks for your concern. I'll be alright".

"If you're sure," the speaker was an elderly woman with an equally elderly male behind her.

"Yes, yes I'm sure," responded Simon. "Thank you." He gathered up his material, slipped it into his briefcase and left McDonalds with the elderly couple shaking their heads.

For the next hour Simon wandered the streets. He took no notice of where he was, where he was headed, or of his surroundings. The world could have ended and he would not have noticed. He might even have welcomed it. The thought that Pet and Ali may have been killed to get at him whirled round and round in his head. Without conscious thought Simon walked into a Public Bar. He drank steadily, all the while growing more and more depressed. He went from being certain that his children had been killed because of him, to certain that he was hopelessly wrong. He had no recollection of time or his whereabouts. Round and round his head the thoughts chased each other. Positive, negative. Up, down. Hope, despair. Gradually he became aware of his surroundings. He went to step down from his seat and as he fell strong arms caught him as darkness engulfed him.

Chapter 15

The surroundings were not familiar, but at the same time they were. The double bed on which he lay, bedside cabinets, table and two chairs, TV in the corner, coffee and tea making facilities, a list of instructions on the wall. They all shouted motel. Simon's mouth was parched. His head throbbed. His stomach heaved.

"Oh God," he said to himself. "I haven't fallen off the wagon have I?"

He realized that he had not just fallen, he had taken one giant bloody leap. He wondered how he could have been so stupid and weak. Why? Why? How could he be so bloody stupid? Why? Why? Then it all came crashing back. With it came the tears. He was racked by huge sobs. They were so deep that he struggled to take a breath. A toilet flushed and then arms enveloped him. He knew the smell and he knew the touch. Pamela. He let her warmth and comfort flow over him. He gave himself up to the contentment. Gradually the racking sobs eased. Reaching around Pamela, Simon took a handful of tissues and wiped his eyes and runny nose. Having finally regained control of himself, he pushed Pamela far enough back to be able to see her face. Her eyes showed only concern. He could not see judgment. The tears welled again.

"Oh Pam," he sobbed. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Don't worry love," consoled Pamela. "Don't worry." She held a glass of water out to him and he drank it greedily.

"How did you find me?" queried Simon as he started on his second glass of water.

Pamela told him how she had tried to contact him on his cellphone, and when she did she was unable to understand what he was saying. The background noise and his slurred speech told her exactly what had happened. With an associate she started checking the pubs. They had located him at the third pub they tried, just in time to catch him as he fell.

"I don't remember the telephone call," said Simon.

"I'm not surprised," smiled Pamela. "This was bound to happen sooner or later. It's a miracle that you've lasted this long without a relapse."

"No, no. You don't understand," said Simon putting an imploring hand on her arm. "It's worse than you could ever believe. Where are we?"

"The Golden Arch Motel."

"Did you choose it for any reason

"No, it was just the closest to where we found you."

"Have you left the room since you got here?"

"No. Look Simon what's going on? Why all these questions all of a sudden?"

Simon put his fingers to his lips in the universal sign of silence. He started to struggle off the bed and was helped by Pamela. He turned on the radio and the television set. The television he directed towards the front and only door of the unit and the radio he directed towards the rear of the room. He then went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, leaving it running. Satisfied with the arrangements Simon went back into the main room. There was not much he could do about the end of the room exposed to the carpark, but changed the angles of both the television and radio so their sound roughly covered all three walls. While not perfect, because the shared wall only had the shower making any noise, he believed the arrangements would make it difficult for any surveillance teams to eavesdrop. With Pamela having been in the unit the whole time they would not have been able to place a listening device in the unit. Simon pulled the two chairs from the table into the centre of the room. He sat Pamela down in one and he sat in the other. In a voice she had to strain to hear, he brought her up to date on Father Joe, the murder scene, and the likelihood that the Police were setting him up, but that the real problem lay elsewhere. He confided how he believed he and his family were being targeted by someone for an unknown reason. He then told her how he thought it was possible his children had been killed by that person, or at least by people acting for them.

"And that," ended Simon, "is what absolutely threw me. I sort of went into automatic mode. I went for a walk to try and make sense of it all, but it overwhelmed me. With my resistance so low I just couldn't help myself.

"Oh Christ, what have I done that my kids have had to die for it? Why don't they just come for me? Why? Pam, there are no answers." Simon started to cry again. He fell sideways to Pamela who cradled him. She rocked him like a little baby all the while making 'shush, shush' noises. Again the sobs gradually subsided.

"You can't be sure of any of this though can you?" asked Pam still rocking him. "Like, aren't you accepting what that Priest told you without question? That's not like you is it?"

"Perhaps not," agreed Simon. "But there are surrounding things that give credence to what he said. I've been unable to find anyone obvious in my past who would want to so desperately discredit me. Certainly some in the Police do, but Robertson's efforts just indicate a person taking the opportunity to put the boot in. Mind you he could be acting on instructions, but even if he is, it only indicates someone behind him. No, there is someone somewhere in the background and they're determined to either put an end to me, or show me they're capable of putting extreme pressure on me."

"I find that terrifying Simon," said Pamela actually shaking. "Really scary! Do you have no idea? No idea at all?"

"None that I can think of, although once I put Pet and Ali's deaths into the equation I must admit I went no further."

"But, weren't there witnesses? Couldn't they have really been accidents? How can you know anything now? You may just be in denial? I've seen it before. When things just get so overwhelming the mind just closes down, or makes up fantasies."

Simon shook his head. "I don't know love, I really don't know. I don't know whether I'm coming or going. I've just about reached overload."

Pamela stood up and pulled Simon up with her. She led him across to the bed and made him lay down. She dissolved some disprin and made him drink the result. She then lay down beside him and cuddled him. It felt so wonderful to Simon. He squeezed her tighter and pulled her against him. He could feel the pressure of her hips against his. He could feel himself becoming aroused and he realized Pamela would be able to feel it also. He raised himself on an elbow and looked down at Pamela. His fingers traced along her lips. She opened them and nibbled his fingers. He leaned down and kissed her with increasing pressure. He could feel Pamela responding. He reached down and pulled her hips closer and then reached up under her blouse. He unclipped her bra and cupped her breasts with their hardening nipples. Pamela's breath was coming quicker. Simon pulled himself slightly back from her and reached down and under her skirt. Pamela, in turn, removed his hand and put it back on her breast. Accepting the limits they lay quietly petting until sleep claimed them both.

They awoke some time later to the radio and the television still pushing their sounds outwards. Reluctantly they drew apart and rearranged their clothes. They felt comfortable and there was no embarrassment. Simon put his arms around Pamela and pulled her close again. She rested her head on his chest.

"I love you Pamela Stevens," said Simon softly.

"And I love you Simon," responded Pamela.

"Where do we go from here I wonder?" asked Simon.

"Oh Simon," sighed Pamela. "I don't know. It's all such a mess.

"I'm sorry girl, it's not much of a beginning is it? You're a shining example of truth, virtue and honesty and I'm, well you know what I am."

"I do and I don't care," replied Pamela. She pulled herself away from the embrace, got up off the bed, and started to boil the kettle. While she prepared cups of tea using tea bags, Simon shifted the table over to the chairs. He sat down and stared into space. He shook himself back into the present when Pamela placed his cup of weak tea in front of him.

"Penny?"

"No, nothing really," said Simon. "Just thinking. I wish things weren't as they are but that won't help. We're just going to have to accept them. I'm in half a mind to give it all up though. If I was to plead guilty, it would get it all over and done with and we could get on with our lives."

"No, no," said Pamela alarmed. "You can't do that. If you did, then forever and a day the possibility of Alison and Petra having been murdered would hang over us. We'd never have any peace." She turned her cup round and round, leaving ring patterns on the Formica table top. "No Simon you must go all out to find the truth. Stick with your original intention. Go get 'em like you know you can. Goodness, I sound just like a movie don't I?" Pamela gave a little laugh.

Simon also gave a bit of a smile.

"I suppose," he said. "I had every intention of going on with this but I needed to know I had your agreement. Having it makes me feel better about what I have to do. I'm torn though between doing that, and the danger it will put you in."

"Hey, I'm a big girl remember," replied Pamela.

"You're in danger Pam," reminded Simon. "Everyone close to me seems to be in danger. I don't want you to be hurt. I'll tell you what. A few of my old Army mates are out on their own doing Private Investigation and Security work. I'll get them to keep an eye on you."

"No," said Pamela. "I'll be okay. I don't need, or want, any big gorilla's around to keep tripping over."

Simon grinned. "I assure you they're far from gorillas. One day you will meet them. They will be so discreet you won't know they're there. Please Pam, just for my peace of mind. I would rather take you right out of the loop but I'm going to need you to do things for me. No love, let's play it this way for now. If things change we will re-evaluate the deal. Okay?"

Pamela gave a reluctant nod. "But you'll stay in close touch won't you? And you won't do anything really stupid will you? I love you Simon, I can't lose you. I just can't." Pamela started to cry. Simon reached out and patted her hands and then realizing how bloody inadequate that was, got up and knelt in front of her and cuddled her until the tears stopped..

"There, there," soothed Simon. "It'll be alright."

Pamela nodded. "I'm sorry Simon. I'm sorry. I'll be strong. Don't worry. Now what are you going to do? Where are you going?"

"I'm going to check out Pet and Ali's deaths. I don't know where that will take me but for a start I want you to do a few things for me. I could do them, but if you can it will save me a lot of time."

"What? What do I have to do darling?"

Simon savoured the 'darling' for a few seconds, dreaming of what might have been, then put it to one side.

"I want you to get every newspaper report of the deaths that you can. I also need the death certificates to find out the listed causes of death, and also copies of the Coroners reports. I'll leave it to you to follow up on anything you think might be important. If there is nothing unusual listed on the certificates, or the newspapers, then forget them. We will just attach them to our files for reference. If you can't, for some reason get in touch with me via cell phone, signal me with the telephone booth, okay?"

"Yes, no probs. there," nodded Pamela.

"Also could you get that boy wonder of a lawyer, Thomas Williams, to try and get a copy of all the Police crime scene photographs of Yarmouth's place? Also the video they did of the scene if they ran one? There is no photograph of the clothes on the back of Yarmouths door on the file we have. It may have been inadvertently left off, or deliberately left off as it will confirm that the cardigan was planted in my car."

Pamela nodded.

"And finally, get some expert, or something, to give you the transmission range of a pin hole Panasonic CCTV model number 904 and the frequency it operates on please. I don't know if it will achieve anything but it's probably best to have the information just in case we can use it."

"Certainly Sir, will that be all?"

"No it isn't," said Simon. "You'll give me a kiss and if your work is unsatisfactory I'll be forced to give you a severe spanking."

"Oh Sir," responded Pamela. "I do like it when you are so strong."

They both laughed for a little while and then fell, once again, into each other's arms, growing somber as they realized the enormity of the whole thing. They pulled apart again.

"And what are you going to do love?" asked Pam.

"First off I'll go and see Elaine, my first wife, to see if she knows anything that I've overlooked. As we're not on the best of terms at the moment I'm not sure how that'll go. After that I'll see Ali and Pet's partners and exes etc., and check the witnesses and scenes. If there is anything to see, or find out, then I'll find it," said Simon grimly.

As he said that they became aware that night had gone and daylight was pushing into the room, showing it for what it was; a pig in a poke. Quietly they took a last look around the scene of great revelations, and hand in hand walked out onto the street, hailed a taxi, and headed for the City Mission. Pamela left Simon in the taxi with a quick kiss and a squeeze of his hand. Simon carried on to his flat. Before having a shower he made a cellphone call to Alan Forsyth of Investigations Limited and arranged Pamela's protection. No questions were asked by Forsyth, and Simon appreciated that. After his shower, he rang Elaine's mobile telephone number. He was switched to voice mail.

"Ah," he started, "look Elaine, love, I'm sorry. I don't want to bother you or anything like that but there are a couple of things I need to find out. I wonder if we could meet for a bit. Just a cuppa. In public. Nothing else. I promise. Pretty please. Look what say we make it Beanfine Café at 12.30 to day? If you don't turn up then I guess I'll have to accept that, but just for this once, please. No more than twenty minutes I reckon. Please. I'm actually begging." He hung up.

Simon then left the flat and caught a bus to the library where he checked the papers to see if there was any mention of the events at Donahue's place. It was on an inside page, barely more than a couple of paragraphs. Police were investigating the report of gunshots in the Ellerslie area, but had not located the source to date. Anyone with information should contact their nearest Police Station.

"Oh well," muttered Simon. "Obviously Donahue must have escaped being hurt." He continued to sit at the library table, with the paper open, staring into the distance. His head hurt, his eyes were having trouble focusing and his hands shook. He knew he gave every appearance of being a drunk. He closed the paper and tossed it to one side. Struggling to his feet he made his ragged way out the door. He openly caught a bus into the city centre. Walking along the street, he was able, at the last moment, to 'bail out' and bypass a pub door and instead make it to a café. He managed to drink a couple of V juices as a pick me up while gazing at his glassy eyed image in the adjacent mirror.

At twelve noon he found his way to Beanfine and took a table at the back. He knew Elaine would comment if he sat with his back to the wall, so he deliberately sat facing it. That lasted for all of three minutes. Settled with his back against the wall, adjacent to the rear exit, comforted him greatly. As 12.30 approached he grew restless wondering if she would appear and whether or not he was making a mountain out of a molehill. When she arrived, he was unsure if he felt relief or fear. Her eyes found him exactly where she knew he would be. She had 'dressed down' to meet him, but even so she still stirred memories. He struggled to his feet as she reached the table. Before he could do anything else she pulled out her own chair and sat down.

"Still the same old Simon." It was a statement. "Back to the wall awaiting the hoards. But they're the goodies Simon. Still on the turps by the look of you. Okay, what is it this time? I must say I really don't know why I am here. Definitely against my better judgment. Definitely. And don't you read anything into my being here other than pity. Oh yes I think you can read pity into it."

Simon swallowed. His stomach turned over.

"Look love," he started.

"I'm not your love," Elaine interrupted.

"Okay, okay," Simon pacified. "Just a figure of speech. Coffee?"

"You know how I have it." The reply was bitten.

Simon waved to a waitress. "Two flat whites please."

"Get on with it," said Elaine. "I'm limited as far as time is concerned. So's my patience."

"Look," Simon hesitated, unsure how to go about it. "There are some things I need to get straight. Straight in my head. I accept that I've been, I am, a total arsehole as far as my behaviour has been concerned. My drinking and all that. And then Pet and Ali."

"No Simon. No." Elaine put up her hand. "Do not go down that track."

"Okay, okay," pacified Simon. "Just bear with me will you? Just for a few minutes and then we never have to see each-other ever again."

"That can't come soon enough."

Simon knew that this was not going to be easy.

"I know that you'll think I'm really nuts with some of the questions I've got, but Elaine, I really need to know the answers. In no way am I trying to intimidate you, or grease onto your good side. As much as I regret it, I accept that you and I are over. Look, I think the things that I need to know from you are so important, that if you want, I'm more than willing for you to have some-one independent present, perhaps a support person. I'm not trying to make this sound all life and death stuff, but I think, no I know, the answers will help me sort myself out."

Elaine sat back in her seat. Her eyes focused on Simons". She let her clasped hands lay on the table.

"Well," she said. "I don't know what to say to all that. Doubtless it'll all turn out to be one of your bloody con tricks again, but for old time's sake, and don't read anything into that, I'll listen."

"I will, I have to, touch on Ali and Pet but don't panic. I'm not about to blame my problems onto them or what happened to them."

"You wouldn't want to Simon," promised Elaine.

"After Ali and the kids died, did anything, or anyone, strike you as unusual? Like, I know I was a mess and you've always been the strong one, emotionally, so I just wonder . . . ." Simon left the sentence in the air.

"That's a pretty stupid question even for you," Elaine replied. "Even so. No. I don't think so. Robert was absolutely beside himself, although you and he did the macho mustn't cry thing, although that would have helped. But no I don't recall anything strange. Though wait up a bit. Robert did say something. Perhaps it wasn't really strange. A bit unusual perhaps. Like us, neither of the kids were religious, but Robert did say that he and Ali had been thinking about getting the kids christened, or baptised, or whatever it is you do to kids. I think talking about the funerals brought that up. I don't know why they would have wanted to do that. Probably some interfering from your parents.

"Why my parents?" asked Simon.

"Because your mother was always on about the church."

"First I knew of it," stated Simon.

"Wasn't she always religious?" asked Elaine. "I thought she was. She always appeared to be; saying grace before meals, teaching the kids to say prayers when they slept over, that sort of thing."

"Mum? Perhaps she did that sort of thing later. Not when I was at home though. Oh we went to Sunday school and Bible Class because that's what kids did then. We didn't go to Church much though."

"Well she brought it up with me on more than one occasion. Still, I don't see anything important in it all. Do you?"

"No I don't think so."

"She did say it was important for your father's sake, but if ever there was a non-church person it was him."

Simon laughed. "You could say that again. I can remember him calling Roman Catholics all sorts of names. Mind you, I think that came from when he was on the Parent Teachers Association and the local Roman Catholics opened their own school, and took half the kids from the local State school. I can't see how being religious could have helped the old man, or even been a part of his life, so I don't think that it is, or was, important. Shit, he didn't even have a church funeral."

"We didn't even go to the funeral if you remember," said Elaine. "You were on one of your overseas trip things, and no-one could get word to you. Even the kids and I didn't go. It was all over by the time anyone thought to tell us. That's why I'm not rapt in your family. Not even letting next of kin know when some-one dies."

"Still," said Simon. "It's what the old boy had told them. No fuss. Say nothing to any-one. Just bury me. Nothing in the newspapers. Nothing. No-one needs to know. Tell one person and you might as well tell the world. You can't blame them for acceding to his wishes really can you?"

Elaine sat back in her chair. "Anything else?" she queried.

"I suppose I need the same sort of thing about when Pet died. Was there anything unusual then?"

"Apart from you getting pissed and abusing the General you mean?" retorted Elaine. Simon nodded. Elaine appeared lost in thought for a while. Finally she leaned forward across the table towards Simon.

"You know what?" she asked. Simon shook his head. "There was something." Elaine tapped the table with her fingers. "If we hadn't talked about Ali and the kids going to be churched I wouldn't have thought it unusual, but Pet was buried by a Roman Catholic Chaplain, and she always considered herself a Protestant. Well she always put that down whenever asked for her religious affiliation."

"Perhaps the usual one wasn't available," said Simon.

"Perhaps," replied Elaine. "But in Pet's belongings, when we got them, there was a set of Rosary Beads. That's Roman Catholic. Now why would she have become an R.C. do you think? Yes, I do find that a little unusual now. Let's face it though, a bit of religion probably wouldn't have done them any harm."

"No," agreed Simon. "Do you still hear from or see Robert at all?"

"Only at Christmas. He always sends a card. Last time he was overseas. He works for Xerox now selling their stuff. He's never married again though. That's kind of nice really isn't it? To think he loved our daughter that much. From time to time I hear from Janice."

"Janice?" asked Simon. "Oh, Janice, Pet's friend."

"I think she was more than just a friend," retorted Elaine. "I just think they were going through a rough patch and then the accident and all. Well, anyway, I like Jan. She's got herself a nice enough mate now. I find it best to let sleeping dogs lay."

Simon nodded absent mindedly. "Roman Catholics. Where did they fit in?" wondered Simon. "Was it more than a coincidence that Alison and Petra had a connection with Donahue's religion?" He looked across at Elaine.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "In some other world. Thanks for this. I know it probably seems stupid to you, but it's helped me a bit. It really has."

Elaine laughed. "Sure it has," she said. "You'll be going to church next. Perhaps you should try their twelve step get off the booze program." She pushed herself away from the table. Standing, she looked down at Simon. "We had some good times Simon, but they were well out-weighed by the bad. I've a life of my own now. Leave me alone won't you? Even so, look after yourself." She turned and left Beanfine.

After she left, Simon ordered another cup of coffee. His headache had gone. He turned the Roman Catholic connection over and over in his mind. He did not doubt that there was a connection. Co-incidences did not occur in his book. For the first time he had a connection between himself, Alison, Petra and current events. The space in time was troubling though. Alison had died, what, five years ago and Petra four years ago? If those deaths, and he, were connected, then why such a long time span? Actually you had to go back even further, back to his mother's death by the sounds of it. How long ago was that? Fifteen years? Maybe even further back. Elaine said she had talked religion to his Mum, and that thing about it being for his father's sake. Where the hell did that come from?

Simon thought back to his father.

As Simon had left home at sixteen, he struggled to recall him particularly well. He had been a big strong man. Physically strong. Such befitted him as a farmer. From what Simon had been able to deduce from his fathers limited utterances, it appeared that he had been brought up in some type of foster home or institution. He had never raised the matter with his father and his father had never volunteered anything. Simon's mother had said that his father had never known love and was therefore unable to show love. Simon always thought, that if that had been the case, then you would think he would have gone overboard to make up for what he had never had. Instead he was a taciturn man. Remote. Cold. He was a true loner in every sense of the word. His relationship with his wife was therefore unusual. Rarely did an angry word pass between them. For all of his remoteness, he gave every appearance of seeking and accepting his wife's comfort and guidance. He was a hard worker but also a reader. At the end of the day and during his meal breaks he would read. He read extensively from fiction and non-fiction, from famous authors to new. Religion, however, seemed to have no place in his belief system. Whatever brand of religion was mentioned he would dismiss it as comfort for the weak. The exception were the Roman Catholics. At any mention of them he would turn white and say, "Bastards, the lot of them". He would then turn the radio off or throw down the newspaper. Simon could recall one thing though. It had only just come to his mind. He and his Dad had been checking cattle down at the far paddock. They had sat down by the river to eat their lunch. The sun had been particularly hot, and Simon could remember the sting of sweat in his eyes and the coolness of his drink from the river. In those days it did not matter that cattle had pissed or shit in it. The bacteria built up the body's immune system, Simon reckoned, because he had not had a day of sickness in his life. He had taken off his clothes and cooled down with a swim in a deep pool where the river had dug out part of the bank. When he had got out and dressed his father had said something to him. Simon had to think for a while to recall the words; "I'm nothing special Simon, no matter what you may hear. I'm just a person close to nature in which all answers are found". As a youngster the words had meant little to him, and even now Simon had no idea why they had come to his mind. Now that he had recalled the words, he put them into his subconscious mind to achieve whatever that part of his brain did to turn them into something relevant. Having achieved all he believed he could at that stage, he left Beanfine.

As he reached the footpath his cellphone rang. It was Pamela advising him that she had something important to tell him. They agreed to meet at the Mission at about 5 pm. It left Simon with a couple of hours to fill in. He did so by again going through an aimless walking routine to identify any surveillance. Satisfied at having spotted another vehicle, a red sign-written van, and two women, both middle aged, he arrived at the Mission. Pamela was waiting for him.

They kissed briefly and holding hands wandered off to Albert Park where they had previously sat and talked about how to defend the murder charge. Sitting by the fountain they spoke with their heads close together to thwart any directional microphones. Simon listened to Pamela's briefing of what she had discovered. It was very little in actual fact. Thomas Williams had obtained the crime scene photographs and video. Apparently the Police had not commented upon a second request. Thomas Williams did not know if there were any additional photographs included with the latest ones. They were at Jones Thompson's reception waiting for him to pick them up. She had arranged for a clipping service to obtain every media mention of Alison and Petra's deaths and that included television coverage. Thomas Williams had also arranged for copies of the death certificates.

"So," finished Pamela. "It's all under control as far as I'm concerned. Now, how about you?"

"It's been a most interesting day." Simon explained in detail all he had been told by Elaine. He continued, "With your background you may be able to help me with the church bits."

"I'm not Roman Catholic," pointed out Pamela.

"Yeah," agreed Simon. "But you're all the same aren't you? You know, two legs, two arms, one God and all that?"

"Maybe not exactly," said Pamela. "Let's leave that until another time shall we?"

"Okay," said Simon.

"So where do we go from here?" asked Pamela.

Simon looked up as two men approached.

"Oh shit," he said. "Here comes trouble. What do you want this time Walker? If you keep this up I'll be able to make a complaint of harassment. That wouldn't look good on your personal file would it?"

"Very funny Simon," responded Walker. "I'm cracking up laughing. Madam." He acknowledged Pamela. "Tell me Simon, after you left Beanfine this afternoon, where did you go?"

"Why would you want to know that?" queried Simon. "Have you got a little theft, a burglary, a little armed robbery perhaps lined up for me?"

"It's a simple question Simon."

"And I've got a simple answer," responded Simon. "It's none of your business."

"We're just asking Simon. We're allowed to ask as you well know."

"Well ask away and I'll keep telling you the same thing, it is none of your business."

"I hope you can prove that business Simon because at 3.30 pm this afternoon there was a fatal accident at the Waterfront Domain. A woman was found dead at the foot of the cliff. Her injuries are not fully consistent with a fall. The death is what you and I would call suspicious."

"So I am going to be the number one suspect for every suspicious death am I? Come on Walker."

You were the last to see her alive Simon and as you well know that puts you somewhere in the frame."

"I see, and where did I last see this person?"

"At Beanfine Simon. It's your ex wife Elaine."

Chapter 16

Another death

Simon slumped back down onto the edge of the fountain.

"Oh Simon," consoled Pamela putting her arms around him and unconsciously patting him on his back as though he was a little child.

"You're sure? It is Elaine?" asked Simon. "No mistake at all?"

"No Simon," said Walker. "No mistake. So you can see why we are wondering."

"You should know where I've been," said Simon dully. "Your team was following me. Ask them. Could I have a better alibi?"

"Actually you could," confirmed Walker. "Our team lost you. It could be you lost them. In that time you could well have pushed Elaine off the cliff."

Normally Simon would have lost it at that point and dealt to Walker. Pamela could feel his body tense and turned her patting into a hold to keep him still.

"You know you really are a wanker Walker. Let me tell you here and now that if required I can prove my whereabouts. Doubtless that proof will come with surveillance photographs. Contrary to the belief of both you and Robertson, I'm innocent until proven guilty so I don't have to prove anything. You have to prove things Walker. Instead of talking to me you should be off doing something productive. If your team were any good what so ever they would be able to confirm that Elaine and I parted on good terms. I doubt if even your fact twisting and evidence planting will be able to involve me. Now get away from us and do some proper Police work. Go on, fuck off."

"You are required to formally identify Elaine," responded Walker. "The autopsy is at 9 am tomorrow. Be at the morgue at 8 am and we will do the official bit. Be there." With a gesture of his head to his colleague Walker turned and left.

"Darling," consoled Pamela. "I'm sorry, so sorry. I obviously didn't know her but she was the mother of your children, and you both must have gone through so much at various times." Seeing the look on Simon's face she paused, and then in a stricken voice continued. "Oh dear Lord no. Simon, you don't think. No you couldn't. Could you? Could this be part of whatever is going on? Tell me no Simon. Tell me no."

Simon shook his head trying to make sense of chaos.

"I don't know love," Simon said. "I honestly don't know. It's as though I'm jinxed. Everyone I am associated with dies."

Simon dropped his head into his hands. For a while his body was racked with sobs. Pamela just kept her arms round him, gently rocking him and muttering to him, "There, there lover."

Suddenly he resisted her and lifted his head. His nose was running and his eyes were bloodshot from tears.

"No, that's wrong," he declared. "It's not everyone. It's only family. My family. Shit Pam, I'm cursed. Well, either I'm cursed or my family is cursed. But why? Why?

"That's the question Pam. Why am I cursed? Do you believe in curses Pam? You're the expert. Is there such a thing as a curse? Do churches curse people? Didn't Jesus curse a tree and it died?"

"It was a fig tree," Pamela automatically responded. "But I don't know if that's strictly true or added at some later stage. Personally I don't go for curses in a big way. I think a curse is more of a state of mind by the person who believes they've been cursed. Guilt feelings on their own part perhaps? Some do believe in curses though. Some Christians with fundamental beliefs think curses are for real. They also believe in the devil though. I'd suggest that some Roman Catholics would believe in curses. Yes I'd think so. Actually I'd be certain. Many of them still live in a past peopled by evil spirits and Satan. Then, of course, you've got primitive tribes that believe in cursing people and things. It is something normally done by witch doctors or shamans."

Simon became animated. He stood up and started to walk to and fro in front of Pamela. He was oblivious of the fact that his movement away from the fountain would allow others to eavesdrop on him.

"Shit Pam," he said excitedly. "It's a connection. Tenuous I must admit, but a connection never the less. A connection to the Roman Catholics. Everything points to it."

Pamela jumped to her feet and pulled Simon back down to the fountain.

"Keep your voice down Simon," she urged. "Don't forget where we are. There are listeners."

"Of course, of course," agreed Simon. "Listeners.

"But don't you see we're on to something. Shit! Catholics. What sort of connection do I, or mine, have with those bastards?"

"If there is a connection," cautioned Pamela.

"There is," said Simon grimly. "There is. I don't believe in coincidences. There's a connection alright. But why are they killing people? On top of that what is the actual connection? Now isn't there something in the bible about the sins of the father being handed down to future generations or something?"

"Whoa Simon," said Pamela. "You're making some giant leaps here. Okay there is a possibility of some connection between certain events and Roman Catholism. There's nothing to suggest that Catholics are going around killing people. It does appear that that some of those involved in what you are investigating are Catholics, but I don't think you can take it any further than that. The passage you're thinking of in the bible says that the sins of the fathers shall be visited upon their descendants unto the seventh generation. I think I've got that right. I don't think it exactly means that though. I think it means more along the lines of traits and habits, or courses of direction, rather than anything else."

"Humph," grunted Simon.

The morgue was as unfriendly as he remembered. It was newer than the one he used to attend when he first joined the Police, but still had the same smell and impersonal air. Even after witnessing death and its results in numerous ways he had never lost the fear of its unknowable nature. A dead body could not hurt you physically. It did burp, fart and grumble occasionally, but nothing else. Even so, every cop he had ever known could not stop themselves whistling in a morgue. Even non whistlers whistled. At least the light switches were in a reasonable place now. The old morgue had outer swing doors, and the light switches were on the far side of the entrance lobby. No matter how fast you moved it was impossible to reach the light switches before the doors swung shut and left you in darkness. Darkness in which there were dead bodies. Who could forget the story of the prank played on the young Samoan P.C.? An experienced cop lay under a sheet in the morgue and when the new boy entered, the senior cop sat upright with a groan. He immediately lay back down as the new boy's torch bent itself over his head. Shaking his own head to erase the memories Simon climbed the stairs to the mezzanine floor where the viewing room was located. Walker was there but this time he was with Tony Carr. Tony nodded at Simon.

"Sorry mate," he sympathized.

Simon nodded his thanks. Tony had been the morgue cop for longer than anyone could remember. He had never progressed past constable rank and seemed to have no ambition to do so. His face was excessively lined and he was bald which gave him the appearance of an old wrinkly dog.

Simon stepped over to the viewing window. Inside the room was an old gurney. A green cotton cover made the mound on the gurney anonymous. Tony Carr went into the room and folded back the cover from the face. Elaine looked exactly as she had when she left Beanfine. Simon nodded at Carr and he recovered the face. He pushed the gurney through perspex doors at one end of the viewing room and then came back out to Simon. Simon, Carr and Walker then went into Carr's office and completed the formal paperwork positively identifying the body as that of Elaine Allan.

"Just a few points before you go Simon," said Walker. Simon looked at him and then nodded towards Carr.

"Are you sure you want a witness present? Tony might remember what I say and then you would be unable to twist it to fit any given set of facts."

"Don't be an arsehole all your life," snarled Walker. "I'm doing nothing more than my job. I've done no more than you would do in the same circumstances. Don't give me all that holier than thou shit! You were the last to see Elaine alive and you know what that means. If you didn't do it then she may have made a comment or indicated something that may help us locate the offender."

"Oh, so I'm suddenly to accept that you've only been doing your duty all along. So when you hit me, when you planted evidence and all the other bits and pieces that'll come to light in due course, they were all done in the interests of justice. Walker, you couldn't track a fucking elephant through snow. I know what I know, and what I don't know I will find out. Even by myself I'll find out what happened to Elaine long before you do even with all your resources."

"So," said Walker. "I take it you're not going to help?"

"Read my lips Walker," said Simon. "I have nothing to say to you or yours. I don't trust you. I don't respect you. I think you're bent."

Walker's fist missed Simon by inches as he lunged forward. Carr grabbed Walker around the chest and pulled him away from Simon. Simon stood up.

"I think that indicates the truthfulness of what I was saying," he said looking at Carr. "It might be a good idea to make a notebook entry of all this Constable. You might need to recall the circumstances in a Court of Law at some stage."

Simon walked out of Carr's office leaving the Policemen to their own devices. Instead of going down the stairs and outside however, Simon went upstairs and through doors into the mortuary itself. Already the Pathologist was into the post mortem on Elaine. As he walked in Simon stepped quietly to one side and stood leaning against the wall. Nobody seemed to notice him. Elaine lay on a stainless steel dissecting table. If he had not known it was her body he would not have know it to be Elaine. The cranium cut had been done and her scalp pulled forward over her face. The mole beside the top of her pubic hair confirmed for him whose body lay on the table. The 'Y' cut from each side of the body and then down to the bowels had opened up her insides and Simon could see the mess her internal organs were in. Most of them appeared as if they had been squeezed or torn. As a matter of fact everything he could see indicated that she had been killed by the sudden stop at the bottom of the cliff. Obviously something else must have indicated to the Police that the fall was not accidental. Then Simon noticed that the pathologist was concentrating on the womb area. He thought they were probably trying to ascertain if she had been sexually interfered with when the pathologist said, "No doubt about it, she was pregnant." He then caught sight of Simon. They had known each-other for a number of years. Doctor Bonsail's expertise had helped Simon both while in the Police, and prior to that when other deaths required further investigation.

"Do I offer sympathy, congratulations or what?" he asked.

The rest of the team became aware of Simon's presence at that stage. Walker's companion of the previous day put his notebook down and started towards Simon just as Walker and Carr came through the doors. It was all on. Simon gave as well as he got. The end result was Simon finding himself lying outside the morgue. That he was still in one piece Simon put down to the presence of Carr and the medical team. Walker had been particularly vicious and Simon had some serious bruises in the rib area from Walkers shoes. Gingerly Simon got to his feet. Nothing appeared to be broken but Simon knew he would be stiff and sore for a few days. Had it been worth it? Simon thought so.

For a start the Police clearly had no evidence whatsoever to link him with Elaine's death. He accepted that it was quite standard for him to be interviewed and considered a suspect. What riled him was that Walker was involved. In an ideal situation someone else would be running the investigation. In this instance the Police had arranged matters to try and tie him into another suspicious death with the possibility of perhaps dropping a bit of planted evidence against him. Elaine being pregnant had thrown him a bit. He wondered whether or not it was his. The possibility was there, although a bit remote. He had slept with her on the odd occasion after they had broken up, and then again just before everything had turned to shit with Yarmouth. Bugger! What a list of 'what ifs' that opened up. Someone to replace Pet and Ali. "No", he cautioned himself. "Don't go down that track."

Okay, so now things needed to be revised. Elaine's death altered things quite dramatically. He decided he did not need, or really want, to go and discuss it with Pamela. He accepted that she would give him the sympathy he probably needed but that would only delay action. He rang Pamela and got her voice mail. He left a brief message just saying that Elaine had been pregnant and that he was going to continue to try and prove his innocence and would contact her in due course. He knew she would understand that he could not go into any detail as her voice mail would in all likelihood be checked by the Police.

Simon bought himself a newspaper, and sure enough, it gave brief details of Elaine's death. It did not give her name, or any details, apart from stating that the death was being treated as suspicious, and the Police would like to hear from anyone who had seen anyone or anything in the vicinity about the time of her death.

Simon caught a taxi and was dropped near the Waterfront Domain. Domain was giving it a prominence it did not deserve. He walked over to the crime scene, surrounded by tape and guarded by a lone constable. The Constable's behaviour indicated his newness to the job. Simon walked up to him and showed an old I.D. he had neglected to give to Robertson. He gave the Constable his name and rank and it was duly noted down. Simon stood taking in the scene. The area was small with a children's play area and carefully tended trees and shrubs. A safety fence stretched along the cliff side. As he walked the fence line he noted the fingerprint powder on the railings. There were no clear patches to indicate that any prints had been lifted, but he could see smudges. The grass immediately adjacent to the area had been trampled and some slivers of paint were present on the grass. Simon assumed that there must have been some sort of a struggle, but not a major one. He could picture the scene clearly enough. For whatever reason, Elaine had been here, and someone, or a few, had surprised her and simply lifted and thrown her over the cliff. He did not bother going down to the cliff base. He knew he would not find the vital clue that the Police had missed. That only happened on television. The scene search details could be obtained from the Police in due course. Even with Walker involved, Simon did not for a moment doubt that the basics would not be done in other than a professional manner.

As he walked away Simon nodded to the constable and called a taxi using his cell-phone. He gave the driver Elaine's address and had just settled back to think when his cell-phone rang. It was Alan Forsyth from Investigations Ltd. His message was cryptic. "Simon, Alan, daily at the chinks." The call was then terminated. Simon knew it would have been made from an untraceable connection but he longed for the encrypted cell phones he had previously had access too. While the message he had just received would have been unintelligent to anyone listening, to Simon it presented a scenario. It meant Forsyth had information for him and it was too important to trust passing it by normal means. The 'chinks' referred to a shopping centre in the suburbs. There was a Thai restaurant on the first floor. Nobody knew why the Thai restaurant was referred to as 'the chinks' and it did not matter. Just another piece to confuse any jig saw 'putter togetherer'. The daily meant the morning paper. The whole deal meant the information would be passed via a brush contact and the actual time of the contact would be dictated by Simon's arrival at the restaurant. Once he arrived Simon was to sit down and order a drink. That would activate the information holder who would leave and exactly ten minutes later that person would start up the emergency stairwell from the ground floor. At the same time Simon would go out to the toilets on the emergency stairwell landing, but instead of visiting the toilets he would go down the stairs. Both would have the morning paper in their left hands, and as they passed they would swap papers. Inside the paper Simon received would be the report Forsyth wanted him to have. Simon immediately had the taxi let him off. He then started his anti-surveillance routine to lose any team. Two hours later he ordered a light beer and sat down in the Thai restaurant. Ten minutes later he went to the toilet leaving the half drunk beer behind. Once through the stairwell door Simon headed downstairs. He passed the information carrier and they swapped newspapers without a pause. The carrier continued on up past Simon to the second floor before re-entering the building proper and then making his way out the main entrance. Simon exited the building on the ground floor and again carried out his basic anti-surveillance routine before ending up at his Ellerslie rent-an-office. He opened the newspaper and read the report.

The gist of it was that while his team had been keeping an eye on Pamela they had followed her and Simon to Albert Park. As a result of their surveillance they had quickly identified two teams following her. One was a near amateur Police group while the other was extremely capable and professional. They also initially confirmed two teams following Simon, again one an amateur Police group and the other a professional outfit. It was obvious both non-Police teams came from the same source. Forsyth identified them as a professional team made up of ex secret service and anti-terrorist agents operating under the nomenclature of Team ID, a soldiers of fortune group for hire. Their current employer was unknown at this stage. This surprised Simon who thought that the Police would have used their own specialised surveillance team to back up their normal every-day Detectives. By not using their own team it told Simon the Police were probably playing straighter than he had given them credit for doing. It probably meant that Walker was using members of his own squad, who were just amateurs at surveillance, to harass Simon. The question was, however; who were Team ID acting for? Simon went back to the report. The next paragraphs came as a shock.

"Whilst undertaking our duties regarding Pamela Stevens at Albert Park, it became obvious that you yourself were under surveillance by yet another team. We have had previous dealings with Team ID and acknowledge them to be professionals in their line of work. The unknown team showed ability and skill far beyond Team ID. We noted them purely by accident, and they immediately took the appropriate steps to disengage themselves from my team, something they were able to do successfully. The equipment they possessed, and their actions, indicated a large resource base. We doubt they will again allow themselves to be sighted by us. We believe they were armed. We are not in a position to state whether their interest in you was to your benefit or detriment.

Subject to your veto, we will make the necessary enquiries to identify the Team ID client and also any possible identification of the mystery team. To assist in that endeavour we will from time to time make spot checks upon you.

Our reports will continue to be delivered by hand."

Simon re-read the report. Clearly things were moving at a pace dictated by others. What others, he did not know. As far as he was concerned he had indulged in sex with an under-age informant and that was the limit of his criminal involvement. Others, however, had implicated him in the informant's death and now possibly in the death of his ex wife. On top of this there were two professional surveillance teams following his every move. One would have to believe they were not there for his benefit. He wondered which team, if either, was responsible for the attack upon Donohue.

For some time Simon debated with himself his next course of action. He decided to continue as before with the enquiry into his own family. He did not know what to do about the surveillance teams and decided to leave them to one side for the time being with the knowledge that Forsyth would let him know what he found out.

Leaving his rent-an-office, Simon did put a small piece of cotton across the door jamb and strategically left a small piece of dried mud under the floor mat where it would be crushed if anyone trod upon it. He took his report from Alan Forsyth to the safety deposit box at the Downtown Bank of New Zealand. He then travelled to Elaine's house by a series of taxis and buses to ensure he would not be back-tracked to the bank.

As the last taxi pulled up outside Elaine's house, he saw that the guard was a detective. He knew that he would never bluff his way past him. He accepted that his detour to get Forsyth's report had given the Police time to have found out that he had been to the Waterfront Domain and make sure that he did not get into the house. Simon then directed the driver to the airport. At the counter Simon made enquiries for the next flight to Taupo, the town with an airport, nearest Petra's last Army posting. He booked and paid for a private aeroplane leaving within the hour. Three hours later he found himself at Taihape after having driven from Taupo. He booked into the local hotel. With persistence, and money, he obtained a room adjacent to the stairwell, which would provide him with a quick escape route should one be necessary.

He then walked around Taihape to re-familiarise himself with the ins and outs. Satisfied, he checked for surveillance and located a member of Team ID. Accepting that, he walked to the flat Petra had shared with two other Army personnel. As luck would have it, some-one was home. No, they did not know Petra themselves but as it was an Army town they had heard of her and her death. They suggested that if he checked with the neighbours, they might be able to help as they had been there for years. Those in the houses each side had shifted in after Petra's death. "So much for having lived there for years," thought Simon. Local enquiries located a Mrs. Jelliman nearly directly opposite where Petra had lived. She was a talkative matronly woman, who, when Simon identified himself as Petra's father, invited him in for "a nice cuppa and a wee chat". Mrs. Jelliman had indeed lived at the address for years and yes she did remember Petra.

"A lovely young lass. Nothing was too much trouble for her. She would mow my lawn for me and often picked me up in her car when she saw me walking. You know once I even got a ride in a tank." She prattled on as she served up a cup of good old tea. The cups and saucers matched, but were a little chipped in places. The milk jug had a crocheted cover over it with little weights holding it down. The tea pot was metal and somewhat stained. It was real tea made from tea leaves. None of that bagged stuff. With no strainer, however, there were a few tea leaves left floating. Contrary to what Simon expected, the tea was weak, not left long enough to draw, but hot.

"Now drink up, there's a good lad. Well perhaps it wasn't a tank. Actually I know it wasn't. I know a tank when I see one. It was a Land Rover but why ruin a good story?

"Now what do you want to know about Petra? I would have though that after this amount of time you would have come to terms with your loss. When you've lost as many as I have you'll find out you can't dwell on these things. If you do, they have a habit of taking you over. No, mark my words, let the dead take care of the dead and the living take care of the living. That's in the good book. Still, there you are, sitting there like a nice young man, and here I am prattling on. Talk to me Petra's Dad, talk to me."

"Well," said Simon. "I must admit it did take me a while to come to terms with Pet's death, especially as her big sister had died also."

"Oh yes," interrupted Mrs. Jelliman. "I remember Petra telling me about that. You poor dear, you have had it hard haven't you?"

"Perhaps," replied Simon. "Really I don't know why I am here. I've just recently had this feeling that I perhaps missed some things about Pet. I don't know what. It's just that I need to confirm some things for myself. Did she have any friends other than Mark and Griff her flat mates? Was she religious? Did he have boyfriends? You know, all that sort of thing."

"Ah," nodded Mrs. Jelliman. "I remember now. You're a cop aren't you? Yes. An enquiring mind. Now let me see, friends? Just the usual. You know, Army mates. This is an Army town you know. No, there was just Petra, Mark and young Griff. I didn't know Mark and Griff very well but they seemed very nice. When it came to opposite sex friends though, there was a huge difference between them. Mark and Griff would have different girls on their arms each and every day but not Petra. No, Petra only had one girlfriend. You knew she was gay? I think that is what they call it these days. That's how it often is now. What was her name? Janet, Jane, no, Janice, yes that's it, Janice." Mrs. Jelliman nodded emphatically, evidently very pleased with her mental recall.

"A lovely young lady. Didn't you ever meet her?"

Simon shook his head. "No, I never did."

"Hmm," said Mrs. Jelliman. Simon had the impression that he had slipped a few notches in her estimation. "Well never mind. I never did see her after Petra's death, except once. That was at McDonalds, you know, the restaurant place. Yes, she was there. All alone. I nodded and she waved but we never spoke. You do know that she was in the club don't you? That was a bit of a surprise. Particularly her and Petra being that way. Perhaps that was why you never met her. She looked like she had been in an accident as well. She had a black eye. She was wearing sunglasses but I could see. There were bruises on her forearms as well. Goodness knows what had happened to her."

"Ah," Simon questioned. "Do you know Janice's last name, her surname? I would like to make sure she's alright. If the baby was somehow Petra's I'd love to see my grand child. I just can't believe Pet wouldn't have told her mother and me about the possibility of a Grand child, particularly after loosing Alison's. That's just not like Pet. Perhaps Janice hadn't told her?"

"It's possible," agreed Mrs. Jelliman. "Young people are so different and independent these days, especially the women.

"I'm certain that Janice was Ellen Young's daughter. The Young's lived over on Boulevard Avenue. He was the Postmaster. Another lovely family. Very God fearing. Catholics, but only in name I suspect. They only had two children and I defy any couple to only have two children and be good Catholics. I presumed it was they who sent the Father around to see Petra."

"Whoa," said Simon. "Hold up there. What's this about the Father? A priest? A Priest visited Petra?" Simon had leapt out of his chair and was leaning over Mrs. Jelliman.

"Sit down young man," ordered Mrs. Jelliman. "You don't frighten me. Sit down."

Simon collapsed back into his chair. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," apologised Simon. "It's just that . . . it's just that . . . Oh, it doesn't matter. You wouldn't understand. I wasn't trying to frighten you."

"Hmm," muttered Mrs. Jelliman. "Can't say I have a great deal of time for the Father either. Never done a thing for my poor husband Jack while he was alive, but came groveling around once he was gone. Wanting money of course. They always want money. Father Thomas it was. The one who visited Petra. They didn't seem to hit it off very well. Oh, there was no shouting or fighting or even waving of arms, but I could tell by the way your Petra was standing. No indeed, the Father did not receive a welcome from Petra. They didn't give up though, and even after your daughter's death they continued to visit young Janice."

"And this Father Thomas," queried Simon. "He was or still is the local Priest?"

"Oh no," laughed Mrs. Jelliman. "He's dead now. Died about the same time as did your Petra. The church has gone from strength to strength since he left to meet his maker."

"And Janice and her parents?" asked Simon. "Are they still in Taihape?"

"Sorry love," Mrs. Jelliman shook her head. "Don't know where they are. Janice could be anywhere but I did hear that old man Young had ended up in a home, senile, after Ellen died. She could be anywhere. Still you being a Policeman and all, you should be able to find her."

"Yes, I should shouldn't I?" agreed Simon. "Well Mrs. J., I must be on my way. Thank you very much for the cuppa and the talk. It was most helpful." Mrs. Jelliman nodded her head.

"I've enjoyed our little chat," she said. "But just before you go, let's have a wee look at what the tea leaves say shall we?"

Simon watched while Mrs. Jelliman tipped out the little bit of liquid left in his cup, and then tipped it upside down and turned it around several times. She then righted the cup and peered inside. For some moments there was silence and Simon could hear the chiming clock on the mantle piece ticking away his valuable time. He did not feel it would have been right to leave, bearing in mind the information he had gleaned from the talk. At length Mrs. Jelliman looked up at Simon, put down the cup and pursed her lips.

"I can see the tears of tragedy in your past young man," she said. "In the future I can see a person whose name starts with the letter 'P'. This person will provide you with great happiness. Do not throw it away. Treat that person with care. Does that mean anything to you?"

Simon nodded.

Mrs. Jelliman carried on. "There are many trials and tribulations about you. I don't know what they are, the leaves don't tell such things, but go with care."

With a little effort Mrs. Jelliman got to her feet and accompanied Simon down the short passage to her front door. As she opened the door, Simon could see into the front room, and a cross, with Jesus hanging on it, in place above the mantle-piece.

"Go with God," said Mrs. Jelliman as Simon stepped through the front door. "Yes I also follow the faith, or the Way as I prefer to call it. Good night to you."

The door closed and Simon was standing on the footpath. He felt strangely uplifted. He smiled to himself as he pictured telling Pamela about his meeting with Mrs. Jelliman. Somehow he doubted she would be surprised. Simon reached for his cell phone and rang Investigations Ltd. He ordered a trace on Janice Young with the results to be forwarded to his voice mail.

Simon then returned to his hotel. A check of his anti-tamper devices showed that they had been disturbed. He settled down for the night. Within two hours his cell phone signaled a message and he had Janice Young's full name and current address. With relief he noted that she was still in Taihape. That would allow him to see her the next day.

The day dawned clear and fine. Simon breakfasted in the dining room and failed to detect any surveillance team members. He debated to himself whether or not he should telephone Janice before visiting her, but decided not to do so. He left the hotel and drove to the address supplied by Investigations Limited. It consisted of apartments on the fringes of the town centre. He could have walked. Simon walked to the front door. The name on the letterboxes confirmed a J Young in Suite 5. Without pausing Simon went to the stairs. The lift to the second floor would have given any surveillance team a lead to Janice. He did not doubt that there was a team present. On the second floor Simon found Suite 5 and knocked on the door. He heard footsteps approaching the door. They stopped, while their maker checked Simon through the peephole. The deadlock clicked back. The door opened wide and before Simon stood a young woman.

"Mr. Allan," said the woman. "This is a surprise. Come in."

Simon stepped inside. The door closed and he followed her to a small kitchen. The young woman walked with a definite limp.

"What a surprise," she repeated. "Oh, I know you from photographs," she said at Simon's look of surprise. He nodded. "Look," she continued. "Do you want a cup of coffee? I was about to have one." Simon sat at a breakfast bar, while the woman he presumed to be Janice, used a plunger to make a mug of coffee. Blue mountain coffee. Neither spoke. Simon did not feel in the least uncomfortable or intimidated. With a mug of coffee in front of him Simon looked the young woman straight in the eye.

"I take it you're Janice, Petra's Janice?" asked Simon.

The suddenness and loudness of her laughter took Simon by surprise.

"Of course I am silly," she said. "Oh, didn't Petra say anything to you about me?" She grew pensive. "That means your wife didn't say anything either. I wonder why?"

"Oh I knew of you but I'm afraid I didn't take much notice I'm sorry. I've never seen a photograph. I didn't know the depth of your relationship or anything. Actually to be honest I was more concerned with myself than any-one or anything else. Elaine did know about you, and probably did tell me, but it would have gone in one ear and out the other. After all you and she have still kept in touch with Christmas cards, which is more than I have. You know that Petra's mum and I are not together anymore?" He decided not to complicate matters by raising Elaine's death.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Yes I did know. I did see you and Elaine at the funeral but as you didn't acknowledge me I thought that perhaps you didn't want to, so I kept myself to myself.

"So, how come you're here now?"

"Mrs. Jelliman," said Simon.

"Ah," she said. "Mrs. Jelliman. The old lady who lived across the road." Janice laughed. "People think she's a witch of some type. I think she's just a sweet old lady. But why did you see her?"

"It's a long story Janice. Let's just say that when Petra died I wasn't thinking correctly and to satisfy myself I have come down to Taihape to touch base with those who knew her. I'm glad I did. Mrs. Jelliman says that I am a grandfather as well."

Janice said nothing. She just sat and looked at Simon. The silence grew longer. Simon started to feel uncomfortable and embarrassed.

"Look," he said breaking the silence. "I realize that it's probably a bit late to put in any claim or anything." He gave a bit of a cough. "Hey, it's okay if you don't want them to have anything to do with me. Well I shouldn't be saying them should I? Always have, but I know it's wrong. Boy or girl?"

Still Janice's silence drew out. Her coffee cup turned fifteen turns to the left and seven back to the right. Simon counted them. He looked up at her face and saw the tears running down her cheeks. She was clearly fighting a loosing battle to maintain control. She was swallowing furiously and her mouth was opening and closing in time with her throat movements. The sobs started. They were loud and uncontrollable. They wracked her whole body. Mucus ran from her nostrils. Still the coffee cup turned Always at a loss with a woman in tears, Simon wondered what he should do. Clumsily he shifted around to Janice's side of the breakfast bar. He started to pat her on the back and then changed the pats to a type of stroke as though he were calming a cat or dog. He found himself saying, "There, there, it'll be alright." It just seemed to be the thing to say. Gradually the shaking of her body eased. The despair in the sobs quietened. Simon reached into his pocket and withdrew a clean unused handkerchief. He gave it to Janice. She took it from him, looked at him and gave a mechanical smile as a thank you. When she had wiped away the tears and mucus, and stopped turning the coffee cup, she turned her swollen eyes towards Simon.

"I'm sorry," said Simon in his stupid way. "I had no idea."

"Actually I have no idea at all what this is all about," he said to himself.

"Mr. Allan," Janice said quietly. "My son, your grand-son, was killed."

Chapter 17

"Killed?" gasped Simon. "What do you mean killed?"

"It's a bit of a story," said Janice, now looking a little more composed. "I think I'm over it and then something will come along, bring it up, and I'm plunged back into it all again. It's not your fault. Probably I'm just an emotional female." She fell silent. Simon did not move. He realized she needed time to make the decision of how much to tell. The coffee cup turned fourteen times to the left and fourteen back again. Janice took a deep breath.

"I was very much in love with Pet. It was funny really. How we met. My girlfriend Sam had just broken up with her boyfriend, and Pet's flat mate Griff had done the same with his girlfriend. As fate would have it Sam and I ran into Pet and Griff at the local bar, Sandman's. While Sam and Griff ran down their erstwhile mates Pet and I fell in love. It was as simple as that. Love at first sight. What did we see in each-other? Our futures; kids, houses, dreams, all of it. We left Griff and Sam to it and drowned in each-others eyes. From that stage on we were rarely apart. We had decided to move in together and were to do so the week after she returned from the mountain exercise. She never returned. It was that next week that I missed my period. Obviously we had not had sex as such, and did not believe that I would get pregnant straight away, but it did happen. I was really just a surrogate. It was Pet's egg and the sperm was anonymous. It was all very quick and done in the throes of a passionate love. I'm not particularly religious, lapsed Catholic, but it felt a bit like the Lord taketh away when Pet died. I thought Pet may have told you more about us, but then we were so swept up in each-other, the outside world did not exist. When you and Elaine ignored me at the funeral, I thought that you wanted nothing to do with me, so I took the love I had for Pet and poured it into the baby growing inside me. Mum and Dad were not so rapt in the whole idea but they couldn't do much about it. They did however send the good Father around to see me. Once he got over the, 'you've been a bad girl' bit, and accepted that I wouldn't give my baby up for adoption he became okay. He asked about the baby's father and of course had heard about Pet's death. He actually appeared quite sympathetic about it all. He was really interested in Pet and wanted to know all about her even though I said that she had had no interest in religion. I can remember the Father saying that even though some people had no interest in religion, it often had an interest in them. He seemed to accept that I wasn't suddenly about to become a Catholic, and I thought that was the end of it. I continued to make plans for the baby and me. The church, however, didn't let me go. I don't know the way of the church but visits started from another Priest. I presumed that my 'condition' had been communicated to a higher authority and that this one was from Head Office or something. He gave the impression that he was from the Cardinals Office, although nothing official was ever shown to me to confirm such a thing. He was quite nice really. While he again suggested I give up my baby for adoption, he didn't insist upon it. He also showed an interest in Pet and spent quite a bit of time discussing her and her background. I wasn't able to tell him much, as Pet and I found enough to satisfy ourselves with each-other. Our families and backgrounds didn't seem to figure in things. They may well have at some later stage but we were more interested in ourselves and our future together."

At this stage Janice and her coffee cup engaged gear again. For a few seconds it was obvious that she was having trouble over where to go next. She removed her hands from the mug. Seeing Simon looking at the mug she shook her head.

"I think I wear these mugs away with my constant movement." She was still again. "Now comes the awful bit," she continued. "Mr. Allan you'll have to bear with me here. I started to get these telephone calls. They were anonymous of course. They started by calling me Satan's whore and that I deserved to die along with my sluttish baby. They never mentioned Pet's name. They kept saying that I was Satan's whore. I tried to have the calls traced by the Police and the telephone company, but they said the calls were being made from an unlisted cell phone.

"I tried to talk with them but they wouldn't listen. It was almost as though the messages had been taped and were being played back. I just couldn't figure out where or why. As far as I knew I had done nothing wrong. Then one day the calls just stopped. For a week there was nothing. I can tell you the feeling of relief was very real.

"So for a week everything went fine. The calls had stopped on a Sunday night. The following Saturday I went down to the local McDonalds. I know, not a good diet for a mother to be, but I was treating myself. It was about 7 pm and just dark as I was coming home. I was attacked and dragged into an alleyway. I didn't hear or see anyone. One moment I was walking happily home and the next I was in the alleyway. I was later unable to tell the Police even how I was grabbed. I just can't remember. What I do remember are the kicks. I was beaten black and blue. The Police said it was a systematic and brutal beating intended to kill me. I tried my very best to protect my baby but many of the kicks found him. They told me later that my baby was a little boy. The doctors were unable to believe that I lived. There's no need to go into my injuries. The physical ones have healed and left nothing visible apart from the limp. The emotional scars will never heal. The surface ones will, but the ones deep inside me never will. My little boy was dead. He was removed while I was in the coma. Nobody was ever caught. The Police said they thought two or three people were involved given the scale of the injuries and the amount of blood. They couldn't even be sure that the cell phone calls and the attack were connected."

Janice sat still. Her hands again worked the coffee cup; ten right, ten left. Simon said nothing. There was nothing he could say, or do, that would help in any way. Janice looked at Simon but she had a far away look in her eyes as she spoke. "Those calls and my baby's death were linked. I know they were. I've been over and over the calls in my mind. I've tried to make sense of them. All I can think is that 'they', whoever 'they' are, thought Pet was Satan or a Devil of some sort. Mr. Allan I don't know why my little boy had to die. Do you?"

"No Janice," said Simon. "I don't know either."

While Janice sat lost in her thoughts, Simon made them both another cup of coffee. He started to talk about Petra. He told her of the little things that had made her what she was, like the time she had driven her pedal car into the clothes line, got out of it, kicked it, and said "it's buggered". Of the sports trophies, her brilliance at school, her protective attitude towards her sister, her dream of being a soldier, not a policeman like her father. Little things but all things that had made Petra what she was. After that, he covered Alison's life and death, then his own life up until Petra's death. He confessed to his drinking and his separation from Elaine and then finally Elaine's death. He did not mention Yarmouth's death and the events emanating from it. When he had finished Janice didn't say anything. The coffee cup continued left and right. Her eyes watched her little non-existent boy. Simon got up from the breakfast bar and rinsed his cup and left it upside down on the draining board. Janice's cup continued its journey. Simon walked to the door. He opened it. As he went to step through he looked back at Janice. "What was the name of the priest from the Cardinal's office?" he asked.

"Father Joe," said Janice. Simon was not sure if she was talking to him or herself.

He did not return to the hotel. At a public telephone booth he contacted the hotel and paid his account by credit card. Telephone calls to Petra's ex flat mates revealed nothing so Simon flew back to Auckland.

Once back home he went through his anti-surveillance drill and headed for Donahue's address. It looked no different from when he had visited last time. He noticed that the window shattered by the bullet was now intact. Not only that, the flat now had a new tenant. They had no knowledge of the previous tenant, and no mail had arrived for them. The other two flats were empty. The rent was paid to a Community Trust administered by the Roman Catholic Church.

Simon used his cell phone to call Pamela. They arranged to meet at the fountain at 6 pm. She gave him the number of the Cardinal's Office. Very politely he was advised that they did not have a Priest called Father Joe, nor one called Peter Donahue. Yes they did own the flats at 37 Botany Flats Road. Until a few days ago they had been empty. Currently there was one flat tenanted, but if he wanted to rent either of the other ones he would first have to prove himself in need of subsidized accommodation. Simon hung up. He dialed Investigations Ltd. and asked Alan Forsyth to find out what he could on Peter Donahue a.k.a. Father Joe. Forsyth told him that he had no further follow up information to his initial report and hung up.

Just before 6 pm Simon walked, from High Street, towards the fountain. Pamela was sitting on the concrete wall surrounding it and started to rise as she saw him.

Chapter 18

A Kidnapping

Simon knew instantly what had hit him. He had been shot before. The force of the bullet, which hit him mid-back, threw him forward onto his face. He did not hear the shot. As he fell he saw Pamela start to run towards him calling his name. His head hit the concrete curb of the footpath.

Consciousness returned slowly, so Simon was able to orientate himself with his surroundings. There was none of the film or television histrionics. He noted the nurse looking at the dials on the machinery monitoring his vital signs. Because of the set up he knew that he was not in critical care, but that he did have a room of his own. Sitting off to one side was Alan Forsyth from Investigations Ltd. Beside him was a uniformed Policeman. The nurse turned towards Simon and saw his eyes open. She smiled brightly, introduced herself, checked his pulse, and shone her torch into his eyes. She made notes on a chart and left.

Mr. Plod opened his notebook and moved to the side of Simon's bed.

"Mr. Allan," he stated. "I'm Senior Constable Peterborough. Do you understand what happened to you?"

Simon nodded his head. "I was shot. A reasonable sized calibre rifle I would say. Silenced I believe. Hit me from behind, about mid to lower back, and seeing I'm here, it must have missed anything vital."

The constable nodded his head and completed whatever he had been writing.

"Do you have any idea Sir who could have done this to you?"

Simon looked at the constable. "Anyone could have Senior Constable. If your question was do I know who would have, then I'd have to answer no, with perhaps the exception of Alan Walker."

"And where would I find this Mr. Walker, and why would you expect him to wish you harm Mr. Allan?"

"You'd find him on the fourth floor of the Central Police Station and you'd have to seek the reason from him," replied Simon.

"I see," said the Constable. "I don't think there is any need to be facetious. That shot could have killed some-one."

"It was more likely to have killed me than any-one else," responded Simon. "Now that is enough. You should know as well as I do that I am entitled to be interviewed by a Commissioned Officer and I doubt you'll ever be in that position. That is not a comment on you, or your ability Senior Constable Peterborough, it's a comment on those who deliberately sent you here to do their dirty work.

"To save you any embarrassment I'll tell you that I have no comment to make concerning this matter. Now if you'll so kindly close the door as you leave I'd like to talk with my friend over there."

Senior Constable Peterborough put his notebook back into the rear pocket of his trousers.

"Certainly Mr. Allan. I must say I did wonder why I got the job, and I also wondered how you would respond. Now I know. Well done Sir. Best of luck. Bloody C.I.B. Cheerio." The door closed behind him.

Simon looked across at Forsyth and raised his eyebrows. Alan Forsyth stood up and came to stand beside the bed. He shrugged and Simon knew he meant that he did not know if the room was bugged or not. Forsyth nodded his head towards the departing uniform. "How to win friends and influence people," he said.

Simon smiled. "I've known Dean Peterborough for a number of years. His introduction told me all I needed to know. He's okay. You know it's the sort of thing that is beyond a lot of detectives. They spend so much time up themselves that they don't realize what a great source they have in the uniforms. Trust me, you cross a uniform at your peril.

"Now, what actually happened? Is Pam here?"

Forsyth shook his head. "'fraid not old chap. The bad news is that she appears to have been kidnapped. The good news is that there are some leads."

"Kidnapped?" queried Simon with alarm.

"'Fraid so old chap,"

"Do the Police realize this?" asked Simon.

Forsyth nodded. "Normally they might not but it turns out that there was a friend of the Stevens family in the park at the time and they witnessed the whole thing. Here, read this." Forsyth handed Simon a written report, which achieved the purpose of advising Simon of the situation without any listening device being able to ascertain what information was being passed. Simon found that he was unable to sit up as the pain in his side and back restricted his movements. To start with there was a lot of gobble-de-gook about receiving instructions and all that. It then got down to the nitty gritty. Forsyth's team and Team ID had arrived at the park about the same time. Forsyth's team was with Pamela and Team ID was with Simon. All appeared okay until just before the shot. One of Forsyth's team spotted the shooter and called the code. They were unable to react quickly enough but as the shooter fired he was hit by a bullet that threw his aim off. Forsyth's team was torn between Pamela, Simon, and the shooter. As a result Pamela had been seized. Some of Forsyth's team had followed Pamela's kidnappers but had lost her. The kidnappers were confirmed as members of Team ID. The person who had shot at Simon was also removed by Team ID. The way they interacted with the shooter it appeared as though either he was a member of Team ID, or working with them. It was believed that the person who shot the Team ID shooter belonged to the previously noted unidentified team. The actions of that team would indicate that they did not wish harm to Simon. They had disengaged once the shooter was down. Investigations Ltd. would continue to try and locate Pamela Stevens using their own resources.

Simon lay considering the report. Finally he gave it back to Alan Forsyth.

"Have you told the Police any of this? Clearly Team ID was not working for the Police like we thought"

Forsyth nodded. "Yes, I've given them all we had on Team ID and Pamela. They have a lot of eyes and ears, and you never know." Simon nodded agreement. "I've put a team on you Simon," said Forsyth. "Is that okay?" Simon nodded agreement. He looked at Alan Forsyth. "Thanks buddy, keep in touch won't you?" Alan Forsyth nodded and left waving casually as he went.

Simon lay and went through the facts, as the doctor came, ran checks, and told him how the bullet had passed harmlessly through the fat round his waist, and that he would be free to leave within seventy-two hours. The three days passed very slowly. The hospital routine exerted itself and Simon became immersed in the 6 am temperature and blood pressure check, shower, breakfast, doctors visit, change of room occupants following his move to an open ward, morning cup of tea, change of dressing and bed linen, lunch, 2 pm temperature and blood pressure check, visiting time, afternoon cup of tea and two plain biscuits, dinner time, visiting hours, temperature and blood pressure check, night cup of tea and no biscuits. He allowed himself to sink into the routine. He knew that he could achieve little by worrying, and that his best course was to reach full health and fitness as quickly as possible. His visitors were few, and their reasons mainly official. Detective Inspector Shorty Robertson visited officially, and was told officially to bugger off. On the day of his discharge, Simon was sitting on the bed waiting for the official nod when a couple in their late sixties, Simon estimated, walked into the room. The man was a good six feet in height and of quite solid build. His hair was gray, wavy and styled. He was clean shaven with gray eyes. The woman was also quite tall, Simon estimated five foot ten inches, and of slim build. With graying hair and superb coiffure, she had obviously been very attractive in her youth and in maturity was striking. Simon could see the likeness before the man spoke.

"Mr. Allan?" he asked. Simon nodded.

"I'm Albert Stevens and this is my wife Alice. We're Pamela's parents." Simon stood and shook hands with them both, two firm shakes, power shakes.

"I can see Pam's likeness," said Simon. "I know who you are Sir, and Pam has told me a lot of good things about you Madam."

Without preamble the Stevens pulled up chairs, from the surrounding beds, and Simon did likewise. He did wonder what they would have done if the other beds had been occupied.

"I'm sorry about Pam," started Simon.

Sir Albert Stevens waved his hand as though sweeping aside whatever Simon was going to say. "Pamela is very special to us Mr. Allan. It has always been our fear that she would fall foul of someone in the life that she leads. She has told us about you, and while we obviously have considerable sympathy for your situation, it is quite likely that our daughter has been taken in by you." Sir Albert held up his hand, somewhat imperiously, as Simon started to protest.

"I have made my own enquiries concerning you Mr. Allan, and I must say that I have serious concerns about you. Some of your background shows you have served your country well, and I applaud that, but latterly you appear to have gone somewhat off the rails. That you are a plausible rogue I have no doubt.

"Now, when the Police find my daughter, and I have no doubt they will, you will leave her alone. I don't care how you go about it but you will do it. Alice and I are adamant about that aren't we dear?" Sir Albert reached out and patted his wife's arm. "Do I make myself clear Mr. Allan? If it's money you need, we'll be more than happy to pay. Life has been good to us, and our daughter is far more important to us than money."

Simon pushed himself up from his chair. While Sir Albert had been speaking Simon had felt a terrible rage taking hold of him. He had felt the flush rising up from his throat and suffusing his face. He had then felt it recede leaving an icy coldness gripping his body. He was stretched to recall ever feeling so furious. He leaned forward and down until he was eye to eye with Pamela's father and about four inches away from him. In a low and controlled voice Simon spoke to him.

"Now you listen to me Stevens. I know things about you that do not show you in a particularly good light. As a matter of fact, some of the things you have done, or had done on your behalf, make you lower than the low. How Pam has remained untainted by you I don't know, but if I believed in her God I would pray thanking him for that.

"You can rely on the Police all you want but I'm the best chance that you'll ever see Pam again.

"Believe this Stevens; I'll find Pam. I will deal with those responsible for this and then I'll make damn sure she never has anything to do with you ever again.

"You see Stevens, I love your daughter and I would not want her contaminated by your filth. So, take yourself and your money and get out of here."

Stevens had sunk back in his chair and gone very pale. Mrs. Stevens had a small smile on her lips, which her husband could not see.

"This is not the movies Stevens," continued Simon. "You can't come in here and throw your weight and money around. Go on, get out!"

Simon turned his back on the Stevens' and looked out the window. He heard the scrape of chairs and footsteps leaving. He then felt a hand upon his shoulder and turned to see Mrs. Stevens beside him.

"It does sound and feel like a television show Mr. Allan, but we all know it's not," she said. "We do love our daughter, and love is not the prerogative of the good. You have our telephone number so please keep us up to date with your attempts to find Pam. If any ransom is required then we will be more than willing to pay whatever is required." Mrs. Stevens turned to leave but at the door she turned back and said, "You and my husband are very alike Mr. Allan. I can see that and I'm sure that's what Pam saw in you as well. Go with God Mr. Allan."

Following his discharge, Simon booked himself into an hotel. He did not feel like returning to his flat. He knew that all those people who were showing an interest in him would be aware of exactly where he was. Once settled, he organized a plan of action. While he really wanted to get out and find Pamela, he knew that Forsyth's team would do just as good a job, if not better, so he admitted to himself that it would be best to put that to one side and concentrate on what he had been doing, no matter how hard that was going to be. Clearly, what he had been doing had caused some worries for whoever, or whatever, was behind it all. He reasoned that the attempt on his life indicated this. The interesting bit was that someone had thwarted the attempt. He wondered if that someone was within Team ID or had indeed been part of what Forsyth called the unidentified team. At the hotel, Simon again allowed himself to be lulled into a routine. This one was aimed solely at getting him back to peak fitness in as short a time as possible. The inactive investigation frustrated him, but as each day passed and he found improvement, he put those to one side. Each day his personal gym instructor would take him through a fitness regime, and then once his fitness returned, Simon moved back into refreshing his firearms drills and unarmed combat skills. While he did not reach the skill level of his past, within a fortnight he found himself back at a reasonable level.

Once he was given the all clear by his Doctor, Simon prepared to leave the hotel. Up until then he had been updated daily by Alan Forsyth on the search for Pamela. Neither he, nor the Police, had made any progress. Simon was settling his account when his cell phone rang.

"Simon?" asked the voice. "Dwayne here, Dwayne Ratima."

Simon had immediately recognized his colleague's voice. He was somewhat surprised to hear from a current Police member in what he presumed was an unofficial call.

"Hi Bro." said Simon. "What can I do you for?"

"Are you mobile?" queried Dwayne.

"Can be."

"Remember Read? You know, the indecent act one."

"Yeah, sure," replied Simon.

"Meet me in an hour where we first saw him."

"Okay, done," said Simon and disconnected. He checked the time; 9.30 am. The place Dwayne referred to was a carpark below a commercial building. They had sprung Read doing the business there when they had busted a prostitute who used the same carpark. They had not locked up Read then, but noted him for future reference. As inevitable as night following day they caught Read at a later date. Subsequently he had gone to jail. Simon wondered why Dwayne had mentioned Read, and surmised that he was going to warn him that Robertson and Walker were using him to incriminate him in the Yarmouth matter, a fact that he already knew from the Police file. Simon left the hotel and went into anti-surveillance mode. He doubted he would lose all his tails but hoped to be free for a short period. Heading up to the hour, Simon entered the Norwich Union Insurance building. The carpark concerned was below it. Simon entered one of the lifts and pressed the buttons for floors 12 and 14. He exited the lift at floor 12 and went down the fire exit to floor 10 where he caught the lift to basement three, which was one of the carpark levels. Sure enough Dwayne was waiting. They shook hands briefly.

"I'm under observation," said Simon.

"Thought you might be," said Dwayne. He led the way over to a Ute. Simon climbed under the canopy on the back and Dwayne drove out of the carpark. Within minutes they were parked at Kohimarama Beach watching the waves run up the sand.

"Anyone following?" asked Simon. Dwayne shook his head.

"Nothing obvious anyway. So how are ya?"

"About as well as can be expected in the circumstances. To what do I owe this?"

"Well," said Dwayne. "Some of us are still loyal. Not everyone goes along with Walker, and you know that. We just don't see you as a killer. Certainly the case is a bit on the weak side but I'm sure you know that. On top of that, Elaine dies and your new girlfriend gets kidnapped. To us it's all adding up to something quite big. Do you know what or why?"

Simon shook his head. "No man, I don't. Well not for sure. There are a few indicators but they point to family rather than me. Quite honestly it's all pretty confusing just now. I'll get there though."

"Did you get your Police notebook back okay? I thought you might need it. There could have been something in it that you wanted kept secret, or needed to know, so I got a mate to drop it off."

"Thanks. I did get it. Much obliged."

Dwayne was silent for a while and then he took a deep breath.

"I hate to add further to your woes Simon, but there's more bad news."

"Read?" queried Simon.

"No, Suzy," said Dwayne. "As usual there's no easy way to say these things, but I'm afraid that she's dead."

"Dead?" exclaimed Simon. "Suzy dead? Shit, shit and shit. What bloody next?"

Simon thought back to Suzanne, the woman he had left Elaine for. Ah, but she had been great. She offered him all that Elaine did not. She didn't nag him about his drinking. As a matter of fact they would get drunk together. She had three kids from her previous marriage but they had not accepted Simon as their father figure. Yes, they had had some great times, but then things fell apart. At the time he had not known why, but now knew she had been unable to put up with his unsevered Elaine connection. On top of that the Police took up more and more of his time, and, if he was honest, the drink also assumed greater importance. Finally they had parted. Suzy had found happiness quite quickly. Actually he seemed to recall that they had met up briefly not that long ago and gone to bed together for old time's sake.

"Apart from sorry I don't really know what else to say," said Dwayne. "While we knew it was over between you two we know she still felt for you."

"How are the kids?" asked Simon automatically. "Are they okay, and her partner, whatever his name is?"

"Oh yeah they're right, well not right, but you know what I mean. They're with Suzy's Mum at the moment," added Dwayne.

"I see," nodded Simon. "Yes of course they would be. When did she die and when's the funeral?"

"She died last night Simon but her body won't be released for a while."

Simon's head snapped around. He stared deep into Dwayne's eyes.

"What are we saying here?" he asked.

Dwayne returned the stare. Simon could see compassion in his eyes. Compassion and sorrow. Dwayne shook his head slowly. He reached out and patted Simon on the shoulder.

"It's worse than you could ever believe Simon," said Dwayne. "Much worse. Again there's no easy way to tell you so I'll just do it. Suzy was murdered, shot in the head like Yarmouth."

Still Simon sat staring at Dwayne.

"There's more," continued Dwayne. "She was pregnant Simon. A few months. Probably conceived the last time you saw her. Now she's dead, killed the same way as Yarmouth, and the possibility is that she was carrying your baby. Makes things look pretty bad Simon."

"When will they know?" asked Simon woodenly. "About the baby."

"About a week by the time they complete the DNA stuff, but there'll be a strong indication within twenty-four hours."

"So I'll be the suspect for this as well," said Simon bitterly.

"Shit no," said Dwayne. "You're clear. As it turns out there was an operation going on in the hotel you were at. While you were not the subject, we were able to confirm you were there at the time of death so for once Walker can't fit you up. No, we just felt that you should know, and of course there's the chance that you may have lost a child. Of course it also suggests the possibility that Yarmouth's killer was some one else, bearing in mind you have an alibi for this copycat job."

Simon shook his head. It was all too much for him to absorb at once. Slowly he forced himself to put together what he had been told. Line by line, dot by dot, he fitted the pieces together.

"Shit," said Simon. "I need a drink." He went to open the Ute door and then realized where he was, and that he was on the wagon.

"Shit, shit, shit," said Simon. He continued to sit with his hand on the door handle. Dwayne was staring straight ahead. Simon turned to look at him. He reached out and touched Dwayne on the knee. "Thanks mate, thanks a lot."

Simon opened the door and stepped out. "Look," he said to Dwayne. "I'll find my own way back. There're a lot of things I need to get straightened out in my mind."

Dwayne nodded. As he started the ute's engine he wound down the driver's side window.

"This is all obviously unofficial, but doubtless you'll be told officially in due course. Try to keep me out of it please, but if there's anything I can do, then let me know."

Simon nodded. He watched as Dwayne disappeared into the distance and then slowly started the walk back to the city centre. He paid little heed to his direction of travel, or surroundings. He did not notice the Police surveillance team, who eventually fell into a pattern around him, tipped off to his whereabouts by a patrol car that had driven past him. Likewise, the Team ID operatives, Investigation Limited's team, and the mystery team went un-noticed. While the Police and Team ID were aware of each-other neither were aware of Forsyth's team, and none of them were aware of the mystery team.

When Simon finally became aware of his surroundings he found himself near the Mission. As he continued down the street his gaze took in the bank of three public telephones that he had mentioned to Pamela. From where he was walking he could clearly see a round yellow sticker in the 'O' of the word Telecom.

Chapter 19

Without altering his walk Simon continued on his was down the street and around the corner to the Brown Owl Café. While he sipped his flat white he tried to stop his heart beating so rapidly. He attempted to get his thoughts back together. So much was happening. It was happening so quickly that it threatened to overwhelm him. It had to be a message from Pamela, he reasoned. It was his sign to her. He had never believed she would have to signal him. He had always thought she would be the free agent and he the one on the run. It was not that way though. It seemed Pamela had used her initiative knowing he would pick up on it. But if she could do that, then why could she not contact him openly? Could it be a trap? Could it be a complete accident. Just a yellow sticker, just put there.

"Only one way to find out," said Simon aloud. He looked around to see if anyone had noticed him talking to himself. With a thump he came down to earth when he recognised a Team ID operative. One he had identified previously. Silently he chastised himself for his carelessness. He now knew that before he cleared the dead letter drop he would have to ensure that he rid himself of the surveillance. He finished his coffee and caught a taxi to the town house he had arranged the rental of whilst he had been in the hotel. Alan Forsyth had checked the place out and fitted the latest security and surveillance systems available. Simon had since also arranged certain building modifications. Had his watchers been aware of them, they would have been even more vigilant in their surveillance.

The door to the lobby of the multi-story building was guarded with a system requiring his thumb print to activate the door. Entry to his residence was via a retina scan. Once inside he forced himself to sit down and think things through. While he wanted to be up and doing, he knew that he had to plan the operation. Once again the urge for a drink gripped him. It forced him to his feet and made him search the refrigerator, the cupboards, and the drawers. Even as he searched he knew it was pointless. Gradually the pain of need receded, but still he continued the search. Now it was to familiarize himself with his house. He found the refrigerator contained food and milk. The freezer was stocked with packs of convenience food. The cupboards had tinned and packaged food and meals. Crockery and utensils were in the appropriate places. It was then he actually took in the furniture and the clothes. Alan Forsyth had fitted the place out as if it was a high class safe house. He went into the bedroom, and in the wardrobe slid the back wall to one side. This was the type of modification he had personally arranged. It gave access to the service rungs inside the lift well. From there, it provided access to the city's storm water system, a secret exit from the premises. Nodding to himself, Simon went back into the lounge. In his mind he outlined his intentions, sometimes changing them, sometimes altering their priority. Eventually he prioritized the list in his mind. The number one job was to clear the dead letter drop. The number two job was to take whatever action that clearance indicated to locate and free Pamela. Once he had her safe and sound, he needed to find Suzy's killer, sort out Elaine's death, and check further into Janice's attacker and his own background. For a moment it all seemed just too overwhelming.

"No," said Simon aloud. "Just get up and get going you useless piece of shit."

Obeying, Simon left his townhouse via the secret exit, and ensured that he walked for a good thirty minutes before ascending to street level. Even so, he under took anti-surveillance moves before heading to the cemetery. He walked slowly among the graves, pausing from time to time to read the headstones or rearrange flowers. The headstone in the form of an angel was to his left and then two past that he stood looking at a child's grave. He bent over to read the inscription and removed the note from the flower container under the guise of re-arranging the flowers. He then continued his perusal of the headstones for another ten minutes before retracing his path back to the townhouse. On the way through the storm water system he checked the note. It was a 'post it' type piece of paper with the address 2206 East Road written on it.

A check of the City and surrounds map, showed East Road to be a rural one to the West of the City. Simon doubted that 2206 was a road number. He reasoned it was probably a rural fire number or farm supplier number. He estimated it would take an hour to get to the address. Prior to undertaking the trip, he left his townhouse via the front lobby and walked to the local dairy where he purchased some bread and milk. He made no attempt to identify any watchers. He wished to lull them into a false sense of his intention to spend the night at home.

As twilight settled, Simon went to a secure walk-in safe and selected some items to accompany him. He had arranged for Alan Forsyth to purchase some clothing items for him. He dressed in black jeans, dark green 'Swandri' jacket, combat boots, and a folded up black balaclava. He placed plastic ties for use as hand cuffs, a knife and a truncheon into a back pack, along with night vision equipment. He re-secured the safe, and then pulled on an overcoat and a cap prior to once again entering the storm water system. Once well clear of his residence, Simon let himself up onto the street and took a bus to the Western edge of the city. It was now dark. Within minutes, he found an unlocked car. He hot wired the car and drove away. It was three quarters of an hour before he saw the sign 2206 on a farm gate at Kumeu. He did not stop but continued to drive. His glance noted a light in a house window. The house was about 400 yards from the road, and there appeared to be other buildings in the vicinity. A bit further along the road Simon located a picnic area. He drove into the area and parked the car behind bushes. He removed his overcoat and cap and left them in the car. He strapped the knife onto his right ankle, slipped the truncheon down inside his trousers and secured it to his belt. He pulled down his balaclava and drew the rucksack onto his back. The moonlight was bright from a crystal clear sky. He orientated himself with the Southern Cross, and climbed over a fence into a farm paddock. For a good ten minutes he knelt in silence. He pulled on his night vision goggles and let his ears become accustomed to the surrounding noises. Nearby snuffles told him his presence had been accepted by the hedgehogs. Even though they were some distance off, in another paddock, Simon could hear the movement of animals. Probably cows. In the distance, beyond some trees, he could see the light he had noted previously. Cautiously Simon moved towards the light. He kept alongside the fence knowing that it would provide a secure path, and notify him of any drain or other unexpected obstacle. Occasionally his feet hit against a tree root, or a batten that had fallen from the fence, but the noise created was disguised by the night sounds. As he moved into the next paddock it confirmed his belief regarding the cows. As he moved, they lumbered to their feet getting out of his path, but were otherwise indifferent to him. His feet occasionally slid in fecal residue, and the smell stayed with him. About 200 yards away from the light, Simon stopped to take stock of the situation. He found himself beside an orchard. A nearby stile gave him easy egress and he settled down with his back against a nearby strainer post. He surveyed the scene in detail. The house was a single story weatherboard building with a tile roof. While unable to see the entire building, it gave every appearance of being a typical 1950's farm house, probably with three bedrooms. Simon knew the danger of making assumptions however, so put that thought to the back of his mind. There were gardens containing rose bushes below the visible windows. A garage, separate from the house itself, was open but Simon could not see inside due to his current position. A plain five wire farm fence surrounded the house area with the house situated in its centre. An old wooden gate, hanging somewhat drunkenly from its hinges, provided the only break in the fence. The road from the gate to the garage was metalled and straight. Numerous shrubs and bushes dotted the rest of the area consisting of well cut lawn. The orchard was a separate area from the main house surrounds, and in marked contrast, appeared neglected. The grass was long, and rotten fruit lay on the ground to be squashed under foot. The drunken gate provided access between the two areas, and there was a well trodden path between that gate and the stile beside Simon. The light from the house appeared to be coming from a toilet area as the glass was frosted. There was subdued light coming from some of the other windows, and Simon surmised that the toilet door was ajar spilling light into a passage, and thence into other rooms. Drawn curtains in the room on the left end of the main house suggested it was probably a bedroom. All in all, the scene suggested a typical dairy farmer's residence. Doubts now began to surface in Simon's mind. Was there something here that he was missing? Had Pamela been made to reveal their contact details and was this a set up? Certainly an isolated farm house would be an ideal place to dispatch an unwelcome nuisance. It could almost be done legally. What would be more natural than a farmer shooting someone he disturbed illegally on his property? "Yes," Simon thought to himself, "such a scenario was possible." Another possibility was that they, whoever they were, wanted him away from the city for some reason. Either way, Simon reasoned, the contact details must have come from Pamela, and at this point in time the only lead to her was this farm house. Having convinced himself of that, Simon decided on a plan of action. His watch told him it was 1.30 am. He reasoned he had about four to five hours before the normal farm routine commenced. He decided his first priority was to ascertain as much as he could about the property, and then decide the next step. Silently, and carefully, he got to his feet and moved parallel to the well trodden path from the stile to the drunken gate in the fence. As he approached the gate he caught a small flash of light to his right. It had been just a fleeting glimpse, almost like a ray of light reflected from a crystal, or piece of glass. Simon froze. For a good ten minutes he did not move. His eyes roamed but could not locate anything untoward. Slowly he allowed himself to rock back on his heels. Yes, there it was. Off to his right about half way up a strainer post at the front of the property. Simon allowed another ten minutes to pass as he kept his eyes on the light. It did not move. Step, by slow step, Simon moved back to the stile. His first backward step caused the light to disappear but he continued until he was back at his initial position against the stile. He then moved back over the stile and cautiously made his way toward where the light had been, but this time outside the fenced area. He had the depth of the orchard between him and the area where he had seen the light. At the end of the orchard there was a metal roadway. Actually it was stretching the point to call it a roadway. It was more of a track, and somewhat potholed and sadly lacking in the metal which lay to each side of it and also formed a hump in the middle. Simon immediately recognised it as a poorly maintained milk tanker track. Simon could then picture, in his mind, that further along the track, past the house, would be a milking shed and other farm buildings. More and more, to Simon, this seemed to be nothing less than a genuine dairy farm operation. He put those thoughts to one side, and staying on the road side of the fence, approached the area from which the light had come. Some of the fruit trees overhung the orchard fence and the ensuing shadow gave him the cover of extra darkness. Abruptly the orchard ended. The corner strainer post was a solid one. Simon crouched assessing it. The wires bent round the outside of it were secured with three staples in the approved manner. He could not fault the workmanship, but there was something unusual about the fence that he could not quite put his finger on. He continued to crouch by the strainer letting his eyes roam over the area, and allowing his mind to use its search engine. Bingo! There was no long grass growing up around the strainer post. The area between a strainer post, and its stays, invariably had long grass in it as the area was awkward to mow or clear. Not only that, the entire fence line was clear. That did not jell with the poorly maintained tanker track. Now, Simon's mind reasoned, the only purpose for keeping fence lines clear was so that long grass would not interfere with line of sight security devices. Cautiously Simon moved up to the strainer post and knelt down. He peered around both sides but could not see anything unusual. He sighted along the fence line from the strainer to the gate giving access to the driveway, but could not see any light. He then stood up, and by standing on tip toe he was able to see over the top of the strainer and down to the ground inside. About a third of the way up from the ground something was affixed to the strainer. Whatever it was, was not visible from the sides as it was level with where the stays supported the strainer. To Simon, the only possibility was that the object was part of an infrared detector that guarded the perimeter of the property. He was still puzzled by the reflection of light he had initially seen though, and that would not have been caused by the detector. He finally deduced that it was his good luck, and the detector's bad luck, that some dew on the stays had reflected a ray of either moonlight or toilet light towards him. Locating the detector cheered Simon considerably. No normal farm dwelling would need such a system. This place was hiding something. Hopefully it would be Pamela. Simon checked his watch. The time spent seeking out the light had eaten into his safe time. It was now 2.20 am. He believed that he had perhaps two hours left before he was in danger of becoming enmeshed in a dairy farm routine. He reconsidered his options. Clearly the house was important. Possibly Pamela was a prisoner inside it. Before he could do anything however, he would have to do a proper reconnoitre, study the likely hiding places, or whatever else was important, and then make his escape with whatever the prize was. On top of that, his stolen car was parked in the picnic area just down the road. He decided that the house was the main priority and that he would have to keep it under observation regardless of what else was happening. The car would have to be left up to its own devices. It would not lead to him directly. The clothing was new and unlikely to have anything on it capable of providing his DNA. Even if it did, they would not be able to match it for several weeks. The area it was stolen from would mean little. Hopefully whoever discovered it would assume that the offender had just abandoned it for some unknown reason. If the occupants of the house became aware of it, then it might alert them to something, but that bridge would have to be crossed when and if it arrived.

Simon set about doing his reconnoitre. It was not his intention to actually go onto the property now that he had discovered the detection system. Instead he scouted the perimeter. The tanker track, for he presumed it was such, had reasonably deep drains on both sides. They contained brackish water and weeds. There appeared to be little, if any, movement of the water. The driveway gate he had sighted earlier gave direct access to the garage. Simon could see the rear of a car parked in the garage but mud obscured the registration number. There was a 'lean too' type of building adjoining the garage and he could see a utility vehicle and an All Terrain Vehicle under it. The infrared detectecters went from strainer post to strainer post covering all four boundaries of the residential area. There was a garden shed and shaded seed propagation area at the rear of the house. He could see infrared security lights situated on the garage and house. He had to presume there were probably other measures in place of which he was unaware. Opposite the driveway, on the far side of the tanker track, there was an area of gorse and scrub. It was to that area that Simon headed after he had completed his reconnoitre. He entered the gorse on the side away from the tanker track and fashioned himself a hide that allowed him to have reasonable vision of the house area. He had initially been apprehensive of there being farm dogs near the house, but now presumed they must be kennelled near the milking shed. No sooner had he settled into his hide, and the countryside sounds resumed, than lights went on inside the house.

Chapter 20

The front window curtains were drawn back, and he could see a man making something to drink. It appeared as though the kitchen area was at the front orchard end of the house, and the dining and lounge area across the rest of the front. The drink maker was alone. He was in his mid thirty's, Caucasian, number one haircut, clean shaven except for the night's growth. An average 'Joe' really. He sat at the dining room table while he drank, and then left the mug on the table and crossed the lounge to go out the ranch-slider doors facing the back of the house. As he went through the doors, lights came on, illuminating the rear and both sides of the house along with the driveway. Average Joe appeared and walked towards the lean-too. He was now dressed in a Swandri, dirty cap and gum-boots. He started the ATV. As it turned left out of the driveway, its headlights swept across Simon's hide but revealed nothing. Simon could hear dogs barking in the distance. The farm day had begun. Gradually the sky lightened and the night crept away. The various sounds took Simon back to his childhood on the family dairy farm. His mind drifted as the sound of the dogs barking, and the cows and machinery moving, washed over him. This was the way it had been for him. The early starts and milking twice a day, a routine that only varied with the seasons. It brought to mind his father. That strangely taciturn and withdrawn man. Never close to his children. Not even to him, Simon, his only son. Simon's mind jerked back to reality at the sound of yapping dogs. They were over at the house and had just been let out from inside. Two Jack Russell terriers. Snapping at each-other they peed up against the garage and then checked around the inside of the fence-line. Simon could see a woman at the kitchen window. His watch indicated 7 am. Obviously he must have dozed off, lulled by the familiar but long forgotten sounds and memories. As he watched the woman go about her duties he saw her go out the ranch-slider and across the lawn to the garden shed. She disappeared inside briefly and then returned to the house. Again, about fifteen minutes later, she returned to the shed but this time with a tray upon which Simon could clearly make out some toast and plates. Minutes later she returned to the house empty handed. Simon's heart raced. It did not take a rocket scientist to put two and two together and get a prisoner in the shed. His immediate urge was to storm the shed and make off with the prisoner, whom he believed to be Pamela. He reluctantly put his enthusiasm to one side, knowing that it would behove him to maintain his observations and undertake any rescue in the dark. The day drifted and the sounds confirmed this to be a genuine dairy farm operation. The male came and went on his ATV at mealtimes, and at the same time the woman of the house would take food to the garden shed. At one stage, a bit before afternoon milking, a Police car with a sole occupant in it visited the house and left after the Policeman had spoken briefly to the farmer's wife, for that was whom Simon presumed the woman to be. Once the Policeman had left, the woman went out to the shed and fitted a padlock to the door. She also walked the perimeter of the property. When the male returned after milking, he also checked the property, including the garage and orchard. He did not appear to find anything out of the ordinary and went inside for his evening meal. Just before dark became darkness, a Mercedes sedan arrived at the address. Including the driver, it contained five occupants. One was well dressed in a black suit and, surprise, surprise, he wore a clerical collar. Simon was unable to see the face but he was clearly bald and paunchy. The four with him were purely and simply 'heavies'. There was no way they could be anything else. Their build and actions spoke of thuggery. All five went into the house, and Simon could see them seated round the table in the dining room area with the farmer and his wife. They gestured towards the ranch-sliders several times and then they got up from the table and went outside. Under the direction of the clerical collar wearer, one thug was stationed outside the door to the shed, one by the entrance to the orchard, one between the lean-too and the side fence and one beside the drive at the front of the house. The farmer, his wife, and the clerical collar, then returned to the house. In due course, as the night deepened, those inside the house went to bed. Outside, the guards remained static apart from the one in the front of the house who routinely checked the other three. None appeared to smoke, and there did not seem to be any radio contact between them. At 1.30 am Simon made his move out of the gorse hide, leaving the way he had entered. By a circuitous route he made his way to the rear of the garden shed. With stealth he parted the wires of the fence as close to the ground as he could to avoid the infrared line of sight detectors, and crouched at the back corner of the shed in the propagation area. He had reasoned that with the guards moving about in the area, any motion detectors would have been switched off. He could hear the mobile guard approaching and drew back deeper into the shadows. He found himself holding his breath as the guards spoke.

"Half past two," said one. "Only three hours to go until daylight."

"Yeah," replied the other. "I could do with a piss."

"Okay," said the first one. "Go ahead. I'll stay here for you."

"Great, thanks," said the second. Simon heard the heavy footsteps coming towards him down the side of the shed. They stopped just past him and Simon could hear the splash of water and smell the ammonia in the urine. With his toilet requirements attended to, the guard resumed his duties and the mobile one moved on. Simon knew it was now or never. Moving quickly, but quietly, he left the back of the shed and moved up the side. He paused at the corner to check where the guard was. He was standing with his back to the shed. Without hesitation Simon stepped out and delivered a chop to the guard's neck. He crumpled quietly to the ground. Simon quickly checked the guard's pockets but could not find a key. Simon tied the guards hands behind his back with the plastic ties, and used the guards handkerchief as a gag. A piece of loose twine secured his feet. A check of the padlock showed it to be a common variety, but he did not have the time to pick it, and to smash it would attract attention. On the far side of the shed Simon found a window. It was held in place with rubber seals. His knife quickly ran around the seal and the glass fell into his hands. Simon placed the pane of glass on the ground and climbed through the hole. As he did so he heard a brief flurry of sound from the vicinity of the garage. He paused inside the shed trying to place the noise from the garage and also to orientate himself. He knew he had little time in which to work so when he did not hear anything else outside, he concentrated on where he was. It was not being used as a garden shed. There were no tools or implements inside. There was a bench seat against the far wall and there was a square of linoleum on the floor and a ladder against the back wall. Simon kicked the linoleum to one side to reveal a trap door. He lifted the door to be greeted by light coming up from a small room. It would only have been eight foot by eight foot with a stretcher, a basin, drink making facilities, a small box with a bedside lamp on it, and lying on the stretcher reading, Pamela. She lowered her book and looked up at him.

"Who are you?" she asked. "Another idiot I suppose?"

Simon's relief at seeing her so well was like a renewal of life. "Pam," he gasped. "It's me, Simon." He pulled off his balaclava.

"Oh Simon," she cried out, and immediately burst into tears. Simon grabbed the ladder and pushed it down through the trap door. Before he could use it to get down, Pamela was up it and into his arms. She covered his face with kisses as she held tightly on to him.

"Thank you God. Thank you God," she kept saying over and over. "Oh Simon, thank God. I thought you might have been dead. Oh thank you God, Thank you God."

Simon kept his arms round her. He held her tight, not rubbing or patting, just holding her tight. He could feel his own tears falling from his cheeks and knew they would be felt by Pamela.

"It's alright. It's alright," he said over and over again. Gradually calm asserted itself. While he just wanted to keep holding her, Simon's mind was dragging him back to reality. He knew that time was slipping by and that the mobile guard would be back shortly. Pamela was dressed in slacks and a jersey with sand shoes. He took off his jacket and put it on Pamela. He took her face in his hands.

"Pam, listen to me," he said. "There's a lot to talk about, but first we've got to get away from here. Do you understand? We'll get away first and then we'll talk."

Pamela nodded.

Simon carried the bench seat and put it under the window. Using the seat he climbed out the window and Pamela followed. They both crouched below the window. The guard was still lying where Simon had left him. Using his night vision equipment Simon checked the area but was unable to sight the three other guards. He did, however, sight three lumps at the rear of the lean-too. With Pamela cautiously behind him, but with her hand in his, Simon approached the lean-too. The three lumps were the other guards. They were unconscious, but secured with ties and gags. Simon was puzzled, worried and thankful all at the same time. He was worried about getting away, puzzled as to how the guards had been overcome, but thankful that Pamela was close to him. He whispered in her ear.

"Before we go I need to find out as much as I can. That means I've got to go into the house. I want you to stay here by the door and be ready to run when I shout. Okay?"

"No," Pamela whispered back. "I'm keeping hold of you and that is that. We're not losing touch."

Simon nodded, both to her and to himself, accepting the inevitable. The ranch-slider was not locked. The farmer and his wife were trussed and gagged, tied back to back, but conscious, on their bed. The clerical collar wearer had suffered the same fate as the guards, but lay in a bedroom. Simon turned on all the house lights. He doubted there would be any external surprises. Whoever had disabled the guards, and others, must have either left, or did not want any further involvement, otherwise they would have made themselves known by now. He took Pamela into his arms again.

"Shit you scared me girl," he said. "I'm sorry. I didn't know anything like this would happen to you. I'm so sorry Pam."

"Hey," soothed Pamela. "I said I wanted to be in this all the way didn't I? I can only blame myself." Pamela became calmer and quietened as Simon held her tight. Simon was the first to pull away.

"God look at me," he said. "Blubbering like a little kid!" Even so he smiled at Pamela. "Are you alright? They didn't hurt you at all did they?"

"No, I'm okay. I have been fed and looked after. I was scared to start with but then I sort of settled down and waited for you to save me. I knew you would"

"Look," Simon continued. "I'd better get on with this or we run the risk of problems. There are heaps of things I need to know from you, but they will have to wait. I'm starving. I've not eaten for hours. Could you try and get a sandwich together Pam while I get started? And a cuppa would be nice."

First he searched the house quickly, but expertly, finding it to be a simple farm residence. From bank statements it appeared the farm was not financially viable. He discovered the farmer and his wife were Grant and Patricia Weeks. They had an eighteen year old son who was an office worker in the city. The clerical collar wearer had a bag and identification with him. He was Father Brett Edmonds. His connection with the Roman Catholic Church seemed to be that of a Spiritual Director, whatever that might mean. He did not appear to have a set address. Simon took Edmond's identification and the Mercedes keys. He relocated the farmer and his wife to the dining table minus their gags. While he and Pamela ate salad and meat sandwiches, and washed them down with hot sweet tea, they ascertained from the Weeks' that farming was in a poor state, and in order to boost their income they had taken to growing marijuana. Out of the blue they had been approached by a church man who said that while he knew about the marijuana, he would turn a blind eye to it if they would help him hide a refugee whom the authorities were seeking. They were being paid a handsome sum for the exercise and knew nothing more than that. They repeatedly apologised to Pamela, and in the end Simon tended to believe them. They said that those who came to check on Pamela from time to time did so without warning. They had no means of contacting the people they were working for.

When asked about the Police visit the previous day, they said that a stolen vehicle had been found nearby, according to the Policeman, and he had wondered if they had seen anything suspicious. They advised him that they had not.

By the time Simon and Pamela had satisfied their hunger, and the Weeks' had exhausted their confessions, it was light. Simon was now left with the guards and the priest. Even though he and Pamela had refreshed themselves with food and freedom, Simon knew that his reactions, and interpretation of facts, probably left much to be desired. As he turned things over in his mind, Simon became aware of the silence. He refocused to see everyone was looking at him, waiting for a decision on what was to happen next.

"Right," said Simon including them all in his glance. "Here's where we're at." He cut away the Weeks' bonds and continued. "Grant and Pat. You're to carry on as if nothing has changed. I'll arrange for some one to come and take those thugs away. The priest will come with Pam and me. If anyone turns up asking questions as to where Pam is, or anything about the operation, it's up to you what you tell them. You can tell them the truth, or make up a story, or deny knowledge of anything. It's up to you. So, Grant, I suggest you get on with it and get the milking underway.

"Pam, open up the Priest's car will you? We might as well do this in style." He handed Pamela the keys to the Mercedes. Grant left the table, pulled on his gumboots, and headed out the door. Shortly after, the ATV could be heard heading up the tanker track. Pat started to clear the table of the dishes they had used and Pamela headed in the direction of the garage. Simon went to the bedroom where he found the priest still unconscious. Unceremoniously, he dragged him off the bed, down the passage, out the ranch slider and across the lawn to the garage. The priest's feet bumped down the steps and rucked up the scatter rugs but neither Simon nor he cared. With the priest finally bundled into the Mercedes boot, Simon removed the gag from his mouth and shut him in. Simon then went back to the house to use the telephone. Even though it was 4.30 a.m. the call to Investigations Ltd. was answered immediately. Simon gave the operator his code number and he was patched through to Alan Forsyth who was out in his car even at that time. Briefly Simon gave him a rundown on what had happened and made arrangements for him to send a team to the farm to debrief the guards. When he heard the location of the farm he stopped Simon.

"There was a stolen car recovered in a picnic area not far from there. We picked that information up while monitoring the Police channels. That was you I presume?"

"Correct," acknowledged Simon. "How are they treating it? There should be nothing to lead them to me."

"No? It's all fine at the moment. Just routine," confirmed Forsyth.

"Look mate," continued Simon. "We need to do some serious talking here. Do you have a de-brief house, studio or something? Somewhere where we can talk to our priest and perhaps try and work out where we're going on all this?"

"19 Hibbert Street," said Forsyth. "Drive up to the garage. The door will open automatically. Drive in and the door will close. Do not get out of your car. Tune the car radio to 1000 KHz on the A.M. band and then change it to 1200 KHz on the same band. That will activate a hydraulic ram that will lower the garage floor. You will be guided from there. Got it all?"

"Yep, no problems," replied Simon. "You'll be there?"

"To right. See you shortly."

Simon turned to the farmer's wife. "Thanks Pat," he said. "Look after yourself. Be good, and hey, thanks for not hurting Pam."

Simon left the house and found Pamela behind the wheel of the Mercedes with the engine running. Simon was too tired to argue. He simply went to the front passengers door, climbed in, secured his seatbelt and turned to Pamela.

"Hibbert Street. Number 19. Do you know it at all?" he asked.

"Certainly Sir. 19 Hibbert Street it is. That will be about 45 minutes and $75," smiled Pamela.

"Wake me when we get there will you?" asked Simon. Then he put his hand on her thigh. "I love you, you know," he continued with tears coming to his eyes. "Christ I'm so glad you're okay."

In her turn Pamela put her hand on top of his and gave it a squeeze. "Don't start that," she sniffed. "You'll have me blubbering as well. Go to sleep." She pulled her hand away as the car accelerated out the drive and down the tanker track. Before it reached the road proper Simon was asleep.

Pamela shook Simon awake.

"Wakey, wakey sleepyhead. Rise and shine," she said cheerfully. "Hibbert Street coming up."

"Right. Right," said Simon struggling to orientate himself. "Just drive straight up to the garage at 19 and the door should open. When it does, drive on in."

Pamela counted down the numbers, 27, 25, 23, 21, 19. As she turned into the driveway she noted that the garage door was starting to automatically open. There were shrubs and hedge plants along both sides of the driveway and the drive itself curved slightly screening the car and garage from the street. Pamela drove into the garage and the door closed behind the car. Simon switched the car radio onto the AM band and tuned it first to 1000 KHz and then retuned it to 1200 KHz. So smoothly, as to be almost unnoticeable, the floor of the garage started to descend. Simon knew that the tuning of the radio caused some frequency change to be picked up that would activate the electronic lift to start the descent. When the descent stopped they found themselves in a small underground car-park. There was an attendant present who signalled them to a particular parking spot. As they got out of the car they saw the garage floor automatically being raised, by hydraulic rams, back into its original position.

"Good morning Miss Stevens, Mr. Allan," said the uniformed attendant. "Mr. Forsyth is waiting." He indicated a lift to one side of the car-park. "Now, I understand you have a package with you?"

"A package?" queried Simon. "Oh, yes, yes." He gave the car key to the attendant. "In the boot."

"Thank you Sir, I will look after it for you," said the attendant taking the key. "You just go on up and see Mr. Forsyth.

Chapter 21

Pamela and Simon entered the lift, which would only have been capable of holding four people. There were two buttons; one indicating up and the other down. Simon pressed up. The journey was not fast but Simon estimated they had ascended several floors before the lift stopped. Alan Forsyth met them in a plushly carpeted office. The lift doors closed and Simon and Pamela could see that they resembled cupboard doors. Alan Forsyth was dressed in a suit, white shirt, and tie, as befitted the C.E.O. he was. Simon introduced Pamela. He shook her hand.

"I'm pleased to see you well after your spot of bother," he said. He then led them out of the office and along a short passage into what was obviously his office.

"Still doing some Government work I take it? queried Simon.

"Indeed," said Alan Forsyth. "Totally deniable of course. Now, let's get some coffee and get down to it shall we?" Already laid out on a table to one side of his desk was a coffee set with cream, sugar and biscuits. Also on the table were three pads and three pencils.

"We're secure I presume," asked Simon?

"Oh yes," said Forsyth. "This is the fourth floor of seven. The third and fifth floors are vacuums and in effect this floor is floating. Everything we say and do is recorded and filmed. No exceptions. That applies to you and also the Government."

Simon nodded. He knew how important it was to cover ones back-side. He smiled at Pamela.

"Alan and I go back a long way. While all this must seem fantastic and boys own it's all true and necessary. Unfortunately freedom is the hostage of deviousness." He turned to Forsyth. "We've got the priest who was out at the farm. I don't know but it's quite a possibility that he was the one who organized the kidnap of Pam. Certainly he must know quite a bit anyway."

"Is he a real Priest?" asked Alan Forsyth.

Simon shrugged. "Who knows? However, before we go any further I had better bring you both up to date on what I found out from my enquiries into Pet." Briefly he outlined the information gathered from Mrs. Jelliman and Janice. He then continued, "Also, I have now been told that an ex of mine, Suzanne, has been killed in exactly the same fashion as Yarmouth. It appears that I am not a suspect as Police surveillance of me has provided an alibi.

"When I've been able to, I've thought quite a bit about all this. The one constant, in all that has happened, is me. Initially it started to appear as though it was about my family, but I've since changed my mind. I'm now convinced it's me. The things that have happened to others, have happened because of their association with me. Initially the death of Ali and Pet suggested my family, but nothing has happened to my sisters. Then Elaine leads back to me, and Yarmouth leads back to me, and Suzy leads back to me.

"There is one other constant though, and I don't understand that at all."

"The Roman Catholic Church", stated Forsyth.

Simon nodded. "The Church. Father Joe, or Donahue to give him his correct name, was connected with Yarmouth, and he, or other Roman Catholic's, were connected to Petra, her Janice and their baby, Alison and through him, me. He did say that I was in danger, but also that I am important to the world in some way. Probably important to the manufacturers of booze anyway. Or I was.

"Me and my family. And then there is this priest fellow we've got hold of now who probably kidnapped, or was involved in kidnapping, Pam."

"So," pointed out Forsyth. "The constants seem to be you, yours and the Catholic church."

"Agreed," nodded Simon. "But I have no idea why the Catholic Church would have any interest in me. And, hey, I thought the church was into love, not killing."

"Generally it is," responded Pamela. "But you've got to remember that over the years the church has been responsible for a lot of deaths, and a lot of them were innocents."

"Pamela's correct Simon," agreed Alan Forsyth. "And even in some of the more recent Ethnic Cleansing conflicts the church has played a big part."

"Well in this case," said Simon. "It appears as though it is Roman Catholics who are causing the problems. So what do we do? Do we go and see the Pope, or his equivalent here, and say, "hey what's the guts guy?"

"Pamela?" asked Alan Forsyth. "You're the one with leanings in that direction."

"My leanings are not in that direction as you put it," denied Pamela. "However, I can probably access information more easily than either of you so I'll see what I can do." Turning to Simon she continued, " In the meantime darling, it still leaves you in a pretty vulnerable position."

"Okay," said Simon. "I see it this way. We can take it that there is some form of connection between me and the Roman Catholic church. That connection could have come from anywhere in my past. That opens up things that have happened overseas and which were out of my control. One would think that if this was connected to my professional life, that others would have been targeted, not just me. I have not heard of anything similar happening to others. If that is so, then why am I still alive? Why were my kids killed? Why kill those closest to me?"

"There has to be a pattern here," said Forsyth. "None of this is random. I think we all know that. So what is the connection between you and those deaths we know of? I say know of advisedly, because there may be things here that we are in ignorance of at the moment."

Forsyth leapt to his feet and pulled aside a white board cover. In spite of the situation Simon could not help but grin at Alan Forsyth's well known 'talk and chalk' technique, albeit with more modern aids. At the top of the board he wrote, in big bold letters, SIMON. Beneath it he wrote, on the left hand side of the board, a sub-heading, Deaths, and below that a list of names. The adjacent column was headed Relationship. With assistance from Simon and Pamela the list finally read: daughter Alison, her two children, grand daughters Janice and Gillian, daughter Petra, wife Elaine, girlfriend/defacto Suzanne, Yarmouth, and four unborn babies belonging to Elaine, Suzanne, Janice and Yarmouth.

Below that list, he made another headed, Alive. This also listed family and their relationship to Simon: Petra's girlfriend Janice, Alison's husband Robert, Simon's son-in-law, and Pamela was listed as friend.

"Now," said Forsyth. "What strikes us about these lists? What connections or reasons jump out at us? What is a common factor?"

For a while there was silence.

"We can take it that I am the main connection," said Simon. "I think that you can rule out a cut and dried direct family connection though. Like, Suzy and Denise Yarmouth are hardly family are they?"

"You made them family," retorted Forsyth. "Well perhaps not Yarmouth, but definitely Suzanne."

"Sex," said Pamela. Simon and Alan Forsyth turned startled eyes upon her. She blushed. "Sex," she repeated. "Sex and pregnancies. That's the common factor." Simon and Alan returned their gaze to the white board.

"I don't think so," responded Forsyth. "In part yes, but not entirely. I agree with you as regards Alison, Petra, Elaine, Suzanne and Yarmouth but I think you're stretching things a bit far to include Janice, Gillian and the unborn."

"Maybe," agreed Pam. "But if you take it one step further then they become included."

"Bloodline," blurted out Simon. "My God, bloodline's the common factor. My bloodline. Both Ali and Pet are direct bloodline. Janice and Gillian are bloodline. Elaine, Suzy and Denise were all pregnant to me, which makes their pregnancies my bloodline. Janice was pregnant with Pets baby. That makes the baby sort of bloodline. Robert, you Pam, and Pet's Janice are not bloodline. For some reason, me and mine are at risk."

"If that's true," said Forsyth. "Then there is some ruthlessness out there, because Elaine, Suzanne, Janice and Yarmouth were only vessels. They themselves weren't direct bloodline."

"But they were carrying bloodline." Pamela stated the obvious. She continued, "Can this be it?"

"I don't know," responded Simon. "It all sounds far fetched. Christ, if it is, look at the number of deaths I'm responsible for. Why the fuck couldn't I have kept my dick in my pants?

"Oh God no."

"What?" asked Pamela and Forsyth together.

"There have to be others out there if that is the case."

"Others?" asked Pamela and Forsyth again.

"Well," said Simon shamefacedly. "In my time I've had a few. Usually when I was pissed, so God knows who and when they were." He turned to Pamela and took her hands. "I'm sorry love. I told you I was a rotten bugger. Bad to the bone as the song goes. I wish you didn't have to hear all this."

Pamela squeezed his hands. "It's alright," she encouraged. "That's the past. All we need do now is try and sort it out and stop it."

"But it's obvious that you'll be in danger as well," protested Simon.

"Tough," said Pamela. "We're in it together and that's that. Besides I'm not pregnant so I won't be in danger." She folded her arms, returned her gaze to the white board and asked, "Where do we go from here?"

"What do you reckon Simon?" asked Forsyth.

For a while there was silence as all three stared at the white board, and the horror it showed, in black and white.

"Okay," said Simon. "I'm pretty reluctant to put all our eggs in one basket but we have to start somewhere. If my bloodline is the problem then that must be where the religious problem stems from. That gives us two lines of enquiry, that I can see, and one is dependant upon the other. The primary enquiry is my bloodline and me. This is particular to me. Not my sisters. Why? The secondary line is the Church. Why would a church be interested in me? I would suggest that my bloodline must be of some interest to them for some reason. Perhaps one of my forebears did something to them and they're extracting revenge or something. Pretty far fetched I know. So I think we'll go like this; Pam, you and I will concentrate on Pet and Ali's deaths to see if that will lead us anywhere. We'll also do background enquiries into my family. Alan, you take the Church, Father Joe, and the one we just brought in, and see what you can dig up. Let's keep in touch. Oh, and another thing Alan, can you try and find a connection between me, the Church, Team ID and whoever else is following me around out there?"

"Actually," responded Forsyth. "I think there is someone out there trying to look after you. I've been over and over the situation when Pamela was kidnapped and you were shot. The shooter was taken out at the last moment and that's what saved your life. It's interesting that it was you the 'taker outers' concentrated on though. They had no interest in Pamela. I would say, bearing in mind the religious connection, that you appear to have a guardian angel, or angels, looking after you. I'd put money on it that it was they who took care of the guards at the farm."

"Good," replied Simon. "I need all the help I can get.

"Have you got no idea who Team ID are working for yet?"

"Nothing I am afraid," confirmed Forsyth.

Simon got up and suddenly turned to Pamela. "Christ," he said. "In all the excitement I forgot to ask you. How the hell did you get the message to me at the dead letter drop?"

"Oh my goodness I'd forgotten to tell you," exclaimed Pamela. "For the first few times after I got to the farm, I was fed by the Weeks' son Denis, and he agreed to do it for me. I think he had a bit of a crush on me, and he's also a born again Christian so we had that in common. That's how that was done. I couldn't be sure of contacting you any other way. I didn't even know for sure that you were alive."

"You did well girl," said Simon giving her a hug. "Okay, let's go."

"Before you do," said Forsyth. "I'll give you one of our new, satellite encrypted and G.P.S. enabled, cell phones so we can keep in touch. If that fails, then we'll return to our old method of contact. Okay?"

"No worries," said Simon. "Oh, just one thing. Can you get the Police surveillance log of me after Yarmouth died? I'll give Dwayne Ratana a bell and tell him you'll be in touch. He's a Detective on the Vice Squad and should be able to help. I think we need to find any girls I went with at that time to see if they're in any danger don't you?"

"Good idea. I'll sort that out," agreed Forsyth.

He then took them back to the hidden lift that returned them to the basement garage. They were supplied with the satellite cell phone and returned to 19 Hibbert Street via the car lift and garage.

"Where to now?" asked Pamela who was still at the wheel of the Mercedes.

"First," said Simon. "I want to bring my paperwork up to date. I know it seems silly but it's a promise I made to myself. I want to have everything properly documented. So here's what we will do. We'll drop this car in town. I then want you to go to your parents and assure them you're okay. Grab some essential overnight gear and then meet me at my new place in town." He gave her the address. Be there about 5.30 pm. Wait for me if I'm not there."

"What about the Police?" asked Pamela. "Won't they want to know where I've been and all that?"

"Just get your Mum and Dad to tell them it was all a silly prank and that they'll donate heaps of money to a charity or something to compensate for wasted time. They won't believe a word of it but it's a clearance for their statistics so it'll keep them happy."

"I suppose," said Pamela doubtfully.

"Trust me," said Simon. "Okay, let's go."

They drove out of Hibbert Street and within minutes parked in the Victoria Street car park building. They left the car, locking the keys inside after wiping down all surfaces they had touched. Pamela caught a taxi to her parents place and Simon returned to his rent-an-office. He brought his file up to date and then deposited the information in his Safe Deposit box before returning to his town house via the storm water system. It was only 4.45 pm so he had time to shower before Pamela arrived. Right on 5.30 pm Simon was alerted to her arrival and he opened the door for her. As she came through the door he took her into his arms. As they kissed Simon could feel his penis rising. Pamela could also feel it and responded by pulling him closer and pushing her leg into his groin. His hands slipped to her behind and he pulled her close, grinding against her. She groaned and responded with her own thrusts. Simon broke the clinch. His arousal pushed out the front of his trousers.

"No Pam," he gasped. "No, we're special. We don't want to do it this way do we?"

"Yes we do," stated Pamela. "Yes we do." Pamela started to pull Simon's shirt out of his trousers. Simon stopped her.

"No," he said. "Not here."

So saying he picked her up and carried her to the bedroom. He laid her on the bed and undressed her. All the while he showered her face and neck with kisses. As her breasts fell free Simon took her nipples in his mouth and ran his tongue around the aureoles. Pamela shivered as her nipples grew harder. Simon nuzzled her breasts and attended each nipple in turn. From time to time he would pull himself away from the breasts and would nuzzle, kiss and lick his way back to her lips. A pinkish hue of a rash now covered Pamela's neck and chest. As he returned his attention to her breasts Pam started to make mewing noises and her hips started to thrust upwards. Simon licked and kissed his way down to her navel and then back up to her lips and down again. The thrusting of her hips was becoming more insistent now. With care Simon removed Pamela's panties. He followed them down her legs with kisses and licks. Once they were off he resumed the kissing from the feet up towards the dark bushy triangle that topped the legs. As he reached her thighs Pamela opened them for him. It was not the greatest coupling in the history of human kind. Pamela was a virgin, and Simon had never had a virgin before. It all turned out to be a bit messy and uncomfortable. As they lay together afterwards Simon pulled her head to his chest.

"Shit," he said. "I'm sorry. What a bloody shambles."

"Hush, hush," soothed Pamela. "It wasn't all stars and fireworks but it'll improve. Don't worry about it. I enjoyed it. Well, most of it. I'll just have to get used to your size."

"Well you know all the right things to say," joked Simon.

As they lay, sleep overtook them and they found themselves still entwined some two hours later.

"Right," said Simon rising onto one elbow and looking down at Pamela. "If this was a book I'd ravish you again and this time there would be stars and fireworks but . . .

"But what?" queried Pamela.

"But I'm starving so it'll have to wait until I wine and dine you and then we'll have another go. As a preliminary though, how about joining me in the shower?"

"I thought you'd never ask," responded Pamela. She reached down between Simon's legs and fondled his balls.

"It doesn't look very big now does it?" she grinned.

"Keep that up and you'll change your mind," growled Simon.

They passed the next couple of hours preparing and eating dinner before resuming their love making, which was much more satisfying the second time around. By the time daylight lightened the room, five more occasions had vastly improved their techniques and timing bringing the odd star and sky rocket.

Over a breakfast of bacon, eggs, tomatoes and toast, washed down with tea, they planned their course of action.

"So," said Pamela. "You're the cop. Where do we go from here? I know it's going to be hard for you to go over all this again but you really have to don't you?"

"I think so," replied Simon eating another square of toast lavishly covered with apricot jam. "You'd find it hard to believe how many stuff ups get made, and things over looked, in enquiries. Shit I remember on one enquiry we had located boot prints at the scene. We knew we were looking for a particular brand and we had a suspect. We did a search warrant on his car but allegedly found nothing to connect him with the crime. It took another fortnight to get enough evidence to arrest him, and when the car was searched again, boots fitting the crime scene prints were found. When we went back to the original search inventory we found the boots had been there all the time. We should have been able to lock him up the first day but the obvious had been over looked. Something so simple. So yes, we'll have to completely re-do the whole thing in each case."

"Will you be able to see the original files?" asked Pamela.

"I've got copies," said Simon. "I got them after the enquiries had been shelved. I didn't know what, if any, use they would be at the time, but as it turns out it was worth the effort."

"So we'll do what today?"

"You'll do the dishes."

"In your dreams," responded Pamela.

"And then," grinned Simon. "I'll refresh my memory on the files. While I do that, maybe you could research my family tree. I've got Mum and Dad's birth and death certificates, and they can point you in the right direction. There's a computer in the spare room. Do you think you can handle that?"

"No worries," said Pamela. "I've done our family tree so I know how and where to go and who can help etc. What about the lines being tapped or anything?"

"I don't think that's a worry," said Simon. "If my family background is that important then this will show them we're onto it, and it might just provoke a response. If it's the Police listening they won't know what it's about.

"Talking about the Police, and others, we'd better put in an appearance to allay any suspicions they might have as to our current whereabouts."

So saying, they washed and dried the dishes together and then went out onto the balcony where Simon pointed out a few of the landmarks before they went back inside to commence the serious work.

Chapter 22

Evidence Gathering

After the work came the love making, and then the long peaceful sleep of the just. The rays of the morning sun hitting their faces awoke them.

"Cuppa?" asked Simon as he came up for air from the first kiss.

As they sat in bed, with their first of the day coffees, they reviewed the information gathered the previous night.

"You first," said Simon.

"Okay," said Pamela taking another sip as she marshalled her thoughts. "You've a strange family."

"Thank you," said Simon. "It's taken you a while to notice."

"Indeed," smiled Pamela. "I actually extended my search beyond straight genealogy. Even if I modestly say so myself, I've done a magnificent job. I should have been the detective."

"Enough of the self praise," acknowledged Simon with a kiss. "Get on with it."

"Well your father had a really strange background. I also suspect a sad one from reading between the lines. He was born to extremely wealthy parents, Simon Allan and Elizabeth Rose Allan nee Hamilton. He was the second child of three. He had older and younger sisters. When he was two years of age his parents and sisters were killed in a tragic rail accident. Your Dad was not with them at the time. No mention is made of where he was. Newspaper reports mention a derailment in unusual circumstances. The actual cause seems to have been a combination of speed and something on the tracks. No single cause, or reason, was ever concluded. They were not the only ones killed. It was quite a disaster with twenty-seven people dying and thirty-one injured. In light of it being such a major disaster it is pretty surprising that no cause was attributed. There was comment on some-one being seen near the tracks not long before the derailment, and some worker reported that the engine did not de-accelerate as per normal. An inspection of the train afterwards found nothing mechanically wrong, and as the driver died in the accident no one was ever able to reach an informed conclusion. The coroner commented that excessive speed appeared to be a contributing factor but left it at that.

"Whatever the cause, it left your father an orphan. There appears to have been no member of the extended Allan family alive and he was sent to a Roman Catholic orphanage."

Pamela held up her hand as Simon went to interrupt.

"Not now," she said. "Wait until I've finished.

"It was run by an order of Nuns known as "The Sisters of Martha". As far as I can tell everything about the order is above board. As you know there are currently a lot of allegations about the abuse and treatment of orphans in Roman Catholic homes but the Sisters of Martha do not feature in those. Actually, many of their charges went on to hold positions of power when they grew up.

"After leaving the orphanage, at the age of seventeen, he disappeared from all records. To all intents and purposes he ceased to exist. Then after six years he suddenly appears as the owner of a large farm."

"Our farm? The family farm?" interrupted Simon.

"No," Pamela shook her head. "That came later. This was a substantial farm of several thousand acres. How he came to purchase the property is not documented. As a matter of fact, nothing exists about his time as the owner of the property. No farm records, no employee records, no nothing. It's not even clear how he purchased the property. Prior to his name appearing on the deeds, it seems as though the place was owned by some type of trust, and it later appears to have reverted to that trust."

"Anything on the trust?" asked Simon.

Pamela shuffled through papers of printout that lay beside the bed before selecting one of them.

"Not much. It's known as The Masters Trust and it's administered by Browne Jones Elder, a firm of lawyers. It still exists and the farm is doing well. Extremely well as far as I can tell.

"After that, the next appearance of your Dad is on what you call the family farm. At that stage he is married, to your Mum, and he appears to live happily ever after raising you and your sisters. The only other records of him indicate a normal life. He appears on electoral rolls, was a member of the local parent teachers association and a paid up non active member of the Labour political party. Apart from that, nothing out of the ordinary. And that appears to be that, as far as your Dad is concerned. I checked for his grand parents, your great grand parents, but could not find anything about them apart from their names, Peter and Mary Allan. They apparently originated in England but that's all I can find out. It's like your Mum's records. They all seem to have disappeared. I got your Mum's maiden name as Annear but haven't been able to establish any history for her.

"And that my dear lover, is that. Any questions?"

"Do we have an address for the first farm and those lawyers; Browne Jones Elder weren't they?"

"Of course," retorted Pamela.

"Well done my girl," said Simon rewarding her with a kiss and a hug. "Poor old bastard. He doesn't seem to have had much of a start to life does he? Perhaps because of that, the hum drum routines of farm life acted as a balm to him.

"I wonder why he went to a Catholic orphanage? Could be interesting."

"So," interrupted Pamela. "How did you get on?"

With a sigh Simon looked off into the distance. "I thought I had come to terms with all of it," he said, "but I haven't really." Tears welled in his eyes and ran down his cheeks. Pamela pulled his head down onto her shoulder and held him tight. Softly and gently she stroked his hair murmuring "there, there" as though she were holding a baby. Slowly, and hesitantly, Simon started to talk.

"Really there's not a lot I can read into the information in the files. What I'll have to do is go and revisit the scenes and redo the enquiries myself. These are, after all, what the Police call cold cases. I can't really fault what was done, but with the knowledge we now have I can look at things differently. All the original indicators are that Ali and Petra died in accidents, and naturally that shaped the direction of the investigations. There was no need, from a detective's point of view, to be looking for a suspect or a criminal act. If I work from the point of view that they were deliberately killed, murdered, then I may read something different into the scenes. By re-interviewing the witnesses I may also come up with something a little different."

"So where do we go from here?" queried Pamela.

"First," responded Simon thoughtfully. "I think we'll do the scene examinations for both Ali and the kids, and then Petra. From there we'll do the witness interviews. That should point us in the right direction, and if, as I suspect, it points to murder, then we'll settle on the 'old man', my Dad, and see what his connection was with all this."

Simon sat staring into the middle distance lost in thoughts of Ali and Petra. Slowly tears crept back into his eyes and spilled down his cheeks. Pam gently stroked his arm. Eventually, Simon captured the petting arm and squeezed her hand. He smiled at her and kissed her gently on the lips.

"Thank God for you," he said. "In the old days I would have sorted all this out with a good old bash at the booze. Now look at me. What have you done to me girl?"

"Brought you back to you," said Pamela. "Bacon and eggs?"

"Indeed, but first, how about one for the road?" So saying they made slow languorous love once again.

Over breakfast they decided to be quite open in what they were doing. Their reasoning was that if Ali and Petra had been murdered, those responsible would be confident that nothing incriminating would still exist, so would leave them alone. Simon grimly hoped to prove them wrong.

With overnight and crime scene bags prepared, Simon once again went to his cupboard and equipped himself with his knife. He slipped it into a special pouch sewn inside his sweat shirt and between his shoulder blades. Once ready, they caught a taxi to the city and openly hired a rental car. Thinking in terms of comfort, speed and solidity, Simon chose a Mercedes 500SL. Within thirty minutes of leaving the town house Simon and Pamela were on their way. Simon estimated a six hour trip to the scene of Ali's crash. In reality they arrived at the site in just under five hours. That included a Mc Donald's stop and two comfort stops for Pamela. Simon parked the car in a small runoff just to one side of the bridge. For a few seconds all that could be heard was the ticking of the car's cooling engine. Together they got out of the car. Simon pointed back up the hill.

"Ali came round that corner up there. What do you reckon, about quarter of a mile away?" Pamela nodded. Simon continued. "Then down she came and off the road about where we are." Simon turned around. "And then through that gate between the bridge and the bank and then over the edge into the river."

Pamela looked back up the hill at the way the road came straight down and then turned right onto the bridge. She looked at Simon. "It could have happened that way couldn't it?" she asked. "If your daughter had been distracted, or something, and then suddenly at the last minute found the road turning to the right. She could have over-corrected and rolled the car through the barrier or something." Simon nodded.

"Indeed," he said. "And that's the general way it looked. There is, however, another way of looking at it." Simon went to the car and returned with a booklet of photographs and a sketch map. "These are the accident scene photographs and the accident diagrams."

The first photograph showed the view from the top of the hill down towards the bridge. It looked almost idyllic, apart from the Police car parked in roughly the same spot as their rental. The next photograph was taken three quarters of the way down the hill. It showed a set of tyre skid marks. They were on the correct side of the road and showed a right turn as though they were going onto the bridge and then they turned violently left and straight towards the gate just prior to the bridge which gave access to a small area of land containing a pile of metal chips. The following photographs followed the marks through the broken gate, across the chip storage area and through the fence at the top of the river gorge. From the violent left turn the skid marks were almost straight from that point until they disappeared over the edge for the drop to the river. Pamela looked at Simon and looked again at the photographs.

"I don't see any other way of looking at it," she said. "I'm sorry Simon but to me it looks like Ali was coming down the hill, got distracted, looked up, saw how close the bridge was, slammed on the brakes to slow down, started to turn towards the bridge but found herself turning too sharply, over-corrected, lost control and went over the edge. Simon, I think it looks like a genuine accident."

"As you're meant to," said Simon grimly. "But look here." He pointed to the photograph showing the initial skid marks. "See, these are reasonably straight forward skid marks. The brakes have been thrown on. But then the marks change. Just before they veer left you can see the skid pattern changes. It looks almost as though a side ways force has been applied. I read it as the front tyres have been turned to the right but are being pushed to the left. Then look here." Simon pointed to where the marks veered violently to the left. "If I'm not mistaken there are at least one other set of tyre marks here. See, there are lighter ones inside or towards the passenger's side. Not only that, look at these marks running parallel to the skid marks. What do they look like?"

"Well I don't know," said Pamela hesitantly. "What do you think they are?"

"I think they're marks made by another vehicle. And these inside marks are because Ali's car was at an angle. These marks are the rear wheels. The front wheels are driving, trying to turn the car to the right, but something has pushed the car to the left and off the road where it's gone through the gate and fence and over the edge."

"You're not grasping at straws are you?"

"Possibly," conceded Simon. "But I don't think so. See, if you look here at the accident diagrams they show only the main skid marks. The others have been completely overlooked. Not deliberately I think, the cop just didn't see any significance in them. If you go back to the photographs you can see where the second vehicles tracks stop just short of the barrier between the fence and the gate."

Pamela could see a couple of tracks with a small pile of dirt at the end of them.

"But they could have been caused by anyone," she said.

Simon nodded. "Yeah I know," he admitted. "But, and I don't think it's too big a but, they fit the scenario. In reality we'll probably never know, but from what I see, I'm convinced Ali was forced off the road. Perhaps the car examination will show more.

"Now I guess I'd better do the rest of this place. I gotta admit Pam that this is going to be real bad for me."

Together they climbed over the now repaired gate and went to the likewise repaired fence. The sight from the fence was distressing. From where they stood there was a drop straight down for several metres to rocks. There was but a trickle of water finding its way around those rocks on its journey to the sea. The amount of water was clearly deceiving, as the bank, on which they stood, was undercut and concrete buttresses extended from the bridge in an attempt to delay the inevitable collapse of the entire area into the river.

Pamela reached for Simon's arm and gripped it tightly.

"Oh my dear Lord," she prayed.

Grimly Simon stared down at the river. Releasing Pamela's hand he opened the scene photographs and compared them with what lay before them. It appeared as though little had changed. Clearly the vehicle, that in the photographs lay broken in half a bit further down the river, was missing, but various pieces of wood and debris that had been carried by the river were still in place.

"It seems as though luck may just be on our side," said Simon. "Obviously there has been no major water flow for some years or most of that debris would no longer be here.

"Look over there," he pointed to an area leading down under the bridge. "If I follow that down it'll get me straight to the scene."

Simon gave the photographs to Pamela and, after telling her to stay where she was, he began the climb down to the river bed. The going was surprisingly easy and within ten minutes he was standing beside the boulder that had broken the back of Ali's car. While moss covered most of it, there were deep gouges still clearly visible. Simon looked up at Pamela several metres above and waved. She waved back. For a minute Simon just stood still. The water gurgled and slurped at the rocks. Apart from that, there was a deep, almost weighty, silence. Three fantail birds suddenly arrived and ducked and dived about him before chasing a small swarm of insects off into the distance.

"Restless spirits," said Simon watching them go. "Ali, Janice and Gillian! Go my loves. I just hope you know how much I miss you, how much I still love you, and how sorry I am I didn't see more of you all. Rest assured though; I will avenge your deaths."

Again he looked up at Pamela and gave another wave. He then started to check the area. Mentally he formed a 50 metre by 50 metre grid over it, and grid by grid checked the area. There were still pieces of broken glass from headlights, tail lights, windscreen and, even more surprisingly, scrapings of paint. Carefully Simon noted the positions of the glass and paint scrapings on a sketch plan he made of the area, and then placed the items and paint samples into plastic bags to take with him. It took the best part of three hours to satisfy himself that he could do no more.

The climb back to Pamela took twenty minutes.

In silence, Simon placed the bags of exhibits into the boot of the car and they drove on until they reached the next town. Town was possibly a bit grand for Eketahuna. In reality it was a rural service centre with a motel, two pubs, dairy, hairdresser (no appointment necessary), and a farm depot (with all your farming needs).

They booked into the motel and bought deep fried fish and chips from the dairy, which also catered for such a need. They ate from the paper, with their hands, and discussed the day. Pamela was clearly disappointed and said so.

"All I can see Simon is that we've not advanced even one step. Okay, maybe there is something in those skid marks, but even if they are important where do they lead us? Can they lead us anywhere? And all that glass. What's the use of all that? We know it came from Ali's car."

"You're so very, very wrong my love," replied Simon. "You see this is why I am a Detective. All of it means something. You know those clichés about puzzles and getting all the pieces to fit is for real. We've got lots of pieces and we've just got to work out how they go together.

"Take the skid marks for example. Okay, there may be other explanations than the one I see, but my one may just be the valid one. In time we'll see. If I'm right, then an examination of Ali's car tomorrow should reveal something to support my theory. If nothing does, then I might admit that I've got it wrong.

"Mind you the last time I was wrong was in 1956 and then I only thought I was wrong." He grinned. Pamela threw a chip at him that splattered the tomato sauce being used as a condiment. As Simon rubbed at the marks with a handkerchief, wet with his spittle, he continued. "And the glass will also tell a story. A half competent scientist will be able to say if it does all belong to Ali's car. If it doesn't then why was it there? Has the river carried it there or what? You see there are many things to be considered."

"And you're going to get a scientist to do all that?"

Simon nodded. "Indeed," he said. "First thing tomorrow I'll courier the stuff to Alan for him to arrange that. Then we'll have a look at the car. I understand it's stored around here somewhere. In the meantime though, how about you and me seeing if the spa's hot, and making use of it?"

Chapter 23

One brief call at the dairy the next morning equipped them with the directions to JB Autos.

"That'll be Joe's place. He does the repairs around here when they're needed. Mostly farm gear. The odd car though. Just go back north, and about two clicks along you'll see his place. You can't miss it. It's an old dairy factory. Something wrong with your car? Just asking. You know how it is. Don't see many flash cars around here."

If it was not for the sign, 'JB Autos,' Simon and Pamela could have easily missed the place. The sign itself had been almost obliterated by firearm owners proving their marksmanship on a four by six sign. The old dairy factory turned out to be very similar to a warehouse made of concrete. The only indication of its previous use was a loading dock about the height of a truck deck. The building was surrounded by dead, and extinct, vehicles and implements from bygone eras. Grass grew to window height and blackberry and other creeping plants helped to further disguise their original shape, design and purpose. Inside, the building smelt of oil and grease, which was just as well by the look of the damp mould clinging to the walls. Also, just inside the sliding door, was an area that served as an office. Books and papers had slid in all directions and been left where they fell. Seated, at what was presumably a desk, was a young man probably aged about twenty-five years. He leaned towards chubbiness, but in contrast to his surroundings, was clean. Even his overalls, although showing signs of wear, were clean. As Simon and Pamela walked in he stood up and reached out to shake hands. "Hi, the names Joe Bennett," he said. "You'll be the owners of the Merc. Don't be surprised. Very good bush telegraph. Now, how can I help you?"

"I'm the father of the girl who was killed along with her two children when they went over the bank by the Pine River bridge. This is Pam. I'm interested in having a look at the car. You do still have it I presume?"

"Sure do. Yes indeed," replied Joe. "Look I'm very sorry about your loss. A real tragedy. Yes indeed. Well I'm afraid there's not much to see. I towed it to here and got told to leave it out the back in case the coroner wanted to see it. Yes indeed, that's where its been ever since. Nobody came near it. I thought that maybe the accident investigation boys might look at it but no. Its just been left to rot. Yes indeed."

"So you actually went out and picked up the car yourself?" asked Simon.

Yes indeed," said Joe. "I suppose I would have got there not long after the cops. Lance Holler's the local cop and when he was told of the accident he gave me a call and said he'd meet me out there. Yes indeed, that's the way it was. Not a pretty sight I can tell you. Real sad it was. I've seen a few accidents but that wasn't nice. Still, you being a cop and all, it mightn't appear so bad but to me it was. Yes indeed. Lance told me the victim's father was a cop in the big smoke. Not nice. Look, I'm sorry, I forgot. They were yours weren't they? Your daughter you said? I'm real sorry Missus. Yes indeed, real sorry."

Neither Simon nor Pamela corrected his impression of their relationship.

"Tell me, said Simon. "Do you know if Holler took the accident photographs or if a Police photographer did?"

"No, no," said Joe. "Lance took 'em. Yes indeed. He did some sort of course at some stage."

"And what was your impression of why the accident happened?" asked Simon.

"Funny you should ask that, yes indeed. Funny peculiar, not ha-ha. Lance was adamant that your daughter must have been distracted by the kids, realized she was going at the wrong angle for the bridge, put on her brakes, over corrected and lost control."

"And you don't think that?" asked Simon.

"Well," said Joe. "As you'd know I ain't no investigator but I've been to plenty of accident scenes and I also know a thing or two about cars and the way they act. Yes, indeed I do."

"And?"

"There were two things. One was the skid marks." Simon looked triumphantly across at Pamela. "Yes indeed," said Joe catching the look. "I can see you picked up on them also. From my reading of it, your daughter's car was crabbing, you know, back wheels inside the front wheels. There were also some marks off to the driver's side of the car that could have indicated another vehicle. I pointed those out to Lance. Yes indeed. I told him it looked as though another vehicle may have banged into the side of your daughter's car. Lance disagreed. There was also a bit of foreign chrome lying on the road. I pointed that out to Lance, yes indeed I did."

"And?" Simon continued his encouragement.

"Didn't do any good. He just said it had probably fallen off some passing vehicle."

"What happened to the chrome?" asked Simon.

"Dunno," shrugged Joe. "Lance just threw it off to one side." Simon's disappointment must have shown. Joe looked a little embarrassed.

"Its not your fault Joe," comforted Simon. "You've helped a lot. Did you see anything else that was unusual at all?"

"No, I'm sorry, nothing. The car had gone on through the gate and fence and down onto the rocks. It had broken in half. Yes indeed, right in half."

"Could you take us to the car please?" asked Simon. He and Pamela followed Joe outside and through waist high grass to where the car had been left. The Ford escort had indeed been broken in two. The car had impacted on the driver's side and bent itself over the boulder. Darker stains could possibly be blood, but as it was open to the outdoor elements, only scientific analysis would be able to confirm or deny that. For a couple of minutes all three stood silently contemplating the wreckage. Eventually Joe stirred and said, "I'll just leave you folks to it. If you need me or anything, then I'll be back inside. Some work to attend to. Yes indeed, some work." With that he shuffled away leaving Simon and Pamela alone with grim reality. With a shrug, Simon got busy. Pamela found a convenient old car bumper and sat watching. First Simon photographed the wreck from various angles and then took 'all over' photographs of the interior. Putting the camera to one side he started his physical search of the vehicle interior. He started at the driver's seat and moved anti-clockwise, covering the entire interior including side pockets, glove box, ash trays and the boot which he accessed through the rear seat. At the end of it he had several little piles of items. As he removed each one he made a note of where he had found it. He then checked the outside of the vehicle using the same technique. A full two hours later he appeared to have finished and sat down beside Pamela.

"Sorry," he said giving her a squeeze.

"I take it you found something?" asked Pamela. She had watched as he transferred items from his little piles into tins and bags.

"It's hard to tell really," said Simon. "Let's just say that I am more than optimistic. If what I've found pans out then yes I think we can conclude Ali and the kids were murdered."

"Oh Simon," said Pamela softly.

"Look at this," he said. He picked up one of his exhibit bags and opened it. Inside was the door lock from the driver's door. He gave his magnifying glass to Pamela. "Look at the hole where the key goes in, what do you see?"

"It looks like thread, or material of some sort."

"Yes," said Simon. "It certainly does."

"What does that mean?" queried Pamela.

"Well, it could just be that a bit of shirt or skirt or something got caught at some stage, or it could indicate that something pressed against the car side. You can see that if a vehicle bashed against the side of another one it would be clearly visible. It would leave paint samples and things that would be traceable. If, on the other hand, there was some sort of cushion between the two vehicles, it's unlikely that marks would be left."

"But," pointed out Pamela. "Surely it would leave a dent or something."

"Agreed," nodded Simon. "But what dent was caused by that and what was caused by the gate and boulder trauma?"

"Too difficult to figure?" asked Pamela.

"I think so," agreed Simon.

"So what else did you find?"

"Well I got plenty of glass for comparison with records, just in case some of it is foreign to Ford and could lead us towards another make of vehicle." Pam nodded. "And," added Simon. "I found this."

From a tin packed with cotton wool he lifted a small vial. It was intact and contained a clear liquid. There were no markings on it to indicate what the contents were. It looked as though it would hold about twenty millilitres of liquid. There were two small tabs at the top and it appeared that if you twisted them the seal would break and the contents of the vial would become available.

"What is it?" asked Pamela.

Simon shrugged. "No idea," he admitted. "I wouldn't know if it belonged to Ali or some one with no connection at all. We'll just have to wait and see I reckon."

Simon gathered all his bits and pieces together, they said goodbye to Joe, and headed back to town. They stopped at the Farm Depot, which also undertook mail and courier duties. Simon arranged for the samples and exhibits he had acquired to be couriered to Alan for scientific analysis.

As a matter of routine, Simon and Pamela visited the local member of the Constabulary; Constable Lance Holler. While he was courteous enough, he was unable to further their knowledge of the accident.

"Well," said Simon as they sat in the car outside the Police Station. "I reckon we've about done this bit. Let's go and see Robert." As they drove Simon filled in Pamela on Alison and Robert.

"It seems as though it was a match made in heaven. We, Elaine and I, didn't even know about Rob, or Robert as his mother calls him, until they were married. It had been some whirlwind type of arrangement. There had been no need for them to get married straight away, no hint of a shot gun or anything, but they did. It was just a registry wedding but that was all they wanted. Rob was an Insurance Adjustor and he stayed as such. They had their two kids, a nice house and a mortgage. It all seemed absolutely idyllic. After Elaine and I broke up I didn't see as much of them as I should have. I was drinking a lot and for some reason Suzy and Rob didn't get on. After Ali and the kids died, Rob just carried on. As far as I know there's no one else in his life. He just goes to work and goes back home at the end of the day to his and Ali's house. Since the funeral I've only been there once, and that was when I was passing through on a Police job. We send the odd e-mail just touching base."

They continued through the countryside toward Palmerston North. The Manawatu Gorge road had improved about 100% from the last time Simon had gone through. There was still the high slip prone banks on one side, and the long drop to the river on the other, but the road was straighter and the bends less treacherous. Once through the gorge, a vista of market gardens and horticultural farming opened up before them. The view was pleasant. It gave the impression of an idyllic way of life in contrast to the grimness of their task.

They had telephoned ahead to Robert, and he had taken the afternoon off work to meet them at his home. The house was modest, in an area of stable family homes. There was evidence of children in the vicinity, with abandoned bikes, trikes and toys lying on front lawns and driveways. Trampoline and basketball hoops were in evidence showing a teenage presence. Robert's place showed a devotion to gardening. All the flower beds were neatly arranged with contrasting displays. The lawns were closely mowed. Nothing appeared out of place. It was unnatural perfection. Pamela and Simon knew, without saying, that the place was a monument to Robert's grief.

Robert opened the front door for them. He and Simon shook hands and, when introduced, Pamela found herself wrapped in a bear hug. Robert had biscuits and sandwiches set out on a table on the back deck. Pamela and Simon discovered that they were hungry, and did justice to Robert's efforts.

"So," said Robert after the small talk had taken them through the food. "You've finally got the demon beaten have you?"

"With some considerable help from Pam. Yes I think I have," nodded Simon. "As you can see I'm running again, and although over all things look bad, at least there's one point in my life that's looking up." He nodded at Pamela.

Robert smiled encouragement at Pamela. "Put it this way Pam," Robert said. "Ali would have loved you for what you've been able to do." Turning to Simon he continued, "You said you wanted to talk some more about Ali. What more is there to say Simon? I'll never forget Ali and the kids, ever. Every day of my life is lived in their loss." Tears welled in his eyes and he wiped them away with his knuckles.

Simon settled back in his chair and then leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped together.

"What I've got to tell you Rob won't make much sense. It still doesn't to me, but I have to go where the evidence goes. Just hear me out first, and then we'll talk some specifics.

"It appears as though some-one, or something, is trying to either kill me or frighten me off. Why, or for what reason, I don't know. I don't think that there is any need for me to go too deeply into it, apart from saying that they, whoever they are, have set me up to be discredited, and have killed, or caused to be killed, a lot of people associated with me. I think Pet, Ali, and the kids were killed because of something in my family's background. Originally I thought it might have been some type of vendetta by one of the groups I damaged during my time in my other life, before the Police, but having reviewed everything, I now think it's something else.

"I know it's pretty hard to accept that such a thing could happen here in this day and age, but I think I'm on the right track." Robert's look was disbelieving. "If I'm wrong, I'm wrong and Pam will be left to pick up the pieces. If nothing else, just humour me and think of it as helping an old man come to terms with his grief and stupidity."

Silence fell for a while until Robert looked at Pamela with raised eyebrows. In answer to his unasked question Pamela said, "I thought he had lost it when he first mentioned it. Now though, I'm not so sure. Funny things are happening, and what Simon is saying, is one way of tying them all together. As he says, if it all turns out to be custard, then so be it. In the meantime, I think we have to follow up on what we've got."

Again silence fell. Robert got up and went inside through the French doors. Pamela and Simon could see him standing looking at a framed photograph of Alison and her children. Eventually he returned and sat back down.

"Okay," he said. "At this stage I don't want to know anything about the whole deal. I'll answer whatever questions you've got. I'll never get over the loss but if, in the end, you find an answer I'd be eternally grateful. What do you want to know?"

Simon went through a series of questions that all produced routine answers: No, Ali did not have any enemies. There had been no indication from the Police that it had been anything other than an accident. Nothing clicked, until Simon asked about religion.

"You know," said Robert. "It is unusual that you should mention that. Ali showed no interest in the church at all. I'm Church of England and she was Presbyterian but that was only in name. We didn't go to church or have any association with one. We got Janice and Gillian baptised but that was more of an excuse for a piss up than anything else."

"But there was something else?" prompted Simon.

"She got visited a number of times by a Catholic priest. Neither of us could understand why. He was told that we had no interest or need for religion."

"So what was he interested in then?" asked Simon.

"You," replied Robert. "You and your family. Hey, perhaps there is something here like you were saying. He wanted to know about your life both before and after Elaine." Robert looked at Pamela before continuing. "He wanted to know if you and Elaine broke up because of another woman. He wanted to know if as a result of that, Ali had any half brothers or sisters. When Ali told me about it we both thought it was pretty odd but then decided that perhaps you were going to convert or something. I can remember us thinking that it would be a hoot to have an ardent R.C. in the family. Mind you the thought did cross our minds that to be a 'left footer' wouldn't hurt you in the Police either.

"Fancy recalling that.

"That's all though. He just came the few times and then nothing."

"Was he the local Priest?" asked Simon. "Like, I know you don't do church, but even so, in a place this size you'd probably see him."

Robert shook his head. "No," he said. "I only saw him once when he was here talking to Ali when I came home for lunch. He wasn't wearing his dog collar but he had given a visiting card to Ali. I can't say I remember ever seeing the card again. It probably just got thrown out. It gave his name as Father Donovan if I remember correctly. He was with St. Mary's Church down on Broadway."

Nothing else eventuated from Robert so Pamela and Simon left after promising to keep in touch. As they left Robert gave Pamela another hug and whispered in her ear. "Look after the old bugger. He's the only connection I've got."

Pamela kissed him on the cheek. "Of course," she said. "I need him too."

As they drove away Simon said, "We've just got time to make St. Mary's so let's do it. I doubt, quite honestly, if Donovan will be known but we have to check."

Simon's prediction proved to be correct. No Father Donovan had ever worked from St. Mary's. Not only that, but no priest of that name had ever worked in Palmerston North. The current Priest, Father O'Sullivan, had been more than helpful, and had actually checked the record of current Priests practicing in New Zealand. There was no mention of a Donovan. Simon and Pamela left with a 'thank you', and 'God Bless' ringing in their ears.

Before leaving Palmerston North, Simon visited an address in one of the suburbs. He asked Pamela to remain in the car. He was gone for about twenty minutes and returned to the car with a bag which he placed in the car boot. When Pamela asked what it was all about he said that he just had to pick up a few things from and old Army friend he had known many years previously.

Chapter 24

It was late afternoon and they wanted to make the town of Waiouru, where Petra's old Army Base was located, before nightfall. They did not manage that. It was dark by the time they got there. The town consisted of a petrol station, video parlour, two hotels, a motel, a dairy, Post shop, general store and a Government Works Depot. They booked into a motel, and exhausted both physically and mentally, went immediately to bed.

They woke the next morning to a magnificent sight. The sun's rays were lighting up the mountains against a crystal clear sky. Pollution did not exist at Waiouru. The snow edges were clear and sharp. One's breath ballooned in front of one. The air was cold but made them feel alive. Even this early though, and it was about 6.30 am, the military sounds confirmed why Waiouru existed. Shouted commands, loudspeaker announcements and uniforms intruded.

After breakfast, Simon and Pamela drove to the main gate of the Military Base and asked the old uniformed attendant for directions to the Military Police Section. Simon was aware that he might well face resentment from the Special Investigation Branch of the Military Police, but decided he would handle that as and if it came. In reality he need not have worried. Warrant Officer First Class Russell Regan was more than helpful. He sat Simon and Pamela down in an office and dropped three Arch Levered File holders on the desk in front of them. He arranged tea and biscuits. As he left the room he said, "That's the whole file on Private Petra Allan. I'll leave you alone to go through it. Take whatever notes you want. I'll be back in a couple of hours and we'll talk about it. I'm sorry for your loss." With that he shut the door and left them to it.

Simon looked at the files and the annotations on the backings. He gave the file labelled Background and General Enquiries to Pamela. He took the ones labelled Scene and Witness Interviews.

"Look through it," he instructed Pamela. "Make notes of anything you think may be significant."

Two hours later Regan poked his head through the door. "Sorry," he said. "Still tied up I'm afraid. Tell you what, it's about ninety minutes to lunch. I'll have more tea and biscuits delivered to you and then, for lunch, you'll be my guests at the mess. Okay, that's settled then." The door closed.

Simon threw his pen down and closed the file he was working. Pamela followed suit.

"So," said Simon leaning back in his chair. "Anything tickle your fancy?"

"Not really. Your daughter was a very clever and able young woman. She topped her recruit wing, was a crack shot and a superb athlete. From my reading it appears there was a good chance she could have made the Special Air Service. She was well liked and there was no resentment apparent towards her. Simon, she was a terrible loss to this world."

"You better believe it," agreed Simon. "That's why I find it so hard to believe she went off by herself and fell down a crevasse. It is all so out of character for her."

"Is there anything in your files?" asked Pamela. "Anything that could lead us anywhere?"

Simon rocked his chair back on its rear legs with a somewhat distant look in his eyes. Seemingly with some reluctance, he pulled himself back to Pamela's presence.

"There are some funny things," he said. "Things that don't quite ring true. Nothing clear cut or obvious, but there's something there."

"But you can't put your finger on it."

"I'm not sure," said Simon slowly. "Possibly. You see they were on a routine mountain assignment. It was one that they would have done countless times before. Okay, on this occasion they were caught in a rogue 100 year storm. Even so, she should have survived. There is a set course of action in such a case. It is actually laid down in one of the Army Manuals. There's a manual for everything in the Army. While there are several ways of getting through such a situation they all involve staying together in the one place. Walking around by yourself and falling into a crevasse is not one of them. Nothing guarantees survival, but even if you did not survive, you would die huddled in a snow cave or crushed by snow or something. The one thing you wouldn't do would be die like Petra did."

The door opened and Regan walked in. "Come on you two," he ordered. "Lunch."

The Warrant Officers and Sergeants Mess was better than a five star hotel restaurant. The service was silver and the menu a la carte. Simon and Regan swapped war stories, some true and some embellished, until they left the dining room and settled in the lounge/reading room.

Regan started.

"I liked Petra. There was a thief working the base and they helped themselves to some of Petra's stuff. Nothing major, but enough to piss her off. She was extremely helpful to me. Must have been your genes I guess.

"From then on we kept in touch, sort of. As you'll have picked up from the files your daughter was something extra special. There were few could beat her in anything. I reckon she could even have won a pissing contest.

"Beg your pardon Pam.

"Then she went and got herself killed up on the old hill."

"You don't believe that do you?" hazarded Simon.

"You've read the file," retorted Regan. "There is no way she would have gone walkabout in such a situation. The training is to dig a snow cave and stay put. This was an exercise. The group, however, would have been acting as though the whole thing was for real. As far as they were concerned there was an enemy out there. Once the storm had cleared they wouldn't have ventured out of their caves until they were certain the way was clear. Okay, a couple of the others died also, but that was in their caves from hypothermia. Now why would Petra, Private Allan, not do what she would normally do?"

Simon nodded. "That's what I found unusual wasn't it Pam?" Pamela nodded. Simon went on. "You went to the scene and you were there when they recovered the body." Regan nodded. "I take it there was nothing to indicate foul play? I mean physical evidence."

Regan shook his head. "Nothing. Although there were a couple of things that I did find unusual. There were some slithers of glass found on Petra's white camouflage gear. Nobody could explain them and the conclusion was that they were caused by cross contamination at the ESR laboratory. Personally I have my doubts. While I could understand an over zealous examination 'seeding,'" Regan made exclamation marks with his fingers, "the evidence in some matters, I can't it in this one."

"Because it leads nowhere," interrupted Simon.

"Precisely. If it put someone in the frame, or firmed up some evidential doubt, then maybe, but it did neither here."

"Do you still have the glass?" asked Simon.

"No," Regan shook his head. "All exhibits were destroyed. I do still have the chemical analysis however of both the glass and what it had possibly contained."

"Possibly?" questioned Simon.

"Well as I said; cross contamination. It could have been from either the laboratory or the scene if it did occur. It seems the glass had come into contact with a mixture of elements that can only be found in one place in the world."

"Which is?" prompted Simon.

"The Dead Sea."

"As in the bible Dead Sea?"

Regan nodded his head. "Yeah," he agreed. "Sounds pretty way out. Because of that, and the cross contamination possibility, it got pushed to one side."

Simon nodded. "And the other unusual thing you found?"

"It was during the post mortem. There was a bruise on the side of Petra's neck. It wasn't very pronounced and occurred only shortly before her death. By shortly I mean minutes or less. Really it was just the breaking of capillaries."

"Could it have been caused by the fall?" asked Pamela.

Regan nodded.

"But?" asked Simon.

"It was as though it had been caused by the edge of a hand. I've seen that previously, but not as lightly as this was. The previous times I've seen it; it had been caused some hours before death, so it was quite pronounced. I pointed it out to the pathologist and he agreed that there was a possibility that it could have been caused by something other than the fall, but that he tended to go with the fall theory. After all, as far as everyone was concerned Private Allan had slipped and fallen into the crevasse. Nobody was seeking foul play."

"Thanks," said Simon standing up. "Thanks very much. You have helped me more than you know."

"You're on to something?"

Simon nodded. "Could you have the ESR send the glass details and that to Investigations Limited?" He gave Regan the details.

"Consider it done," said Regan escorting them to their car. "Let me know how it all turns out won't you?"

"I promise," said Simon. "Oh, by the way, the witness statements from the other soldiers show nothing out of the ordinary. Would you agree with that?"

Regan nodded. "Yep, nothing unusual. A couple of the section left the army shortly afterwards. Their reasons for leaving did relate back to Petra's death but not in a suspicious way. If you want I'll forward their details to you."

"Please do," said Simon.

As they left the Army camp Pamela turned to Simon. "Are you going to check up the mountain where she died," asked Pamela?

"No, I don't think it necessary. Regan is a good guy. I doubt we would find anything after this time anyway. If something changes and I think we have to, I will worry about it then. The same with those who left the army, we'll look at them if things indicate the need."

Chapter 25

"Are you sure this is the way?" asked Simon again.

"Just trust me okay," retorted Pamela. They were en-route to the Orphanage where Simon's father had spent his childhood. They were some kilometres out of Stratford. Simon was not good at accepting directions, but knew Pamela would not be leading him astray. As they swept round a curve Pamela said, "There should be a road on your left called Home Settlement Road. The Sisters of Martha orphanage is meant to be two miles along it."

Simon grunted. It seemed to be a funny place for an orphanage; so far out in the country. At least six miles so far from the nearest civilization, which had been in the form of a small town.

The sign, on the stone gates two miles along Home Settlement Road, was hidden under what appeared to be completely out of control ivy. They drove over a cattle stop, and along a rough metal road with numerous pot holes. The vehicle suspension took a bit of a beating. Behind a hedge, about half a mile from the cattle stop, and behind a small hillock, they came upon the orphanage run by the Sisters of Martha. Simon guessed that it had, at one stage, been the home of a prosperous land owner. It was a stately two storey house with a turret on each corner. Between each turret on the first floor ran a balcony, access to which was gained via sets of French doors at each end. The ground floor was surrounded by a veranda. Wide concrete steps gave access to an impressive front entrance. There were numerous out buildings. Some obviously dated from a bygone era. Simon and Pamela could identify stables and a coach house, but other prefabricated buildings spoke of the present. A well kept grass tennis court was visible toward the rear of the house and shouts and splashing indicated the existence of a swimming pool.

Simon parked the Mercedes in an area with a small sign indicating visitor parking.

They rang the bell beside the front door and it opened almost immediately. If they were expecting an old Nun in a Roman Catholic habit they were sadly mistaken.

"Hello, can I help?" asked a young woman of about 20 years, wearing jeans and a tee shirt indicating that at one stage she must have attended a concert by Def Leppard. Either that, or she had acquired it from an Opportunity shop, perhaps run by a church that the order was associated with.

Simon smiled. He introduced himself, and Pamela. "We've an appointment with Sister Ruth," he said.

"Of course you do," said the young lady. "I'm Janet. Come on in." Simon and Pamela stepped into the foyer.

In its day it had been truly magnificent, but its heyday had passed many years before. The carpet was threadbare, the paintwork and varnish chipped and faded. Oblong faded areas on the walls, showed where pictures or photographs had hung. Maybe they had been sold to assist the nuns in their endeavors. The weariness, however, could not detract from either the magnificent staircase, nor the intricate carvings. They belonged to a previous era, one of ladies and gentlemen, parasols and top hats. In spite of its weariness though, there was not a speck of dust in sight. Simon was convinced that if he wiped the ledges with a white glove it would not be soiled.

Janet led them towards the right hand staircase and they followed her up to a balcony that ran across the width of the house. She paused at a door. Apart from it bearing the number six it was no different from any of the other doors they had passed. She tapped on the door and stood back to allow Simon and Pamela to enter. It was a large room, about the size of a school class room, and photographs covered every available portion of the walls. There were room dividers coming out from the walls every twelve feet or so and these were also covered with photographs. Advancing upon them, having come from behind a desk in the middle of the room, was a formidable presence. Dressed in the full regalia of a nun, was a woman of solid build, but with a height of about six foot to go with it. Determining age was difficult, but Simon put her at about fifty years. She held out her right hand.

"Sister Ruth," she said. Simon found his hand in a firm grip. "You must be Mr. Allan and you, my dear," she turned to Pamela, "Must be Pamela." Letting go of Simon's hand she hugged Pamela and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She then turned back to Simon and studied him for a bit.

"When you told me who you are related to, I looked up the photographs and yes, I can see a resemblance to your father. Before we go there however, it is obligatory to be given the tour."

So saying, Sister Ruth was off, and Simon and Pamela followed in her wake. As they were shown the facilities it became quite clear that Sister Ruth was highly regarded by both Staff and children. Even the surly children got their hair tousled or chin chucked and did not react negatively towards her. As they followed, Sister Ruth gave them the history of the Sisters of Martha Orphanage.

The Sisters Order was situated in several major cities during the depression of the early 1900"s. They found themselves struggling to meet the needs of the number of orphans they received so formed a dedicated prayer group to pray for a solution.

"You may not believe in prayer or anything like that," said Sister Ruth. "But within days, and I mean two days, the order was approached by a gentleman who said that he wanted to help. His offer was this residence and twenty acres. No strings attached. He walked off and we walked on. Not only that, but he settled a large trust, which over the years has enabled us to keep functioning. You may call it fate, good luck or whatever. What do I believe? I believe God answered our prayers and prayer works for me.

"From the depression days until now the orphanage has cared for only boys. The precise figure is 2,700 boys with the average length of stay being twelve months."

It took nearly an hour of non stop walking to cover the dormitories, class rooms, recreational areas, gardens, living areas, kitchens and dining rooms and then the return to room number six.

They sat at a small grouping of chairs, comfortable chairs, not the 'comfortable is sinful' type that Simon imagined an order of nuns would possess. Janet brought them tea and chocolate wheaten biscuits. As they sipped and munched, Sister Ruth continued to speak.

"As I said earlier, I have looked up your father's details and in a minute I'll show you his year and class photographs. He was here with us a considerable time. As a matter of fact he holds the record for the length of stay; fifteen years. It was well before my time of course. Normally we are successful in placing our boys within a couple of years at least. In your father's case however the circumstances were different. He was never available for adoption. From what I can ascertain, he was orphaned when his parents were killed in some type of accident. As a result of that he was given into the custody of a Roman Catholic Order called the Order of the Nazarene. I must say that I don't know the Order but that is not unusual.

"Your father was two years old when he arrived, and seventeen when he left. His education was attended to by us, and he was an extremely bright boy. He matriculated easily and we had high hopes of him proceeding to university. That was not to be however.

"During school holidays someone from the Nazarene Order would collect him and return him when the term started again. They seem to have treated us as some type of boarding school. Why we entered into such an arrangement I can't understand, but then I wasn't here at that time. When he turned seventeen the order collected him and that seems to be the last we saw of your father."

"What happened if he got sick or needed anything?" queried Simon. "Was there a contact number or address or anything?"

"We had a rural delivery address and a telephone number. The contact name was Father Donovan. Here, I've written down the address in case you want to follow it up."

"Is there anything to indicate why they had custody of my Dad, or of any special interest they took in him?"

"We sent monthly reports on his school progress and his behaviour to the order. There is a note on his file that when he returned from his holidays he was often a little withdrawn but otherwise nothing, no."

Sister Ruth took them through the photographs on the walls and room dividers. The ones on the walls were the official photographs and the dividers showed the candid photographs of the boys at play or in sporting events. Several old boys had obviously sent photographs back to the orphanage showing their new families, and in some cases, later on, their own children.

Pamela and Simon saw a serious looking boy with straight hair and slightly large ears. There was nothing compelling, but Simon could see a likeness to himself. That he was looking at his father there was no doubt.

Simon and Pamela left the Sisters of Martha Orphanage with a list of the names of Simon's father's teachers and some of his own peers.

At a motel, that evening, Simon checked his e-mails via an encrypted hook-up. Alan Forsyth had acknowledged receipt of the various samples for analysis. He also advised that Ratana had given him a copy of the surveillance logs, and that the interrogation of the captured priest was proving useful. He expected to be in a position to supply an interim report by the following day. Simon acknowledged the message and provided the list from the orphanage for Alan Forsyth's team to trace. He then spent a while on the telephone speaking with his sisters. No new information came to light, but yes they were pleased he had a new lady in his life, perhaps he would be able to keep this one. Johnny and Janet were doing so well, and oh yes, the new car and house were okay, but better things were in the wings. Oh it is such a pity we do not see more of you but our time overseas does not allow us much family socializing, blah, blah, blah. He had a headache when he finished. He turned to Pamela who was busy on his lap top computer.

"You know, I have never known such selfish people in all my life. No wonder I get on best with them when I never see or hear from them.

"So love, what have you come up with?"

"Well, bits and pieces," said Pamela. "Tell you what. Make us a cuppa and a couple of pieces of toast and I'll update you."

Settling back Pamela started, although from time to time she paused to take a bite of toast, swimming with butter, and a sip of her hot chocolate drink made with milk.

"The Sisters of Martha are a genuine order. They have historically always looked after unwanted young male children. They are linked firmly with the Roman Catholic Church and are dependant upon them for their existence, but they do have the advantage of accessing several trusts for finance. Most of those trusts owe their existence to the Old Boys of the Sisters caring facilities, but I'm basically covering old ground there aren't I? There is no mention of the Nazarene Order who looked after your Dad.

"However, another matter I have been able to confirm is that I love you heaps and heaps."

"Me two, three and four," responded Simon as they kissed and headed for the bed.

Pamela waited in the car until Simon paid for the motel and settled behind the steering wheel before she spoke, "So where too oh Great White Chief?"

"Well I'm torn in two really. I'd like to go to the family farm. Well I call it the family farm but of course its long since passed into other hands. I just have a gut feeling about the place. However those lawyers are closer so we might as well get them over and done with."

It took them four hours of driving to reach Waipukurau and locate the premises of Browne Jones Elder, Barristers and Solicitors.

"How typical," said Simon. "The three most prestigious buildings in the town are, a lawyer's, a bank, and an insurance company."

"How may I help you?" the woman behind the desk queried. A facsimile machine appeared to be sending and receiving documents at the same time. A photocopying machine pushed printed paper out from top and bottom. With the thick piled carpet, real leather couches, current copies of House & Garden and the Business Review, this firm had all the appearances of success and opulence.

Simon introduced himself. "I'm Simon Allan. I have an appointment to see Brynne Jones."

"Ah yes, Mr. Allan. Just take a seat will you please. Mr. Jones will not be long. Would you like a coffee or anything else to drink?"

Simon declined and he and Pamela leafed through the magazines for a few minutes until a short tubby man appeared before them. "Mr. Allan?" he asked. "Brynne Jones." He turned to Pamela. "And?"

"Pam Stevens."

"Come along please," he led the way through a door and down a short corridor. Simon caught a glimpse of the receptionist's frown as she tidied the magazines. Brynne Jones opened a door and indicated for them to enter. Client Room C was notated on the door. Simon briefly wondered who or what you had to be to go into Rooms A or B. They sat at an oval table. Jones opened the conversation.

"From your telephone call I understand your father was with the Order of the Nazarene and you think we may be able to help you in some way." He glanced at his watch. "As I indicated I've squeezed you in between clients so to be precise we've only got three minutes so how can I help?"

"I understand you act for the Order?" asked Simon.

"Yes, yes," nodded Jones. "For some 120 years actually. Initially it was Sir Hamish Browne who acted for them. As you possibly know he went on to become the head of the Court of Appeal. A great man, a great man. Browne Jones Elder has evolved from his firm and we do still have a direct descendant of Sir Hamish with us ."

"The situation is," explained Simon, "that my father was orphaned young, and the Order somehow or other had custody of him. I, we, need the details of the custodial arrangement. As you act for the order we presume you will have that information."

"I see," said Mr. Jones. "No."

"What do you mean no?"

"We are unable to help you."

"But you act for them now and you acted for them then," protested Simon.

"True but we will not release any information in regard to the Order of the Nazarene."

"Under the freedom of information act you are required to give me that information," threatened Simon.

"You will not get it," repeated Mr. Jones. "If you wish, by all means have your lady friend's father's firm put their lawyers onto it, but the end result, I assure you, will be the same. You will get nothing." Brynne Jones stood up. "Now good day to you both. Give my regards to your father Miss Stevens. We are mutually acquainted through the Rotary Movement."

Simon and Pamela found themselves back out on the street. Pamela stared at Simon.

"How did he know who I was?" she asked. "I only introduced myself as Pam Stevens."

"Obviously he had been briefed by some-one," replied Simon. He rubbed his hands together. "It means we're on the right track though. If there was nothing to hide we would be given what we want. All this does is show their hand."

"So what do we do now?" asked Pamela.

"We leave town to give the appearance of having given up, and then tonight we'll burgle the place. With a bit of luck there'll be records that'll help us." Simon laughed at Pamela's incredulous look. "Come on, let's get something to eat and leave."

It was late afternoon when they parked in a rest area within a half-hour walk of downtown Waipukurau. While they waited, Pamela dialed up her Hotmail connection that included a request for Simon to contact Alan Forsyth. Using his encrypted telephone Simon spoke briefly to Forsyth. After a few grunts, nods, and the making of some notes, he disconnected.

"Well," he said as much to himself as to Pamela. "Well, well."

Pamela raised her eyebrows.

"Our captured Priest has spoken," reported Simon. "It turns out that he is part of a special security team. While he is one of the foot soldiers, he says that it is directed from the Vatican itself."

"The Vatican?" Pamela looked as silly as her comment.

"That's what Alan says," nodded Simon.

"But surely that's ridiculous," protested Pamela. "What would the Vatican be doing capturing me and shooting at people? This is the third millennium for God's sake. No Simon, I don't think I can go along with that. Can you?"

"It does sound really way out there doesn't it? Like the Pope says, 'Hey I don't like that Simon Allan fellow. He's locked up a few Catholics lately. Go and deal with him. Show him who is boss.' But wait, maybe God spoke to him and told him to do it. Mad men do get spoken to by God don't they?

"No, I think I agree with you Pam. It sounds way off the wall. Even if there was some truth in it can you see a foot soldier knowing where the orders come from? I don't think so.

"Mind you the church angle is clearly not a silly one. We've speculated on that for some time haven't we? We still come back to why though. Let's put it to one side for the moment."

"Did Alan have anything else to say?"

"Wasn't that enough?" queried Simon. "Yes he did actually. He has got the preliminary results from the samples we provided from Ali's accident scene. The material in the car door lock is of a specific type. It's a type of mattress stuffing unique to Ireland. Apparently that can be further broken down and it may be possible to isolate it to a specific manufacturer. That information will be available shortly. The glass is from a Ford but not from Ali's car. Apparently Ford changed the glass they use, or something, after Ali's car was made and some of the glass samples I got were from a later model Ford."

"So it seems as though you're on to something Simon."

"Indeed!" agreed Simon. "But wait, there's more. It ties into the church theory thing again. The water in the vial I found in Ali's car comes from a specific location; the Dead Sea. Maybe that ties in with the Petra glass mentioned by the Army. Not only that though. The water and the vial are consistent with samples of Holy water used by Roman Catholic Priests."

"No that's rubbish," protested Pamela. "I don't know all that much about the Catholic religion but I think most religions in the West are the same and they just use ordinary tap water but bless it. That sounds all a bit weird to me."

"It does tie things nicely together in pointing at the church though doesn't it," said Simon more as a statement than a question.

"Trust me," said Pamela. "It's rubbish."

"But the Roman Catholic Church and the Vatican can be pretty shady," pointed out Simon.

"I thought you didn't know anything about religion," protested Pamela.

"Well, I don't know a lot, but I did read David Yallop's book about a Pope being murdered and that wasn't too long ago. Then there was all that shady money laundering and stuff. Hey, let's face it, in an organization as big as the Catholic Church there's got to be room for quite a few fruit loops. And the Vatican's got a form of secret service that's pretty good."

"And they're all after you because Simon Allan is a big threat to them. Yeah right!" said Pamela.

"It is all a bit far fetched isn't it?" agreed Simon. "Still it is information. It is real. It fits with the general theme of religion, and me or mine."

"I can't go along with it Simon," said Pamela. "I really can't. I think it's just too far fetched."

"So do I really," agreed Simon. "But I'll keep it in mind, and in the picture, although off to one side at the moment."

"Did he have anything else of interest?"

"Not really. He has made basic checks into the surveillance information he got from Wayne and will follow up on it in due course The same with the names from the orphanage."

While they talked it had grown dark. Stars littered the sky. There was, as yet, no sign of the moon. Simon and Pamela left the car and struck out across country back towards Waipukarau. They had earlier changed into track suits and cross trainers. Simon had a small pack with him that contained all he assumed they would need for the work that lay ahead. Some of that had come from the bag he had picked up after leaving Robert. It took them an hour and a half to reach the rear of Browne Jones Elder. While the premises were alarmed it was simply a basic system and within minutes Simon had disabled it and he was inside the building with Pamela on the outside acting as a lookout. Initially Simon did a quick tour to orientate himself. The building had three levels above ground and two underground. The top floor contained the partners' offices, the middle level contained the juniors and some clerks, the ground floor contained reception, interview rooms and clerical staff. Underground level one was the carpark and level two the records. For a town the size of Waipukarau this firm was unusual. There were five partners and twelve juniors. Clearly the firm dealt with some moneyed clients. However Simon was not interested in that. His task was focused on the Order of the Nazarene. Simon's reasoning was that once he had made contact with the firm, Jones would have sought instructions from the Order. In all probability he would have had to obtain the file from records and may have left it in his office. Simon worked out escape routes and then went directly to Jones office on the top floor. It occupied one of the corners. Fortunately all the drapes and blinds were drawn or a light would have shone out like a beacon over Waipukarau. Even so, Simon decided not to take any risks so did not turn on the main lights. He connected his lamp to a headband, which left his hands free. First he checked Jones' appointment diary and sure enough there was the name Allan. A quick look through the 'Out' tray located the lawyer's time sheet. Every minute of the day was accounted for in five minute blocks that were charged against whichever clients file was being worked upon. Simon noted that ten minutes after his call making the appointment to see Jones, fifteen minutes while he and Pamela had been with him, and ten minutes after they had left, had all been charged to ON562. No names were noted apart from the code ON562.

"O.N.," said Simon aloud. "Order of the Nazarene I reckon."

Simon then checked the time sheet and under the area noting telephone calls and toll calls were two calls to a 06 area code number. Simon noted the number, which was the same in both instances. A search of Jones' office did not locate the file ON562. He checked both Jones' Personal Assistance's desk, located off his office, and also the secretarial pool desks on the middle and ground floors without finding the ON562 file.

Realising that there was no other way Simon went to the underground records vault. Entry to it was via an old solid vault door with a combination lock. Smiling to himself Simon took about five minutes to open it. Once inside, the vault revealed itself to be a large bunker, probably about thirteen hundred square feet in size. It was made of concrete and obviously fire resistant. Simon presumed that encased in the concrete was a plate metal lining. While the room was impressive the door let it down to anyone familiar with security measures. That was until Simon saw the safe in the corner. It was substantial with a high tech locking mechanism. There was no way that the lock could be picked. Simon hoped, while realising that the hope could be misplaced, that file ON562 would be somewhere else in the vault. He had confirmed twenty minutes later that it was not. He confronted the safe. He knew without doubt that silent alarms would be fitted to it and that any attempt to open it would bring the immediate attendance of the Police, security, and goodness only knows who else. Simon stood in front of the safe staring at it while those thoughts went through his mind.

"Okay," he said aloud. "It has to be done."

He punched in the numbers for Pamela's cell phone which she answered on the first vibration. He gave her precise instructions and cut the connection before she could question him. Briefly he retraced his footsteps and worked out the safest escape route, which was however, not the quickest. He then returned to the vault and sat in front of the safe until a further hour had passed. He then quickly and expertly packed explosives taken from his bum bag, round the entire safe door. The explosives were part of what he had received from the old army contact he had visited in Palmerston North. He realized that the resultant explosion would practically blow the safe apart, but he was trusting that the files within would be further safe-guarded with their own security boxes. Simon detonated the explosives. The force of the blast blew open the main vault door that Simon had only partially pulled close, afraid that it might buckle and jam if closed. Dust and paper debris followed the blast out the door. While no audible alarms were sounding there was no doubt in Simon's mind that the forces of law and order would soon be on their way. In case there was a hidden CCTV camera, Simon was wearing a balaclava. He went back to where the safe was situated. Indeed the entire door had been blown off, but the rest of the structure stood secure. Still inside were various metal boxes the size of foolscap paper, but six inches deep. Some were open with papers spilling out of them. He could see that many of the boxes had been blown right out of the safe and were mixed with the sheets of paper and fragmented files that had previously stood in military order upon the vault shelves. Knowing time was limited, Simon decided to work from the safe outwards. Each box had its file number written on the front and top with marker pen, a point for which Simon was thankful knowing that otherwise he would be unable to identify the contents. He had expected to find the boxes identified with pieces of paper or cardboard pushed into little holders on the front. As he searched he noticed that some of the boxes were secured with combination locks. He noted the names of high profile politicians, companies and 'The Rich List' members. No wonder the offices were as they were.

ON562. The numbers were faint and well scratched showing years of access. Simon picked up the box and followed his escape route. Not out at the car park, ground floor, nor roof, but the second floor occupied by the staff solicitors. Out a side window and a jump across to the next building and down the fire escape on the far side into a courtyard and over a fence onto the street running at a right angle to that faced by Browne Jones Elder. He could hear the subdued voices of the alarm attendees at the front and back of the lawyers building. Without his balaclava he walked nonchalantly for a block to where Pamela waited in the car. Sedately they left the area and travelled back roads to avoid road blocks.

Simon knew that Jones and the Order of the Nazarene would know it was he who had burgled the premises. What he was unsure of, was whether or not they would publically point the finger at him. That would, he guessed, depend upon what was in the box on his lap.

Chapter 26

Dawn found them in Hastings. They made their way out to the fringes of the city. Using cash, and a false name, Simon rented a six cylinder Ford sedan from a local garage running a rental car agency on behalf of a National company. He was banking on the owner attempting to gain a financial 'bit on the side' by not reporting the transaction to the parent company, and therefore making any tracing of the rental to him impossible. At a secluded rest area Simon and Pamela swapped everything from the Mercedes to the rental, and abandoned the Mercedes with the keys in the ignition. Simon gave brief thought to burning the Mercedes to remove any contamination from the burglary but did not. He and Pamela spent the morning putting about two hundred miles between them and Waipukurau.

Paying by cash again, they booked into a motel in Taupo and placed the metal box on the bed. The combination on the box was simple, and presented Simon with no problems. Inside were several folders marked with what the contents contained; accounts, deeds, investments, correspondence, Masters Trust. Simon's immediate temptation was to go to the Masters Trust folder and get into it, as the very name, connected with the farm his father had briefly owned, hinted at intrigue. He restrained himself knowing that to be the quickest way to overlook items and form unfounded theories. The folders marked accounts, deeds, and investments he gave to Pamela.

"I know that's the poor part of the deal love," said Simon at her turned down mouth. "But it's an area I'm not good at. I spent less than a week on Fraud Squad. All the other cops would talk learnedly and in a civilized manner to suited accountants who had cooked the books. Me, I just thumped them. Got the same result in less time but they let me go back to real criminals pretty smartly.

"You're good at that stuff and will be able to tell me PDQ if anything is up."

"PDQ?"

"Pretty damned quick."

Simon took correspondence and the Masters Trust file.

At midnight they put themselves to bed exhausted. At 6am they were up and back into it. They worked through the day and at about 6pm were complete. They returned the folders to the box and spent three quarters of an hour in the spa before ordering Pizza and coke. As they ate they updated each other on what they had found and deduced from their labours.

"You go first," said Simon.

"You always say that," complained Pamela. "It's so you can get to eat as much as possible while I'm talking isn't it?"

"What, me?" protested Simon. "Hush your mouth baby girl. There'll be no mutiny in the ranks here."

"Okay," said Pamela filling her mouth with Pizza and talking around it. "Here's my side.

"Browne Jones Elder is a respectable firm by all accounts. The whole Order of the Nazarene accounts are audited by an outside firm and that audit is regularly checked by another independent firm. For there to be anything crooked going on they would have to involve an awful lot of people and sooner rather than later someone would pull the plug."

"So they're squeaky clean?" Simon's mouth turned down.

"I didn't say that. I said that there is nothing illegal. There is a difference between illegal and walking a fine line. Particularly in the business of accounting for tax purposes. It is called tax avoidance, and is frowned upon. Tax avoidance usually involves devious tax lawyers. They call themselves clever. In this case there are a number of off shore firms and companies involved. I have heard of it before where they use a money go round to ensure they do not have to pay local tax. They usually pick up tax breaks along the line. I think that what they are doing is probably borderline legal but it would take a huge investigation effort to unravel it all. Morally of course it's wrong. From a strictly Christian view point, you would have to say that the use of all those companies and policies is sinful and greedy, but then there will be a lot of so called Christians out there who would have another point of view. They would say as long as it is not hurting anyone then no harm is done. Personally I say that by avoidance they are depriving the Government of revenue that could be used for the betterment of the population. I would think that avoidance is something a church should not be into. Still, let's put that to one side. It's probably not a debate that can be won.

"The deeds and investments show the order to be extremely wealthy. They own large tracts of land right around the country and also in several overseas countries.

"The majority of the income goes into a fund known as The Masters Trust. Not much is shown about the Masters Trust however, as it has been incorporated in Ireland. While I'll follow up on it, I know a bit about Irish trusts, and partnerships, and it could take years and a lot of money to sort out.

"So, to sum up. The Order of the Nazarene is a legal entity that exists to support some real Roman Catholic Orders, but also to finance a trust known as The Masters Trust."

"Okay," said Simon. "Is there any indication of the whereabouts of the main head quarters or monastery or whatever of the Order of the Nazarene?"

"Sorry," said Pamela. "I missed out that bit. The deeds indicate some places where it possibly exists. There is the farm where your Dad was, the Masters Trust one, and others that are near towns and cities where you would expect the order to have orphanages etc. There are others in remote areas though. Some, I would think, would be retreats but one of them is bound to be the main home of the Order. Bearing in mind that your family farm was in the Wairarapa, and the Masters Trust Farm was also there, it is probable that a property in Featherston could be of interest."

"Well done girl," praised Simon. "See, I knew you would win through okay." Pamela looked pleased at the praise.

"And yours?" she asked.

"It is pretty interesting," said Simon. "Probably more for what is not said than what is.

"Generally the correspondence consists of directions from a Father Peter, who appears to be the head Monk or whatever for the Order of the Nazarene. Generally he's asking for money to be sent to various orphanages for reasons, which he explains, and general stuff like that. Even though the correspondence goes back for several years it's always from Father Peter. As the signature changes I suspect Father Peter is a position rather than the person themselves. A bit like the Secret Service. Mr. Jones is a different person year by year but the name of the position stays the same. To explain that a bit better; say the Head of Operations is Peter Smith. He will be known as Mr. Jones. Next year the Head of Operations may be Alex Nesbitt but he would still be known as Mr. Jones. Got it?"

"Sounds all very "Boys Own" sort of stuff to me," said Pamela.

"Indeed," agreed Simon. "Kids stuff.

"The rest of the correspondence doesn't lead me anywhere. Nothing seems to relate to Dad or the Masters thingy. However, the Masters Trust folder was perplexing." Pamela raised her eyebrows. "Basically it was empty," said Simon.

"Basically?" queried Pamela.

"Well all that was in it were receipts for registered mail to Father Peter at various addresses. Probably they will relate to the ones you have. Nothing else. Whatever Browne Jones Elder do for the Trust no records of it are kept by them."

"So I did actually get the juicy bits then didn't I?" teased Pamela.

"Indeed."

"So where do we go now?"

"Well," said Simon. "First I'll get an update from Alan, and then after a torrid session with a hot little number I know, it'll be off to the metropolis of Featherston. That will allow us to check the old family farm and also the Wairarapa addresses of the Order you found."

After the call to Alan Forsyth, and the love making, Simon and Pamela lay on their backs with Pamela's head resting on Simon's arm.

"So," said Simon. "The Pope's hot on our trail?"

"Don't joke about it," shivered Pamela. "Tell me again what Alan said."

"Well the water bears all the characteristics of that endemic to the Dead Sea. The stuffing found in the door lock of Ali's car comes from Ireland alright. It was part of a large order received from a Roman Catholic group in Ireland. Apparently the group has a specific mission related to young orphan boys worldwide. It is particular, due to certain organic additives that the group specifies must be seeded through the stuffing.

"On top of that, the priest we caught has died. He killed himself by cutting his wrists. Not with a knife, he didn't have access to anything like that, but by using the edge of the brackets holding up a shelf.

Pamela shivered again. "How awful".

"Indeed," agreed Simon. "And determined. I thought suicide was a sin for a Catholic?"

"Definitely it is frowned upon. It used to prevent you from being buried in sacred ground but these days it seems less important. Most Catholics would hold to the old ways though, so it is unusual if he was indeed a priest."

"The big thing though," continued Simon, "is that we will get nothing more out of him. Not only that, we'll probably not even be able to actually identify him. Alan's working on it and may get lucky but I'll not hold my breath."

After an uneasy nights sleep, in which their dreams were populated by demons and angels hotly pursuing them, Simon and Pamela left the motel and headed for the rural town of Featherston. According to the information from Browne Jones Elder, Featherston was the address to which they sent their correspondence, and deeds showed that the order owned several tracts of land nearby. Four uninterrupted hours later they arrived at Featherston. It had once been the hub of a thriving rural district. It now exhibited the air of past glory. In Simon's time there had been a high school, movie theatre, railway station and yards, three pubs, two banks, a post office, haberdashery store, jewellers, three take-a-ways, three dairies, three lawyers, two supermarkets, four churches, a town hall, mayor's office, council chambers and yards, a war memorial and numerous other businesses. Today the war memorial was still there, along with two pubs, one dairy, one general farm supplies store, a petrol station, and five second hand goods stores. Boards covered the windows of most of the premises on Fitzherbert Street. Those uncovered were broken.

Pamela looked at Simon.

"You know," he said. "As a kid, my girlfriend and I would walk this street on a Friday night holding hands. It would take us an hour to do so, looking in the shop windows and that. Shit, five minutes would be stretching it now."

Other than Simon's family farm, there were two other addresses Pamela and Simon wanted to check. One was on a road called Underhill Road, and the other at an out of town rural address at a place called Pigeon Bush. According to an information board on the outskirts of the town, Pigeon Bush, where the Order of the Nazarene owned land, was some distance out of Featherston and had been near the site of an important railway complex; Cross Creek. An engine that had been originally operated from Cross Creek was now exhibited at Featherston's 'The Fell Engine' building.

A spot of conversation with a couple of 'old timers' outside the library provided them with the information that the Underhill Road property they sought was the 'Old Monastery'. Following the directions provided, Simon and Pamela found themselves at the 'Old Monastery'. In their minds they had expected to find some large and old Gothic mansion. Instead they found an H shaped two story building that was reminiscent of a school block. There were several out buildings including a gymnasium. Numerous boys of varying ages were in the vicinity, either talking in groups or throwing balls. Asking for Father Peter, they were directed to an out building labeled Administration. A receptionist, upon being asked if they could speak with Father Peter, made a telephone call and then led them down a corridor to a door labelled Principal. They were introduced to Father Peter. He was a rotund man, aged about fifty years, with a good head of hair that did not display any signs of graying. He wore a suit and tie but no clerical collar.

"How may I help?" he asked as he sat them down and joined them at a small cluster of tables separate from his desk.

"I don't know if you can," said Simon. "You see, my father was an orphan and he went to school at an orphanage run by the Sisters of Martha. You have heard of them?"

"Yes I know them," confirmed Father Peter. "They undertake extremely important work in the name of our Lord."

"Indeed," agreed Simon. "The thing is, Dad's oversight appears to have been directed from here, by a group known as the Order of the Nazarene." Father Peter nodded. Simon continued, "Naturally I'd be interested in knowing more about my father's connection to here. I have made enquiries with the Sisters of Martha and with Browne Jones Elder, and they have led me to here, and something called the Masters Trust."

Father Peter settled himself back in his chair. "I see," he said. "Yes I've had a call from Mr. Jones. Their building was apparently burgled you know."

"No, I didn't know that," smiled Simon.

"Yes well," said Father Peter. "However, to get into things that interest you. The Order of the Nazarene is a very ancient Order, formed shortly after the death of our Lord. Its intention is specifically to care for orphaned boys and to raise them with an understanding of our Lord's life, and their options. We have been very successful, even if I do say so myself. However, I'm sure you're not interested in statistics. Since Mr. Jones' call I've checked our records but can find nothing that relates to your father. I have no idea why he would have gone to school at the Sisters if he had been with us as we educate the boys ourselves."

"Sister Ruth at the Sisters of Martha was quite adamant that my father was associated with this place," said Simon. "Regular reports on his progress were sent to your address and during the holidays he came here until the next term started."

"I doubt that the Sisters would be misleading you," said Father Peter, "so I must assume that the information you're giving me is the truth. Unfortunately I have no knowledge of it and our records are likewise ignorant of your father."

"The information was sent to Father Peter and you're Father Peter," interjected Pamela.

"There have been many Father Peters," said Father Peter. "It's a designation, or title, that comes with the position."

Pamela and Simon glanced at each-other. The glances agreed that they were wasting their time.

"I see," said Simon. "Well thank you for your time. Clearly, you and the truth are strangers, so any continuation of this conversation will not advance our position. Goodbye Father Peter or whoever you are. We can find our own way out."

Simon and Pamela found their way back to their car and left with a squeal of rubber.

"So much for your Christianity," observed Simon.

"There's good and bad in all organisations," said Pamela primly.

"Just more in some than others," pointed out Simon.

They drove in silence for a time until Pamela asked, "So where to now oh great white chief?"

"Let's go back to the library," suggested Simon. "It's still reasonably early. The old monastery seems to be well known so we'll see what people have to say, and perhaps the library will have something in it, you know, a gossipy newspaper or something."

When they reached the library the same two 'old timers' were still passing the time of day. Their gaze seized Simon and Pamela.

"Find it?" asked old timer number one.

Simon nodded.

"Get what you wanted?" asked old timer number two.

"No," said Pamela.

The two old timers looked at each-other and nodded.

"Could-a told ya that," they said in unison.

Simon and Pamela sat down beside them. "Why do you say that?" queried Simon.

"Can't say," they said, again in unison.

"Can't or won't?" asked Simon.

"Yep," again in unison. Simon shook his head in frustration and stood up.

"Coming?" he asked Pamela as he headed into the library.

"In a minute," said Pamela.

As he went through the swinging door Simon glanced back and saw Pamela move along the bench closer towards the couple of old men. He smiled to himself. Inside the library he went to the information desk. It also, according to the sign hanging above it, handled outward books, returns, queries, overdue books, photocopying, facsimiles, and e-mail. In answer to his questions on the Old Monastery and local history, he was directed to the local research area. This included microfiche copies of a newspaper, the 'Featherston Chronicle', and various histories written by local residents. The selection was small, seven, and three of them were family histories of people who thought they were somebody and sought to pass that belief on to others. Simon put them aside. He knew that they could contain information relevant to his search, but that it would be well buried among the details of the illegitimate son of some family's black sheep. With the other four, he checked the table of contents and in two of them he found the monastery listed as a chapter heading.

The information was sparse. It added little to what he and Pamela already knew. It did, however, note that originally the monastery had occupied premises, in the 1880's, at Pigeon Bush prior to shifting into Featherston. In reality both mentions were nearly word for word, a sure sign that they had come from a public relations commentary, probably printed by the monastery itself. They confirmed that the monastery was the local spiritual home of the Order of the Nazarene, and that its commitment was to the welfare, both physically and spiritually, of orphaned boys. A couple of well known political figures were mentioned as having been nurtured by the order. Additional, in one of the books, was mention of a fire that had badly damaged the monastery in the 1970's. It had been unsafe to reinstate the building, so it had been demolished and rebuilt at Underhill Road, joining at that time, a small group of Monks who had earlier left the Pigeon Bush site. This clearly explained its current school like design. The other book, having been published in 1960, obviously did not mention the fire.

"Interesting," said Simon aloud. He noted that in the ten years between the two books the public relations information on the monastery had not changed. Simon then went to the microfiche and located the details of the fire as reported in the local news. The story stated that the cause of the fire had been an electrical fault. Not unexpected in a building of the monastery's age. The lack of anything like a sprinkler system in the building had conspired to ensure it had been engulfed by fire when the first engine arrived. The reports pointed out that it was fortunate the fire had occurred during the school holidays when a minimum number of boys had been present. The article said that those boys who had not been on holiday adoptions were at a camping experience course. The fire brigade had been alerted at 1.30 am by one of the resident priests, one of only four present at the monastery, who were housed in an out building. Apparently a call of nature for the priest had revealed the fire.

"If only I had heeded nature's initial call," he was reported as having said. The Police did not seem to have been involved. Insurance covered the loss and subsequently the current premises had eventuated.

"Unfortunately," said a spokesperson. "Most of the historical records had been destroyed and were irreplaceable". Looking for non official comment Simon checked the letters to the editor columns and was rewarded with a letter from 'A True Believer'. 'True Believer' was of the opinion that Devine retribution, and not an electrical short had been the cause of the fire. According to 'True Believer,' those at the monastery engaged in strange rituals and practices and their beliefs were not in accordance with God's law. When questioned in subsequent correspondence, 'True Believer' declined to reveal their identity and had been unable, or unwilling, to provide specific incidents or examples to back up their allegations. The editor had closed the correspondence.

Simon returned the bits and pieces he had used to the main desk and as he left met Pamela just coming in.

"All finished?" she asked.

Simon nodded. "And you?"

"At this stage," said Pamela. "Hey, let's get a sandwich or something and have a wee talk."

As they sorted through chips, chicken, and sausages, and sipped on milk shakes, at 'The Pioneer', Simon updated Pamela on his history search. At the end he raised his eyebrows at Pamela. "And the good old boys told you what?" he asked.

"Well there were plenty of complimentary comments. Not as nice as you give a girl, but very nice and appreciated." Simon smiled. "However," continued Pamela. "Back to business. As with a lot of these small towns there is a lot of gossip and a lot more inbreeding. Bart for instance, he's the bald headed one; his family have been in the area for about two hundred years. Because of that he knows an awful lot of secrets. With some of those relations having been cops, and some members of various lodges, he is probably privy to more than most. In the end though, it all comes down to this; The monastery was originally built by a land-owner named Lucena who left the building to a group of monks looking after orphaned boys, just as the Public Relations Booklets say, at sometime in the 1800's, apparently out at Pigeon Bush.

"At some stage, and the 'boys' are uncertain of the date, but think it was some time in the 1930's or 40's, some sort of disagreement erupted at the place. Bart wasn't sure if it was a power struggle or what. Where previously the monks had been open and friendly with the locals, they withdrew pretty much completely from the township. There were a lot of comings and goings in the dark. This lasted for about ten years and then it all settled back down to some normality. Some of the monks shifted into town here and carried on their work. The rumours were that the original monastery harboured some great secret. Nobody knows if it did or not. After shifting into town the monks have been great, and continued to do their good works without drama. At some time in the 1970's the place out at Cross Creek burnt down and those still out there came and joined those at Underhill Road.

"What I have found out though, is that there is an old monk living here. I have his address, and Bart says that he may be able to help us. I'm told he is well into his nineties now but is still as bright as a button."

Pamela got up from the fixed table and chairs and, as she swept her left over's into a waste bin, asked, "Are you coming or staying?"

The monk lived in a cottage on Bell Street. In reality it was not much bigger than a granny flat; small lounge, kitchen, toilet/bathroom, and one bedroom. The person who answered the door bell certainly did not look in his nineties. Seventies would be a closer guess. He was not your stereotype monk. He gave his name as Cleland. No comment as to whether that was his first or last name.

"And none of that Father crap either," he said as he invited them in. He was quite tall, Simon estimated six foot, not stooped, lined face, a good head of white hair and a firm handshake. Blue eyes sparkled beneath bushy eyebrows.

"Sit down. Sit down," ordered Cleland. "Not often I get to entertain a young lady. Would you like a cuppa or anything?" Cleland raised his eyebrows, which joined his hair line and caused his forehead to disappear.

"No thank you," said Pamela.

"So," said Cleland settling himself into his rocking chair that sat at an angle of forty-five degrees to the settee upon which Simon and Pamela were seated. "How can an old man help you?"

Simon admired the seating arrangement, which allowed the Monk to see both of them, but did not allow Pamela and Simon to communicate with each-other except via the spoken word. Simon explained about his father having been under the care of the Order of the Nazarene, his having attended school with the Sisters of Martha, and the lack of co-operation they were getting from Father Peter. Simon added, "There's also the question of something called The Masters Trust. Where that fits in I'm not sure."

When Simon had finished Cleland sat in silence. It was not an uncomfortable silence. Far from it. It was warm, companionable; a peaceful loving silence. Cleland spoke to the silence. "So many questions, so many. In the course of a life time we all see and experience many things. Some have significant meaning for us, some do not. Often those that should, do not. We hear things. Sometimes their meaning is clear or obvious. Sometimes they are dark, even foreboding. People trust a priest you know. Not always is that trust well placed.

"I entered the priesthood when I was still a teenager you know. Missed all the puberty problems. Probably missed a lot of fun actually. I am 93 years of age and still a virgin." Cleland grinned, a quick flash that lit up his face. "I doubt that'll change now. I doubt many men go to their grave in such a state. However, I have vicariously lived through many sexual encounters." That quick grin again. "Where I am headed is to tell you that the things I've heard, the things I know, may or may not relate to your quest. It is not, I believe, my place to offer you advice as to what you should do with what I will tell you." Cleland looked at Simon. "You sir are a doubting Thomas, but you young lady," he turned his gaze upon Pamela, "are a true believer and your faith will guide you well." Once again the silence fell, still warm, still companionable, still loving. Cleland again spoke to the silence.

"The Order of the Nazarene is indeed an ancient and honourable order. Over the centuries it has done much good. As a result of that good our world is a better place. Change of any type though is not an isolated happening. For every action there is a reaction. It is said that the wing beat of a butterfly on one side of the world can cause a hurricane on the other. This is so! As a result of the good done, evil has also appeared. The order here was, for years, an example of the best of the Christian tradition. At one stage however, there appeared among us some from the homeland of Ireland. While those few pledged full support to the order, they were also inclined towards a belief that was present in the Knights Templar during and after the Crusades. That belief is that our Lord Jesus Christ had an heir. Their belief bordered on the fanatical." Cleland paused. "Perhaps fanatical is the wrong word. On the other hand though, it adequately serves its purpose in describing the behaviour of those holding that belief. I won't go into great detail about the belief; you can find reference to it in any literature regarding the Priory of Sion. That group almost destroyed the Order of the Nazarene. It was only through the fortuitous management of Father Peter that the order survived."

"And which Father Peter would that be?" interrupted Simon.

Cleland smiled. "The one in charge at the time. He was truly a saintly man, but the matter drained him physically and he died shortly after the matter was settled."

"And this was settled how?" asked Simon.

"Divide and conquer," responded Cleland. "Father Peter managed to divide the order into two groups with the fanatical staying and the other going. The fanatical kept their fields of green and we shifted into Featherston."

"How much do, or did, you know about the other group?" asked Simon. "Did they retain the same name? Are they still in existence? Where are they now if they still exist? Can I find any of them?"

Cleland held up his hands in mock defense.

"Too much, too much," he smiled. "I know you obviously want to know a great deal more than I can tell you. I was a humble working monk. It all happened long before my time and I was not privy to all the secrets; and there were many.

"It is my considered opinion that there are some in the order to this day who either believe or support the theories of that group. They probably rarely actively support the group, but provide assistance at a low level.

"After leaving the Order I believe they changed their name to the Order of the Master."

"Can they do that?" asked Pamela. "Just make up a name and become an Order just like that? I would have thought they would need authority from the Church or something."

"They indeed would have had to seek a dispensation from Rome to leave the Order and commence a new one," agreed Cleland.

"And Rome, the Pope would go along with that?" asked Pamela. "With a group believing what they believe."

"I doubt that His Holiness would go along with it as you put it Pam," responded Cleland.

"Well," interrupted Simon. "What you are saying is that the Pope may not have known, isn't it? That there's corruption in the Church? Why am I not surprised?"

"Simon, how can you?" said Pamela.

"No, no, don't worry Pam," said Cleland soothingly. "Simon is right I am afraid. Even the Church is not immune from the virus' that affect this world. And like the world, it doesn't have all the cures either."

The silence fell again. Still, how-ever, with the comfortable, warm, companionable silence. Cleland broke it again. "Well you youngsters," he said. "There's little else I can tell you and I think you probably have more interesting things to do than keep an old man company, so off with you both." Belying his age, Cleland walked them to the front door.

"To answer your question Simon," Cleland said. "To a disused building at a place called Pigeon Bush. It's about five miles from here. Some maps still show it. The original site of our Monastery God bless you both, and I wish you happiness in the future." Cleland closed the door.

Once in the car Simon turned to Pamela. "How did he know I was wondering where we should go next?" he asked.

"I think he's a mystic," said Pamela.

"What? He sees the future? Is that allowed?" asked Simon.

"Oh yes," said Pamela.

"Shit, they'll be telling fortunes shortly," muttered Simon. "And if I know the Micks they'll be charging for it as well."

"It's not like that," protested Pamela and then punched his arm when she saw his grin. He held his arms up in protest.

"Right up out of the water," he said.

"Well!" said Pamela.

"Well indeed," said Simon. "So find me Pigeon Bush navigator."

It took twenty minutes to reach Pigeon Bush out along Western Lake Road. A sign placed by The Historic Places Trust detailed the history of the area. Only a few foundations, old chimneys, stone fences and the like remained, from what had once been an area used by steam trains after bypassing each-other at Cross Creek. A tunnel through the Rimutaka Hills to Upper Hutt and Wellington spelt the demise of the area. A map showed a 'You are here' arrow so Simon and Pamela were able to orientate themselves accordingly. Photographs round the border of the sign showed various items of interest. Simon and Pamela headed towards where the original land owners, the Lucena's, house had stood. It had been the original orphanage. Its position was easily identifiable. One of the photographs showed an old oak tree in front of the house and the tree was still there; Old, knarled, rotted in places, but still identifiable. The area was now grazed by stock. Beef animals rubbed up against parts that had once supported buildings. Cow dung squished underfoot. Blackberry vines plucked at their clothing wanting them to tarry a while and listen to their untold tales of days gone by. Simon and Pamela did not tarry. They were bent on reaching the Lucena house. The remains of the tree were there but little else. There were no grave stones near the house so the Lucena's must have possessed a family burial plot elsewhere. There was no actual building left, of course. All that remained were a set of stone steps leading up to the main entrance, and the remnants of three chimneys. There was a stone marker set off to one side. Once the moss was scraped from it the words 'Est. 1793' were visible. Other foundation outlines showed where outbuildings had existed. Simon and Pamela looked at each-other. They would learn little from the Lucena house established in 1793. Disappointed, they wandered around the old outbuildings area visualizing what it must have been like when real people lived real lives there. In due course they arrived back at the homestead. Clearly it had been a substantial building. Simon and Pamela fossicked around the area beyond the steps, not looking for anything in particular. There were bits and pieces of crockery, utensils and other items of a more substantial nature such as bed frames and chairs. They even uncovered candelabra. They later agreed that it was the candelabra that clinched it. Their eyes locked.

"This is it," they both said in unison.

With silly grins on their faces they gazed around the ruins of the house. This time they took care to look and see, not overlook. They had noted previously that it had been a two story building. The height of the chimneys and their associated brick work showed that. When the upper floor had fallen down it had brought with it a number of iron bed frames. Putting two and two together, Simon and Pamela imagined the monks of the Order of the Nazarene using the upper floor as their dormitory. What, they wondered, did they do with the ground floor?

The day had been full and was now drawing to a close. The sun had sunk below the level of the hills, and a chill, being pushed by a southerly wind, inhabited the air,. Ill equipped to spend any time in the cold, Simon and Pamela decided to call it a day and prepare themselves for a long tomorrow finding out as much as they could about the old Lucena homestead: A homestead taken from The Order of The Nazarene by a group calling themselves The Order of the Master.

Simon and Pamela spent the night back at Featherston's only motel. The evening sped past as they conjured up all sorts of stories as to what the Masters Order had got up too and why they had been interested in his father. The excitement carried over into their love making until they fell asleep exhausted, both physically and mentally.

The next morning Pamela felt ill and was unable to keep her breakfast down. Concerned, Simon suggested that they could perhaps put off that days work and he could go out alone. Pamela vetoed that idea.

"No love," she said. "It's just a bug or something. Must be the junk food. I'm okay. Let's go."

They made a quick stop at the farm supplies store and bought a shovel and some shears before heading back to Pigeon Bush and the Lucena House. As they drew up in front of the notice board, Simon noticed that their tyre marks from the previous day had been partly obliterated by at least one other vehicle. While noting it, he took no further action. After all, it was a historical area. It was a public area. Anyone and their dog could visit.

Simon and Pamela took the shovel and shears and headed for the house site. It was right where they had left it. Pamela put the shears on top of a post, and Simon leaned the shovel against it. They surveyed the scene deciding how they should go about their investigation.

"If this was a proper scene examination," said Simon. "We would divide it up into squares and do each square one at a time. Here though, I don't think we have the time, nor do I think we need to go that far. I believe that first of all we are seeking information about my old man, and secondly, information about the Order that could give names and addresses which we can follow up. By the looks of the place it hasn't been inhabited for many years so anything obvious will probably be long gone. What I am hoping though, is that the Order may have left behind some records that we can access. This was a substantial landowners property so it will have had some sort of secure area to hold records and the like. If it was a free standing safe then we're history as it will have gone. Personally, I think there's probably a cellar and that's what we should look for.

As he spoke Simon wandered haphazardly across the building's outline and that was when he noticed that footprints left by he and Pamela the previous day had been scuffed away in places. He showed Pamela.

"Could it have been animals?" she asked.

"In some cases perhaps," agreed Simon. "What worries me though are the patterns over some of them. No, there have been humans here since yesterday." Pamela shivered and both she and Simon gazed about the area. While it was reasonably flat, Simon knew that there were plenty of places watchers could hide.

What to do?

"Okay," decided Simon. "While this could be something, it could also just be some innocent tourist passing through. Let's not get too paranoid about it all. Let's just carry on but keep our wits about us."

"So where do we start?" asked Pamela still unable to stop herself looking about the surrounding area.

"If I was designing a secure area I'd have the strong-room, vault, safe, call it what you will, in the middle of the building. In this case I think it will be a cellar, so lets start somewhere about the middle."

Simon roughly estimated the centre of the area and marked it with a cross scuffed by his boots. Pamela handed him the spade and he started to clear away the debris. With the upper floor having caved in there was quite a bit of rotten wood to be broken up and moved. It probably took the best part of an hour before Simon put the spade through more rotten wood and found himself looking at steps leading down into the earth. He left Pamela at the site, went back to the Ford, and returned with a torch. The steps were made of metal so had obviously been installed post original. They led down about thirty feet to a locked and bolted door. The lock was more modern than the building but the metal hinges were badly corroded and a decent couple of blows from the spade allowed entry. Beyond the door they found wooden shelving occupied the majority of the twelve foot by sixteen foot room it gave access too. The shelving extended to the roof of the room, about twelve feet above floor level. On the shelves were books; row upon row upon row of books. The room was also occupied by spiders. The webs criss crossed the room and hung like silken stalactites. Thick layers of dust showed the room had been undisturbed for years. As the torch light played around the interior of the room, Pamela's arm tightened on Simon as she peered from behind him. While Simon knew that the spiders were unlikely to be harmful he still had doubts about it at the back of his mind. He removed Pamela's arm from his and gently pushed her back onto the steps. He then entered the room pulling at the sticky webs and tearing them down even as they entangled him in their silken mesh. While putting on a brave face for Pamela, he was inwardly cringing at the sticky blanket. On reaching the closest row of shelves, he took down one book from the top shelf and then, from a middle shelf of another row, one other book. He had to actually push the layer of dust from the top shelf book that was laid on its side. The other book had stood upright and a light tap removed the dust from it. Simon back tracked to the door trying to evade the reaching arms of the web masters. He and Pamela took the two books back up the steps and into the open air. Pamela pulled webs from his hair and he wiped the stickiness from his hands.

Simon opened the first book. It was not of a type he was familiar with. The pages were thick and roughly cut. The paper had yellowed with age and was badly stained. The words were printed and obviously done so by hand. The header page listed the book as Ecclesiasticus.

"Just a copy of a bible book," said Simon to Pamela.

"Give me a look?" asked Pamela.

She opened the book and read a bit, skipped a few pages and then went back to the front again. "Not your normal one though," said Pamela. "You're probably thinking of Ecclesiastes but this one is Ecclesiasticus. Ecclesiastes is a book of the Old Testament but this one is from the Apocrypha."

"And that tells us what?" asked Simon.

"Well, nothing much apart from the fact that only some Jews and the Roman Catholic Church acknowledge the Apocrypha. Mind you the 'proddies' are looking at it a bit more now. I suppose it doesn't tell us much apart from confirming a possible Roman Catholic, or Jewish, angle."

The second book was the one from the top shelf and was something Simon was more familiar with. It was clearly an accounting journal and listed income and out goings. Simon made several more trips to the cellar and brought out more books. After three trips he was able to outline a map of the room and its contents as he believed them to be. There were six rows of shelves extending from floor to ceiling. The rows contained books that were related to particular matters. For example one row contained books relating solely to the Old Testament, another the New Testament, another to songs of praise, another to prayer, one to The Classics, and the final row, the one Simon had got the accounts from, to The Order of the Master. As Pamela was reluctant to go near the room Simon took the torch and attacked the all important row relating to The Master. There were six shelves. The top shelf consisted of more accounting books. While he would liked to have spent time with them he decided to leave them at that stage. To his surprise, Simon found that four of the middle shelves held yearly diaries. They outlined the activities of the order on a daily basis for each year from the orders establishment in the country, until 1976. The other shelves consisted of biographies and writings from each of the leaders of the Order. Faced with the dilemma of what to do, Simon took the diaries relating to the Orders first year in the country, the year of his Dad's birth, the year of his Dad's death, four from the years between, and two of the biographies and writings from the leaders during the time of his Dads early years. He took the books back up the steps and explained to Pamela what he had done. She agreed with his choice. The day was drawing to a close and there was a decided chill in the air. Simon and Pamela decided to head back to the Motel. They covered up the entrance to the horde of books with old bits of timber and rocks. It was not much of a disguise but they reasoned that within a few days it would not be obvious. Pamela took the spade and clippers while Simon carried the books. They headed back towards the car. They were within fifty yards of the carpark when there was the sound of a ricochet followed by two gunshot sounds. The ricochet came off a rubbish drum close to them. Simon's reaction was immediate. He pulled Pamela to the ground and then along the ground to a solid stone wall. The books and tools were left where they fell. Two more bullets hit the wall they were crouching behind. Simon held Pamela in his arms. She was shaking like a leaf. He did not know what to do. His pistol, another item given him by his old Army friend, was in the car fifty yards or so away. He cursed himself for being such a fool as to not have it with him. Especially when his sixth sense had tweaked him when he had seen the tyre marks at the parking spot. He patted and rubbed Pamela's back in an effort to convey some comfort to her, and to console himself for his inability to protect her. Several more shots followed but no bullets came anywhere near them. Well, not as far as Simon was able to tell.

For several minutes there was silence and then came the roar of a high powered car engine along the road. There was a shot in the vicinity of the car park followed by several more and then another high powered engine roar. Two engines faded into the distance. An occasional shot could be heard in the distance also, but eventually silence again covered the area. Ever so slowly, the dusk bird song took up where it had left off. Within half an hour the birds were at full throttle. Simon continued to hold Pamela in his arms. Gradually the birdsong fell away as darkness pulled itself over and around Pigeon Bush. Still Simon waited. Pamela was still shivering but it was now more from the cold than fear. She opened her mouth to ask Simon something but felt his fingers cover it. The moon had yet to rise. Pamela felt Simon stir and ease her from him. Her muscles screamed but she stifled the sound. Simon's mouth moved against her ear.

"I'm pretty sure it's all over but just in case we'll do this really quiet," he whispered. "I'll lead you to near the car. For a minute I'll have to leave you while I check it so don't be afraid. If it's all clear we'll be on our way. If it's not I'll take us away on foot. Okay?"

Simon felt Pamela nod. Quietly they crept towards the parking lot. Simon did not go there directly though. He led them in a semi-circle so that the fifty yards turned into one hundred and fifty. He settled Pamela down behind a tree stump. He rubbed her back, squeezed her hands and was gone. Pamela sat terrifyingly still to a count of five thousand. She jumped violently when Simon touched her hand. The dark seemed impenetrable to her but Simon seemed to move as though it were daylight. This time Simon did not bother to creep. He led Pamela right to the car. He let her in the passenger's door and quietly closed it behind her. It was not until later that Pamela realized Simon had disabled the interior light. She sensed rather than saw Simon behind the steering wheel. Suddenly the engine was going and they were leaving the carpark at a rate of knots. The car was making an unusual noise and from the dash board light Pamela could see that Simon was struggling with the steering wheel, even though the car had power steering. It would have been a good twenty minutes before Simon pulled down a side road and stopped. Apart from the noise of the juddering and squealing from the car nothing had been said.

"What is it Simon?" asked Pamela.

"One of the front tyres was shot," he said. "I decided it was best to get away and change it in case a gunman was still around." Pamela burst into tears and clung to Simon.

"For Gods sake what's going on?" sobbed Pamela. Simon continued to hold her tight.

"I don't know," he admitted. "Perhaps it was all just a big mistake. Maybe we weren't the target. Maybe we were mistaken for someone else." Even to Pamela, in her frightened state, he did not sound convincing.

"You don't believe that though do you?" she asked.

"No. I don't. I think that whoever was there, were after us. I'm not sure if to scare us or kill us." He reminded Pamela about the vehicle tyre tracks covering theirs and the same with the boot marks at the old house.

"I think they were watching us the whole time," he continued. "When they saw we had found the books they clearly decided they had to take some action."

Pamela grabbed Simon's arm as she cried. "We can't be safe here." She let go of Simon and tried to open the car door. Simon pulled her back.

"Hold on. Hold on," he pleaded. He petted her calm. "I've been thinking about the whole thing. While in some ways it doesn't make sense, in others it does. If you think back to when you were kidnapped, Alan said that there were two other sets of operatives in action. Those were the kidnappers and another team. Perhaps one of those teams is, for whatever reason, on our side: If not on our side, then at least not on the side of the kidnappers." Instead of calming Pamela that made her even more agitated.

"So we've got even more than we thought after us," she said. "Is that what you're saying? Surely if they were on our side they would have let us know."

"Perhaps they have," said Simon. "How else do we explain what sounded like a gun fight?"

"I don't know," sobbed Pamela. "I'm frightened. Please just get me out of here. Please."

"Just hold on lover," petted Simon. "Let me change that tyre and we'll be gone." Within ten minutes they were back on the road. Simon thanked God, to himself, that the car had a proper spare tyre and not one of those small thin things. He had been unable to tell if the tyre had been shot or not. The rubber had disappeared and the wheel rim had mostly gone with it. Again he thanked God that the power steering did not seem to have been damaged. Pamela sat quietly and then reaching over grabbed Simon's hand.

"I'm sorry love," she said. "I acted like a little girl. I don't know what's wrong with me at the moment. My emotions seem to be in turmoil. I don't know why. Forgive me?"

Simon rubbed her hand. "Of course I do lover, of course I do."

"So what happens now?" asked Pamela.

"First I want to dump this car. They could well have put a tracking device on it. My idea is that we'll go back to the motel at Featherston. Hopefully they will think that we have settled in and they will let their guard down. We'll then shift ourselves to another motel, or something, and when they find us gone, with a bit of luck they'll head off somewhere else to try and find us. I know it all sounds a bit perhaps and iffy, but in the end I think it'll probably work."

Pamela squeezed his hand. "I'll trust ya," she promised. Simon hoped that trust would not be misplaced. They arrived back at the motel and went inside their room. It was 11pm. Simon took the books they had dropped when the first shots were fired, and which he had recovered prior to taking Pamela to the car, and the bag containing his acquired pistol and explosives, inside. He turned the television on. They ate a meal of baked beans on toast. They went about it in silence with the occasional touch and squeeze of each-others hands, aware that the room may have been fitted with listening devices while they had been away. At 12.30am they turned out the lights and gave the appearance of having gone to bed for the night. They lay on the bed wide awake. At 3.30am Pamela followed Simon to the bathroom. He opened the window and climbed up onto the vanity unit. He lowered himself out the window onto the rear concrete path. Pamela handed him the books and then he helped her out the window and pushed it closed. No rear doors from the motel rooms opened onto the path. There was only the one exit from the path with the other end coming to a halt at the laundry wall. Because of that, Simon believed that any surveillance would be concentrated on the front of the motel. Those involved in the surveillance would believe, Simon hoped, that if anyone did get onto the path, they would exit either through the gate at one end or the laundry at the other. In either case surveillance would pick them up. Simon boosted Pamela up onto the rear fence and then followed. Although silhouetted, they were not visible from the front of the motel due to the roof line. The fence gave access to a garage roof at the rear of a private house. Within minutes Pamela and Simon were on the outskirts of Featherston. Simon broke into a deserted cabin at the town camping ground and they stayed there until the following night. They made do with sandwiches they had made at the motel, and drank the cabin's water.

Chapter 27

Childhood Memories

They whiled away the daylight hours reading the books taken from the vault. As they read they became more and more awed by what was revealed; awed and also a little fearful. This time they read the books together, not line by line, page by page, but a day here and a day there. Then several days together as certain happenings developed. By the time dusk was approaching they had put the books aside. They spoke backwards and forwards as they tried to come to grips with what they had read.

"Are they nutters?" asked Simon.

"I don't know," replied Pamela. "I suppose they didn't see themselves as such. Probably they saw the rest of the world as nutters."

"Is there any truth to what they've said? Is there, or was there, a direct line of descendants from Jesus, or The Master as they say in those books, to Dad?"

"And therefore on to you as well."

"And to me."

"It's hard to say, I'm no theological expert. There are those who believe that Jesus did marry, and if he did then one would expect that there could possibly have been children. Apart from coitus interuptus there was no birth control in those days."

"Jesus married?" asked Simon incredulously.

"Possibly. You see women weren't considered much in those days and were rarely mentioned. Jesus was one of the few men to acknowledge them. Some say he married Mary Magdalene."

"I don't know much about the Bible," said Simon. "But wasn't she a prostitute?"

"Many say that, but if you read it correctly no where in the bible does it say she was. It is pretty well accepted now that she has been unjustly maligned. I don't think however that this is the time or place to go into that, but it's not beyond the realms of possibility that Jesus was married and that Mary could have been his wife."

"So this could all be true?"

"Possibly," agreed Pamela. "Yes. You see back in the days of the Crusades there were the Knights Templar. They were the Military Arm of a secret society called, if I remember correctly, the Priory of Sion. Something like that anyway. Later on the Knights and the Priory of Sion went their own ways. It's from the Knights that the Holy Grail secret exists. Many believe the Holy Grail to be the chalice that Jesus used at the Last Supper. Others believe it to be the secret line of the descendants of Jesus."

"Really?"

"Oh yes," said Pamela. "And it appears from this diary of Father Duncan's, that he and his band fully believed it."

"Well if he did believe, and he says in that book there that he does, then no wonder he and the Order of The Nazarene fell out."

You can see though Simon, that people do believe it. Not only that but they also believed that your Dad was one of those descendants, and now, I imagine, you also. Somewhere in that vault there's probably a list like they have in the Bible, you know, so and so begat so and so who begat so and so. The last person on that list now is going to be you."

"The Master!"

"Yes," agreed Pamela. "The Master."

"And I have a whole Order worshipping me don't I?"

"Possibly," agreed Pamela again.

"Look at the way they protected and cared for Dad," said Simon. "According to these diaries they catered for his every want. If he was doing poorly at school they gave him special tutoring and all that. Really, what more could a fellow want? I should find these people. I think that I could handle that sort of life. Every-one catering to my every whim. I wonder what dad didn't like about it."

"Possibly he needed love Simon. They provided a lot of things for him but I doubt if they provided love."

"Yeah, possibly."

They sat in silence for a while and then Simon broke that silence. "If I'm so God dam fucking important to them then why are they trying to kill me?"

"I don't think they are trying to harm you," pointed out Pamela. "It is those about you that come to harm, not you."

Simon stared at Pamela. "Christ, you're right. I've been too blind to see that but you're right. It's not all about me is it? Well, not entirely anyway.

"Let's say that they believe I am their Holy Grail. Presumably they would want me to continue to live unharmed. Perhaps they would also want me to be like your Jesus, a goody two shoes. If so, and they were fanatical, then perhaps they could, in an extreme situation, kill those who threatened to do me moral harm. Like, say, a prostitute. Like, say, Yarmouth."

Pamela nodded at the logic.

"But what about Ali and Pet?" asked Simon. "They'd also be direct descendants of Jesus. Why pick on them?"

"I don't know. Hey, hold on. There's something here that we're overlooking." Simon raised an eyebrow in query. "The other people at my kidnapping. Perhaps they're the baddies and the Order of the Master are the goodies. That would make sense wouldn't it?"

"As much as anything else around here I guess," agreed Simon.

"Oh God," said Pamela. "I don't know. It's all so confusing. Confusing and scary. I can't believe that there are people out there trying to kill us. Kill us Simon." Pamela broke down in tears. Simon tried to calm her down. Eventually her sobs quietened. She sat up wiping away her tears.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't know what's up with me at the moment. I seem to be all up and down. I'm not much use to you am I?"

"Hey, hey," said Simon pulling her close. "You're everything to me. If it wasn't for you, God knows where I would be now. I love you Pam."

"I love you too," said Pamela.

As darkness crept over the camping ground Pamela and Simon sat holding each-other. When they could no longer see the far wall of the room, they struggled to their feet. Simon hid the books up into the ceiling space above the hot water cylinder. They left the cabin, taking the small bag and its contents obtained from Simon's army mate, with them. Quietly they made their way back into the town. They stuck to the back streets and alleyways. As they moved, Simon tried car door handles until he found one unlocked. Within minutes he had started the engine and he and Pamela were on their way.

"So you're taking me to your childhood," stated Pamela. "Maybe I should have dressed up."

Simon smiled. "Well we won't be arriving in style I'm afraid," he replied.

"And the plan is . . . asked Pamela.

"Well," said Simon. "First we need to get rid of this car. It won't take long for two and two to be put together, and you and I to be connected with who pinched it. Once we've dumped it, we'll go back to the great metropolis of Featherston and my old stomping grounds."

At the first public telephone box Simon telephoned Alan Forsythe and arranged for a car to be available at Masterton, a town about 40 kilometres further on from where they were. He also brought him briefly up to date. Forsyth told him that there was further information and that he would forward it all in a report. Arrangements were made to have it sent to a secure box at Greytown by courier. Alan Forsyth gave Simon the code number he would require to access the box.

Simon and Pamela drove into Masterton about an hour later. They pulled into the carpark at the rear of a KFC outlet. Their stolen car was one car among eight. They parked at the dark end of the parking area. As they walked toward the diner Simon noted a Ford V8 with its windscreen wipers left as though they had been turned off by the ignition key part way through a sweep, rather than by using the wiper control. The night was clear and fine. Simon and Pamela had French fries, the Colonels special recipe chicken, and thick shakes, both to satisfy their hunger and to fortify themselves for what lay ahead.

When they left the diner they went straight to the V8. Simon opened the passenger door to let Pamela in and then he sat behind the steering wheel. The ignition keys were under the front seat. He started the car and they left Masterton on the journey back to Featherston. They pulled into a rest area and dozed on and off until daylight.

At 8.30am life in Featherston was mobile. Children, wearing school uniforms, were gathered at a bus stop. The uniforms varied according to age, which suggested the children of Featherston now travelled by bus to a school out of the town.

The Kia Ora dairy sold pies.

"You're a bit early but hey, I'll pop a couple in the microwave for you." said the plump matronly woman behind the counter. While eating mince and potato, and mince and cheese pies, Pamela and Simon drove out towards the old Allan farm. A row of letter boxes below a 'No Exit' sign heralded the metal road that lead to the farm. The metal had not seen a grader for some time. There was a pile of metal in a row along the middle of the road, and the car suspension scraped along levelling it a bit. Where the tyres rode, there was no metal. The smooth no metal tracks were littered with pot holes; some minor, some major, some with water, some without. The car juddered along as it was impossible to zig-zag the pot holes without running off the road. Even the slow speed the car was travelling at did not prevent dust from invading the inside. Simon grimaced.

"Dad used to grader blade this with the tractor before it got so bad," said Simon. There were two other driveways off the road, one left and one right, almost opposite each-other, half way between the mail boxes and the old Allan farm.

"Davidson's use to live that side," Simon indicated the left, "and the Alexander's that side," he indicated the right.

"Are they still there do you think?" asked Pamela.

"I think the Davidson's are," said Simon. "Well the sons or grand sons anyway. That's the last I heard. I understand they own all three places now. Sad really. It's just not economic to own small dairy farms of two hundred acres with two hundred milking cows anymore. You've got to be milking four to five hundred cows, as a minimum, or you'll not make a living. That's a whole way of life just disappeared off the map." Simon shook his head sadly.

They arrived at the end of the road. Simon stopped the car outside the gate way. The gate was open with a cattle stop across it making the gate itself more or less redundant. The driveway was about a quarter of a mile long. There were three sets of buildings. Off to the right, just inside the gate, was the old milking shed. At the far end of the driveway was an old weatherboard house, the original homestead, and half way between the two was the implement shed off to the left. Pamela said nothing as Simon sat in a silence disturbed only by the ticking of the cooling engine. Such silence can only be found in the countryside. A living silence. One of birds, animals and nature. These were sounds that Simon had grown up with. He could recall the long hot summer holidays, grasshoppers, swimming naked in the river, the smell of freshly mowed grass, the lack of worry, no stress or pressure. Games where he was the hero, always the winner. God but life had appeared to be so fucking wonderful.

An approaching tractor jerked him back to reality. It was coming down the drive towards them, from the implement shed. It stopped beside the car and Simon powered down the window.

"Can I help?" asked the tractor driver, a youngish man.

Simon replied, "My name is Simon Allan. The old man used to own this farm. I wonder if we might sort of take a look around. Just for old times sake."

"I've heard of the Allan's"," the tractor driver replied. "Bit before my time but Pop has talked about them. One of them is a cop or something. That you?" Simon nodded. "Not a problem mate. Go to it. We don't use the buildings much now. The old house is falling apart so take care. Best of luck." With a wave of his hand and a grating of gears the tractor and driver left.

"Let's walk," said Simon. They got out of the car and left it locked. "Not that it'll do any good if some-one really wants to get into it," said Simon

Before setting off, Simon took a revolver from the car boot and tucked it into the rear of his trousers. Pam did not say a word. She merely nodded at his look.

The old milking shed was deserted. The concrete of the yard was still there but the pipe rails, that had contained the cows while they were milked, had gone. Bits of hay and baling twine indicated that it had been used as a hay shed at some stage. The milking plant room now contained drums of agricultural chemicals. The old stainless steel milk vat remained, but was empty. It was covered in bird droppings and spiders enjoyed its presence. The coolness of running water, the hiss and gulping of the milk releaser, and the compressor, came clearly back to Simon as if they had only ceased yesterday. He could see and feel his father in his old work clothes with his stained hat covering his 'short back and sides' hair. He had not felt his presence like that for years. He was so vivid that Simon almost called out to him. He shook his head.

"What? What is it?" asked Pamela.

"Nothing," said Simon.

"What were you going to say?" asked Pamela.

"Nothing really," said Simon. "It's just that I can feel the old man here. Actually I can almost see him coming through that gate from the bails and into this plant room. It's quite uncanny."

Pamela hugged him. "There's bound to be a lot of memories here lover," she said. Simon returned the hug.

"I know love, I know," he said. "It's just that . . . oh I don't know." He paused. "Come on and I'll fill you in as we go. There've been quite a few changes since I was last here. After I left, and the family took over the place, I rarely came back. It held an awful lot of memories for me. Things I could never tell about then, and don't want to now. I will tell you sometime though. It's funny that. How long have we known each-other? A couple of months and I want, no, need you to know everything. God, it must be love I reckon.

"In my day things weren't all that hi-tech. The milk would be taken from the cow and deposited, via a releaser system, into a small open vat. The milk would then trickle down an open cooling system that was simply a series of pipes with cold water running through them. It was then pumped into the big collection vat and left until a milk tanker collected it. Before the milk tankers the milk used to be put into two hundred gallon metal containers called cans. It would all be frowned upon now, and considered terribly unhygienic. We had few problems though. Probably we ingested enough bacteria to build up an immunity to a wide range of diseases. Every-one, and thing, is so 'PC' these days that you'd never be able to drink milk directly squeezed from a cow's teat. Warm and creamy. Progress has a lot to answer for.

"I don't know if this place can tell us much.

"I know what we'll do. Let's just go for a walk and get an over view and see if anything germane comes to mind. See how educated I am? Germane indeed."

They left the milking shed and headed towards the implement shed. What had been the drive up to the house through pine trees, was now a packed dirt track for animals and machinery, bordered by tree stumps. The implement shed was a pile of wood and tin. The roof had collapsed inwards. Rats scurried from the area as Simon pulled some of the boards away. He looked at Pamela.

"The car used to be kept over in that area and the tractor over this side," he said. "There were shelves and benches for tools and things but really it was always a hell of a shambles. Wild cats use to make their home here and it was always riddled with fleas." Simon threw the few pieces of wood he had picked up back onto the pile. He pointed to a few pieces of twisted metal. "Used to be a Model T Ford." he said. "Just left to rust away to nothing." He pointed to two metal rings. "The wheels of the old dray that we used to feed out hay to the cows with. We had two old Clydesdales, Prince and Princess, to pull it." Simon shook his head in memory. They walked up to the old house. While not in great condition it could still have been made habitable. They walked through the back door.

"We only ever used the front door for the Doctor," said Simon. On the right was the toilet. The back porch was enclosed. A wash house, called a laundry these days, opened off it and another door opened onto a passage. Off the passage were the bathroom and the kitchen. The end of the passage presented two bedrooms, and the kitchen and dining area gave entrance to the sitting room, or lounge as it would be called now, and the master bedroom entrance was off it. Simon explained to Pamela the furniture arrangement that used to exist and whose room was where and what pictures used to hang on what walls etc. Pamela noticed that the place and things held importance for Simon, and that he became animated when talking about them. When it came to his actual family though, he exhibited a distant demeanour. They left the house and Simon pointed out where the hen house, he called it a chook house, had been, and where the vegetable garden and rose garden had been. Simon then led Pamela through a gate and they walked over the farm paddocks. Pamela learned where Simon had single handedly beaten the best sportsmen in the world, where he had battled the baddies as a soldier, cowboy or spaceman. His old spaceship, a fallen tree truck, no longer existed, but he knew where it had been. He showed her how pieces of wood could be revolvers, rifles, ray-guns or even bazookas. Pamela learned of Simon's world. His growing up world. A world of which only he knew. He had, she reckoned, been a lonely boy.

It took about three hours to complete the whole tour. At the end they sat back in the car. Pamela turned towards Simon.

"So, can, or do, we learn anything from this?" she asked. Simon sat drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

"I'm not sure," he finally said. "I'm trying to picture the old man and his way of life as opposed to mine." Simon started up the car and they drove back towards Featherston. As they travelled, Simon spoke.

"He was always a bit unusual. The old man that is. I don't think he ever related to those around him. He wasn't so much self centred as just plain unaware, I think. Like, he went through the motions of family life. He provided food and shelter and all that. He just never showed any love. Yeah, that's it. He just showed no love. He obviously wasn't demonstrative in any way but it went further than that. You said earlier that he probably didn't get shown love. I suppose if you've never known love you wouldn't know how to love. That really is sad isn't it? Not to know love. Bearing in mind who he was meant to be it's also ironic. Wasn't Jesus meant to be love in its purest form? Poor old bugger."

They drove on from Featherston to Greytown. Simon pulled up at the old Post Office building which was now an art gallery. There were a series of secure post boxes built alongside it. Simon went to box 14 and punched in the code given him. He removed an A4 envelope and returned to the car. As he shut the driver's door he turned to Pamela.

"I've just remembered something. Because the farm wasn't all that large, and it was stocked to capacity, the old man used to winter the stock off the farm. We used to let them roam pretty much freely on a three hundred acre hill block." Simon pointed towards the Rimutaka range of hills. "Those ones. I went with him to check on them a few times. It was a pretty big adventure for me. Once the cows were on the block he would check them about once a fortnight until they were close to calving and then he'd bring them back down to the farm." Simon paused as though checking his memory. "And here's the thing. He had a shelter up there. It was a sort of cave type thing. We'd often stop there to eat our lunch. I can remember exploring the cave one day and finding a tin box at the back of the place. When I showed it to Dad he held it for a while and then told me to put it back where I had found it. He didn't open it or anything, just held it and then gave it back to me. I don't know why I didn't remember that earlier. When I asked him what it was, he just said, "Put it back where you found it son." Nothing else." Simon turned to Pamela. "It's got to be important doesn't it? It's just got to be."

She looked at him. She saw his excitement.

"Yes Simon," she agreed. "I think it is important."

"Right," said Simon. "Let's go and find it."

"Hey," protested Pamela. "Hold on. First let's see what Alan sent us."

"Oh yeah," grinned Simon. "I got a bit carried away I reckon."

"Not for the first time," pointed out Pamela. Simon just grinned as he tore open the flap of the envelope. Inside were several sheets of hand written paper. Simon gave a snort.

"Hand written?" queried Pamela. "In this day and age?"

"Protection," said Simon. "You place a piece of glass or metal under the page and hand write your information. That way there is no electronic record and no indentation record of what you have written. It's basically a level one security check. You wouldn't use it for anything needing to be really secure but it is a start. A basic deniability step." As he read each page he passed it across to Pamela. His only comment was a grunt now and then. It took about ten minutes for them to peruse the twenty odd pages. Pamela put down the last page and turned to Simon.

"Could all this be true?"

"Oh yes," said Simon bitterly. "It'll be true okay. My God what a mess. What a waste."

"But women and babies?" protested Pamela. "All because of what? Some twisted belief. It's sort of Old Testament stuff. Not today, not in this age surely?"

"An eye for an eye, a life for a life, still exists in some countries today," pointed out Simon.

"But here?" asked Pamela.

"Here," said Simon. "And the only common connection seems to be me."

Chapter 28

Simon sat with his head in his hands. He could feel the tears prickling at his eyes. Angrily he shook his head. In his mind he went over all the information the envelope had contained, talking out aloud as he checked and rechecked it.

"Okay, the information should be correct. Alan got it from Dwayne Ratana. It's the Police system to write down most of the things they know and do. At least those things that appear to have been proven anyway. This information came direct from the files. We know that the Police had me under surveillance, at least from the time Yarmouth died. While I can't remember much of anything, because I was so pissed most of the time, I've no reason to doubt what the surveillance teams noted. And what did they note? They noted a drunken old lecher that's what they noted. A drunk who spent most of his time picking up birds, screwing them and lurching on to the next one. You know I can't remember half of those women? Cynthia, Elizabeth, Alana, Rita, Gillian. Christ who the hell are they?" He corrected himself. "Were they. And now they're all dead. Every one of them killed with a shot to the head. Killed like Yarmouth. Not only that, all of them were pregnant. Mind you, so early pregnant that they wouldn't even have known." Simon looked at Pamela. "You would think that bits of stray in pubs would take precautions wouldn't you?"

Pamela responded with, "You would think a Policeman picking up strays would take precautions wouldn't you?"

Simon nodded. "I'm sorry girl. What sort of person would kill pregnant women though? Mind you, who would have known they were pregnant? That would have to be significant." He paused before continuing. "And I'm the only common factor. On each occasion they were women I had picked up in a bar or club. I went back to their place, spent the night and left the next day. Within a month they were all dead. The point to note in all of this is that I wasn't the killer. At all times I was under Police surveillance and all my time and movements were accounted for. I'll bet that really pissed off Robertson and Walker." Simon grunted grimly.

Pamela patted his arm. "They might not have been killed because of you." she said doubtfully.

Simon agreed. "No they may not have, but its stretching coincidence a bit far not to think so. Mind you, I note another point in my favour. The gun used to kill those girls was the same one that killed Yarmouth. While that doesn't entirely rule out me having killed Yarmouth, it would mean that I would have had to pass the weapon on to some one else. While the Police wouldn't have a problem with that, I reckon a jury would, especially in light of the extra deaths.

"Okay, say we accept that the deaths were due to their association with me. Why would a one night stand with a drunk like me lead to their death? Could it be because I passed something on to them? Like what? A disease, a message, a what? What could have necessitated their deaths? Surely even if I was Jesus, or God himself, there would have been no need to kill them."

Pamela rocked her hand back and forth. "Oh I don't know," she said. "It would depend really on how fanatical you were. Say that some one believed that you genuinely were Jesus, or a descendant from him. That person believes you can do no wrong, but what does he, or she, see? You, this great redeemer, having it off with a series of women. It can't be you at fault. You are above such things. Obviously it must be they who are leading you into sin. They probably saw those women as Satan and his followers. In all likelihood they probably believed they were doing God's work in ridding the world of their evil."

"But that would make them absolute nutters," exclaimed Simon.

"In all likelihood, yes," agreed Pamela. "And as such they are extremely dangerous."

"You're not kidding. I still find that scenario hard to picture though," protested Simon. "But I guess it is a possibility. That would indeed mean that they are very dangerous.

"It doesn't account for the attempts to kill us though."

"Were they attempts to kill us", asked Pamela? "Or were they designed to do something else?"

"Such as?"

"Warn or protect us. Don't forget that there is some other group, or groups, out there as well."

"Good point," agreed Simon. "I still find it hard to imagine, accept, that I'm to blame for the deaths of so many people. People that I didn't even know. People who had their lives in front of them. People who, because they were lonely for a few hours, ended up dead for trying to erase that loneliness. Pam, that is absolutely fucking terrifying."

"There's something else Simon," said Pamela quietly.

He looked at her sharply, drawn by the tone of her voice. He raised his eyebrows in query.

"It's in the autopsy reports if you look. I suppose you got no further than the cause of death but everyone of those girls was pregnant with a female child. Always, always, always it is the female dying here. Surely that must mean something."

"How soon can they tell the sex of a fetus," asked Simon? "Surely it must take a while?"

"If you are relying on an ultra-sound, yes," agreed Pamela. "These days though, they can tell at five weeks via a DNA check to ascertain if a Y chromosome is present."

"Okay," said Simon. "Maybe it's not solely related to females though. Look at Dad's family. Nothing happened to my sisters."

"You're right," said Pamela. "I'd overlooked that. Hopefully I'm barking up the wrong tree."

"There's not much else in the files is there?" asked Simon. "The door to door enquiries and the background checks on the girls didn't throw up a lot. No great number of suspicious characters around. A Priest seen in the vicinity of Gillian. Perhaps it means something but, hey, surely a Priest isn't unusual. They are around. Real ones that is. Nothing else noted though. Five 'who-done-i'" deaths. Christ, Robertson and Walker will be beside themselves. No clues, apart from the same weapon, and me."

"Right," said Pamela putting the pages back into the envelope. "This ain't getting us no-where. How long will it take to get to your Dad's cave thingy? Can we do it now or do we have to wait until tomorrow?"

"I think we could do it now. How do you feel? Are you still feeling sick?" asked Simon.

"I'll be okay big guy," said Pamela.

"Okay," said Simon. "I'll put this stuff from Alan back into the box, for now, and we'll pick it up on our way back. I've got enough gear for us to be safe if we have to spend the night outside so let's go."

Simon returned the envelope to the secure box and then he drove back through Featherston and up into the Rimutaka hills. The road was tar sealed and well used and maintained. After about fifteen minutes Simon turned into a small lay-by. A padlocked pipe gate gave access to the hills.

"It's changed a bit from when I was last here," said Simon. "Mind you that would have been about thirty to thirty-five years ago. No don't say it. I know I don't look that old."

Pamela hit him lightly on the upper arm. Simon continued. "It used to take us the best part of a day to walk the cows up to here. There wasn't a gate, just a bit of a track where the cows were lucky to be able to walk two by two. Once here they were just left to wander.

"Right, come on."

Simon opened the car boot and took out a knapsack that he told Pamela contained all they would need. He tossed her a jersey and a windbreaker, both of which she tied round her waist. Simon tucked the revolver into his waist band. He helped Pamela over the gate and they slowly made their way up the initial rise. The vegetation was very scrubby and prickly with gorse and black berry in profusion. Thankfully the thorns were green and therefore still soft and not hard. Even so it took some time to reach the top of the first rise. From there Pamela could see hill after hill with each successive one getting higher and higher until eventually they became snow capped. Looking behind they could see right across the fertile Wairarapa valley where Featherston and it's surrounding farms were nestled. The old Allan farm could be pinpointed at the junction of two rivers. The rivers that Simon had said drove the family to despair when they flooded, usually an annual occurrence. Pamela was somewhat dismayed at the climbing that lay in front of them and was wondering if perhaps she was being a bit foolhardy in her desire to keep up with Simon.

"You'll be alright," encouraged Simon. "It's nowhere near as bad as it looks. We follow ridges and while they do climb a bit it's mostly at an easily managed incline. Come on, you'll see."

Simon pulled Pamela along and they walked side by side. To call them ridges was a misnomer really. Mostly they were simply higher than the surrounding ground but up to half a mile in width. Because they were higher than the rest of the area they were exposed to the weather extremes and therefore the dominant species of ground cover was a form of tussock known as cutty grass. The name came from the quite deep cuts you received if you ran the grass through your hands. The wind was strong and gusty. Not having experienced it for a number of years Simon thought the gusts were reaching forty to fifty miles an hour at times. The prevailing wind direction was indicated by the forty degree angle of growth of the odd bit of scrub, or near barren tree. Old tree stumps littered the hills as evidence of the fires used by the early settlers eager to turn the bush clad hills into grazing for their animals. Because the rise was so slight over a distance, Pamela did not realize how high they had climbed until she looked back towards the valley. It was now difficult to make out individual buildings and smaller shapes. She turned back to find that Simon had stopped.

He turned to her. "Right. It's around here somewhere," he said. "I know that funny shaped boulder over there. I'm just trying to sort out in my mind how I use to see it when we walked towards it from the cave." Simon walked around the boulder stopping from time to time.

"Right lover," he said. "Got it. By rights it should be down this way a bit." So saying he took Pamela's hand and they moved off towards the left side of the rise. The boulder was situated quite close to a sharp fall of the ridge. Carefully they worked their way down the slope taking care to secure footholds before putting any weight on them. Once off the ridge area they again met the scrub and bush that rightfully owned the hills.

Suddenly they were there. Up to that moment there was no indication of anything other than a continuing slope. One more step, and a turn to the left, and there it was. The entrance to a cave. Well it looked like a cave from where Pamela stood. The opening was about six foot high and twice as wide. From above, it had not been visible due to an overhang. Even coming up to it from below, the cave entrance was invisible until you were right upon it.

"Voila," said Simon. "Dad's hide-out."

"How did he find this?" asked Pamela as she took some tentative steps into it.

"From what he told me it was just pure accident," said Simon. "He was looking for an animal and stumbled upon it.

"It's not all that deep. Just keep going"

Pamela gingerly, with tentative steps, found her way to the back of the cave. It was about twelve feet deep and the height stayed at about six feet. It was not dark once you were inside; it was only while standing outside looking in that it appeared dark.

"Where is it?" asked Pamela. "Come on, where did you find the box? What are you waiting for?"

Simon joined her and felt around in the back corner. The box was still there. Simon stood up with it in his hands, brushing dirt and cobwebs off it as he stepped back to the entrance. They sat down on a boulder that had obviously been moved there for just that reason. Simon sat with the box on his knees. Pamela watched him. It wasn't much of a box. For a start it was made of tin anyway. There was a wire handle on top and on the sides a simple clasp held it closed; all eighteen inches by nine inches by two inches of it. Simon rubbed it and bits of rust flaked off. He looked up at Pamela.

"I just thought that if I rubbed it a Genie might appear," he grinned.

"That was a lamp silly."

"Yeah, I know. Oh well, here goes." So saying he levered open the clasp and the lid fell off as the hinges parted company from the box, courtesy of the rust. Pamela leaned forward, and out of the tin Simon lifted a waterproof cloth wrapped around something. That something turned out to be a lined notebook. Written on the front of it was; 'FOR YOU SIMON' in capital letters. Simon rubbed his hand over the words and traced them with his fingers. Pamela could see tears welling in his eyes. He dashed them away. Looking over at Pamela he said, "I never really knew the old bastard so why do I feel so sad now?" Pamela patted his hand.

"All things change and look different with distance," she said. "We all change. If we just knew the reasoning at the time perhaps everything would make a lot more sense."

Simon nodded. "Perhaps," he said.

He opened the notebook, read the first few lines to himself and then flicked through the rest. There were quite a number of pages. He recognised his father's almost illegible scrawl. Again Simon looked at Pamela. "I'll read it to you shall I?" Pamela nodded.

"His writing always was bloody awful so this could take a bit," said Simon. He turned back to the first page and started reading aloud to Pamela.

"Dear Simon. I've written this for a couple of reasons. First because it sets down for me a record of what I've found out during my life, and secondly to provide you with an insight into the biggest lie in the world. In reality of course I don't know how or when it'll get it to you but these things have a habit of sorting themselves out. I know that I have let you down in a lot of ways and I deeply regret that. I love you, and always have, but each time I looked at you I could only see my past. While I made a bargain that I hope will protect you, I have my doubts that they will hold up their end of it. My first memories are of sadness. I know that's terrible but it is so true. I've never been able to recall my mother and father nor my sisters. I was never even able to find a photograph of them. Initially I was told that they had died in an accident and that I was the only survivor. I know now that was untrue. They were killed by them.

"Them, it's always them. All my life they have been 'them'. It's almost as if I name them, give them their true name, that they'll regain their hold over me. It's a hold that took such a lot to break that I was left with little else. Intellectually and emotionally the effort left this well dry and barren. However all of that is getting me no where. You'll understand more if I do this chronologically so I'll try. If I digress so be it.

"As I said, I never knew your paternal grand parents but I did have this great feeling of sadness. At the time I was two years old although I didn't know that until later in life. I lived in an extraordinary building. The best way to describe it is that it was like what you would call a 'Gothic Mansion'. It had attics, cellars and rooms too numerous to count. Just like at the movies the doors were high, wide and thick. There were no other children and it wasn't until I started school that I knew there were other beings my size and age in the world. Up until then my world consisted of adult males. The discovery of the female of the species was momentous. The fact that they wore dresses didn't faze me as the majority of the monks at the monastery, for that was what the Gothic Mansion was, wore habits. What did was that they used a different lavatory and didn't stand up to pee. Pathetic really. Of all these Monks, and there were about thirty, three really impacted on me. One was my constant companion; Leo. I'll have more to say about him in due course. The other two were Father Joseph, who was the spiritual director, and Father Paul who was the leader of the community. My dealings with Father Paul were always formal and always with Father Joseph present. Usually they were by way of de-briefings when I returned at the end of the school terms or transgressed against one of the myriad laws and/or rules that regulated the order. I see that I haven't mentioned the Order previously. As with all Roman Catholic orders it had to be formed with the Vatican's blessing and for a certain purpose. This order was known as the Order of the Master. It probably still is. In a way it is an off shoot of the Order of the Nazarene although it is a stand alone order. As far as the Vatican was concerned, the Order of the Master existed to contemplate upon the existence of Christ, The Master, in today's world. The reality was something different. The Order believed that the Jesus of the gospels is only part of the story. While they accepted the death of Jesus they further believed, as do many of today's theologians, that Mary Magdalene was the wife of Jesus and that together they had children. One of those was a male child and the Order believed it knew one of the current existing direct male descendants of that child. You are a wide reader so you will know that others believe the same thing. I am not sure if all of them currently believe the same person to be that direct descendant but there you are. Is such a thing possible? Well I suppose so. The importance of this though is that Father Paul and Father Joseph believed I was that descendant."

Simon stopped reading and looked at Pamela.

"Shit," said Simon. "So it's true." They sat in silence for a while before Simon spoke again. "Hey," he grinned. "I'm Jesus fucking Christ himself. Well nearly anyway."

"Don't swear or blaspheme," retorted Pamela.

"Sorry love," repented Simon. "But gee, this is going to take some sorting out isn't it?"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," suggested Pamela. "There must be a lot more to this or we wouldn't be in fear of our lives. If it were true you'd have angels or something to look after you."

"Perhaps I have," said Simon. He went back to reading.

"You may view that belief with some incredulity as did I. At first anyway. However, as I was saying I really only saw Father Paul occasionally. Father Joseph was different again. While Father Paul tried to bring himself down to my level, but never succeeded, Father Joseph never even tried. He was a tall thin man with a mane of white hair and an unlined face with a large hooked nose. His manner was haughty and superior. His job was to educate me in the ways of Jesus and the beliefs for which I was to stand. Included in that were 'miracles' that I would be able to perform and other 'powers' that I would possess. From my first memories, Father Joseph was there. Constantly he had me repeating what these days they call a mantra. To this day it comes automatically and unbidden at times of difficulty or stress.

I am God

I am God on earth

I made the earth and the sky

I made heaven and hell

I created

I create

I am.

"As such it's actually pretty powerful. If I hadn't found out other things I'm pretty sure that mantra would have brainwashed me sufficiently to be Jesus or God on earth. As it happened the wheels came off for them.

"Before that though I must make more mention of Leo. He was my absolutely constant companion. He never left my side day or night. Initially he was a 'nanny' but later became my confidant and surrogate parent. He was short, fat, jolly and a eunuch. He was never cross with me and never abused me in any way; physically, mentally or verbally. It was he, with his energy, who brightened up my life. He pulled me away from the sadness that was in me. He introduced me to the flowers of the forest, the majesty of the mountains and the beauty of solitude. He knew when to jolly me along, when to prod me along and when to leave me in peace.

"Until I went to school at the age of five, I was taught by Father Joseph the basics of reading, writing, arithmetic and religion. Even then my days were long and hard. I was expected to get up at 6 am, along with the others, and go to chapel for an hour before breakfast. I would then do school work until midday. After the meal I would be free for three or four hours during which time Leo would take me for walks and teach me the ways of nature. I learned which berries and roots I could eat. I knew the healing properties of various herbs and above all I got to know and love this planet of ours. After that I would be in the garden until the evening meal and prayers. After that Leo and I would study the night sky. I was able to navigate by the stars long before I started formal schooling, and the constellations were as familiar to me as the lines on my hands. I never missed my parents because I never knew of them. I suppose at some deep psychological level I must have known but that never seemed to reach my consciousness at that stage. It was not until I went to school that I found out about parents. While it was an orphanage type boarding school, all the children had at some time known parents. When I discovered this I asked Leo and Father Joseph where my Mum and Dad were. I was told that they had died in an accident caused by the devil and that they were waiting for me in heaven. That caused me a few problems given that I believed that I had made heaven, but never mind.

"My school years were not happy ones. I was more than average in my work and rarely failed to make the top 5% nationally in exams. I longed though to return to the monastery to visit again with Father Leo. He was my refuge, my rock. Father Paul still remained remote but I grew to detest Father Joseph. I suppose he had his job to do but his constant insistence irritated me. Eventually we reached a compromise and we got on a little better. Always he had these little tests for me. They involved meditation and concentration. To this day I can still do amazing things with the combination of the two, although I don't, except in moments of doubt or frustration. With concentration I can shift things without physically touching them. I could move cutlery, books, vases etc. That was when I was ten years old so if I had continued goodness only knows what I might now be capable of. I was able to partially levitate myself, but not fully. Father Joseph insisted that the laws of nature, as we know them, didn't apply to me. He would repeat endlessly that I was God on earth, that I created, that anything was possible to me. When any of the monks became ill, or hurt themselves, I was expected to pray over them, and lo and behold they would get better. This didn't happen all the time, but would more often than not. Even at school during term I would be able to do the same. I never doubted my ability to heal. I know now that it's an ability a lot of people do possess with some to a greater degree than others. There came the day though that I was expected to raise to life a person who had died. I know that you'll think that impossible but I certainly didn't doubt my ability to do it. One of the monks, and I can still see him quite clearly because it was the first dead person I had ever seen, Father Luke, had had a heart attack. I did my usual laying on of hands and praying but it made no difference. He stayed dead. His non resurrection was explained to me as his being required by my father, God, in his heaven, so it wasn't possible for me to keep him here on earth. I didn't doubt any of this.

"Later another monk died and by doing the same as I had for Father Luke I was able to bring him back to life. Okay, okay, I can hear you saying what a load of old rubbish but at the time it wasn't. Father Job was dead and not breathing when I saw him but after doing my thing he came back to life. At the time it was natural as far as I was concerned. I could do it. It was only later that I found out the reality.

"By this time I was aware that I was considered, no not considered, was, a direct descendant of Jesus just as he was of the line of David. It was apparent to me that in due course I would come to inherit the world and rule over it. Again I didn't doubt this. I was brain washed into that belief.

"One day I came across a dead bird. It was still warm so was freshly dead. I picked the bird up in my hands and prayed for it. I prayed that it would be restored to life and that once again we would hear its joyful songs. Nothing happened. The longer and harder I prayed the colder the bird became. Again I rationalized this as God needing the bird more than I needed it. There was, however, just a hint of doubt beginning to creep into the back of my mind.

"That wasn't the end of my healing though. That continued unabated and to this day I still have the healing touch. Of course, as I've said, so do numerous others. What I could also still do then though was to raise people to life. Even though I had failed to bring Father Luke and the bird back to life I did, on two further occasions, bring back to life a Nun and a visiting Monk. The stories quickly circulated in our circles and before long I was receiving long lines of people who I was expected to heal. How successful I was is open to speculation. From time to time the alleged lame would walk and the blind and deaf see and hear. There was only anecdotal evidence of those healings however. I know of no scientific study of my healings and raising of the dead.

"At this stage I was about sixteen or seventeen years of age and finished my schooling. I know that there was considerable discussion as to what I should do or where I should go at that stage. Father Joseph was of the opinion that I should go to a Spiritual Retreat for a number of years where I could commune with God, and basically fine tune my abilities and beliefs. Father Paul believed I should go on to further my academic instruction, preferably obtaining a degree in theology or a similar discipline.

"At this stage there entered a figure I had not previously encountered. He was Father Felix. He arrived at the monastery unannounced and this caused all sorts of consternation between Fathers Joseph, Paul and Leo. Apparently Father Felix was the real head honcho and he hadn't physically visited me since I was first taken to the Monastery. I disliked him on first sight. No, hated would be a better word. He was short, slim and dark with a moustache and goatee beard. A lot of books record people as having cold eyes and Father Felix had them in spades. Just being near him caused my body temperature to drop. Not only mine either. He had the same effect on all around him. It seemed that a wall of cold air preceded him. I was taken to see Father Felix by Leo. Before I went there, Leo and I sat out in the garden under an old tree. It was a funny part of the monastery. There were a couple of old olive trees and some fig trees and a lot of dust and sand. It reminded me of those pictures you used to see in older bibles with Jesus and John the Baptist. I'm not sure if it was made that way specifically for that purpose or not. It was a spot where Leo and I often sat together. Usually a visit to that area presaged some momentous event in my life. Perhaps I should say our life, because my life was Leo's life. Leo told me that now my schooling was over it was necessary for me to plan my life's mission. That, he said, would involve a lot of prayer, meditation and guidance from very experienced spiritual professionals. Father Felix, said Leo, was such a professional and I would do well to accept his guidance. My feeling was that Leo did not like Father Felix. Regardless, I was taken to see him. He was in Father Paul's office. Unlike Father Paul he did not sit down beside me but stayed behind the desk and left me standing in front of it. There was no discussion. There was no guidance. There were only orders. I would spend forty days and forty nights alone at a place called Wilderness Monastery. I was to survive on my own by living off the land and I was to spend my time in prayer. Like Jesus I would be subject to temptation but like him I was to reject it. Survival would confirm that I was indeed the 'Son of God,' directly descended from the line of Jesus, and as such, he and the Church would ensure that I took my rightful place as ruler of earth.

"I tell you son, for a seventeen year old that was pretty heady stuff. Especially when you've been brought up on the bible, its stories and history and with the knowledge that you can perform miracles. I never for a moment doubted that I could do it. Even though I disliked Father Felix, I knew that once I returned from the Wilderness Monastery he would fall at my feet along with the rest of the world. With a wave of his hand I was dismissed. I was not used to that sort of dismissal but accepted it with reluctant humility. I spent that night in prayer in the sanctuary and the next morning left with Leo in a van. We drove for about six hours, mostly in silence. Eventually we came to a locked gate. Leo opened it and we drove through. Signs proclaimed the area as a private sanctuary and trespassers were advised that they would be all the poorer for ignoring the signs. Through the gate the road led, for another two hours, through scrub and tussock. In the distance were hills, their blue a little darker than that of the sky. The road ended with a stile over a fence. At Leo's bidding, I changed into hiking gear; boots, long socks, shorts, underwear, woollen shirt, jacket, windbreaker and hat. He gave me a staff, which in reality was a broom handle. His instructions were that I was to go over the stile and then I would be in Wilderness Monastery. For forty days and forty nights I was not to cross back over that fence. Inside the fence were several thousand acres that contained streams, vegetation and wild life upon which I was to exist. God would take care of me Leo said. With a last hug Leo turned the van around and left. The sun was low in the sky as I climbed over the stile and embarked on my journey into the wilderness.

"With the sun so low, I knew that darkness would not be long behind its disappearance, so my first priority was to arrange shelter for the night. I seemed to be at quite a height above sea level although the rise had not been noticeable. It would be a cold night. I entwined a few bits of scrub together to give me a bit of a roof and pulled branches from trees to form three walls. While it wasn't much, at least it would keep any wind and frost off me.

"My first night was long but not lonely. I was visited by a variety of night life, all either curious and friendly, or frightened. I slept in snatches. The morning sun was very welcome.

"I'm trying not to write a book here so I'll condense those forty days and forty nights. They were not easy. From time to time I was either, hot, cold, hungry, euphoric or depressed. Being the son of God helped. By meditation and positive thinking I was able to raise myself above the mundane and painful. Lonely I was not. Not only did the wildlife I had experienced that first night stay with me, but other life did also. Whether it was real, or a figurement of my imagination, I don't know, but I had a stream of visitors. The majority appeared to be human but I know some of them were spirits. Ghosts I suppose you would call them. We talked, gossiped, argued and fought over a huge range of subjects. Religion wasn't the main one. Life was. As a result of those conversations I began to doubt what I had been led to believe up until that time. Two and two didn't always add up to four. The bible says that Jesus resisted the temptations sent to test him. I suspect that I didn't. Well, so I would be judged by those who sent me to the Wilderness Monastery. There are many others who would say that I 'un-brainwashed' myself. This isn't the time or place to go into the theology of where I was. It's sufficient to say that I became convinced that I was not the Son of God and therefore not a direct descendant of Jesus. To this day I am not able to say whether or not there is a direct bloodline to us from Jesus, but even if there is, and he was the Son of God, the direction I was expected to take would not be what the Christian God, if there is one, would want followed. I know that's a mouthful but it says what I now believe.

"At the end of my time at Wilderness Monastery I returned to the stile and Leo took me back to the Order of the Master. I had formulated a plan of sorts. My visitors had warned me that I would be in mortal danger if the order realized I intended to go off in a different direction to that chosen by them. I adopted a humble but authoritive air. It was my plan to see if I could find any evidence of my bloodline and also to see if I could find any evidence, real physical evidence, of my ability to heal and raise people from the dead. It took me another six months to achieve what I wanted. Again this is not the time or place to go into it all. Suffice to say that I was unable to prove anything untoward with my healing. My raising from the dead however was highly doubtful and I managed to get Leo to confirm that they were stage managed. It was at this time that Leo really came into his own. Without a doubt he loved me as a son. It was he who suggested that the Order had either killed, or arranged to have killed, my sister and parents. The way Leo put it, was that there appeared to be several candidates for the position of Saviour of the World, or Master. Clearly in any family tree there will be several 'Kingly' contenders with most of them dependant upon time of birth. In this case it appears that only women were born to one generation in the past. The females were not counted, of course, as the whole thing was very patriarchal Apparently some tricky cousin work had to be done and the result was me via Mum's bloodline somehow. Leo said that he had seen the bloodline list and that it was pretty impressive. It read like those in the bible; so and so begat so and so etc. At some stage though there had been a falling out over the genuineness of the whole affair. One fraction accepted that I was the Master while the other believed the line to be imperfect. Those believing the line to be imperfect were a bunch of Irish Catholics and believe you me they are dangerous. Opposing them is a group of Zealots who date back to the Sect that hid the Dead Sea scrolls at Qumran. As I've said, all this came from Leo. At first it was pretty hard to get my head around it all. I couldn't initially understand Leo's agenda but then came to realize that he didn't have an agenda. He was simply a Roman Catholic monk who loved both me and his Lord and was doing his best to do his Lord's work. Physical evidence was hard to come by but Leo promised that he did possess it and would get it to me in due course. Armed with this knowledge I confronted Father Felix and Father Paul. I put to them the evidence I had, never for a moment letting them know that I had nothing to back it up. To again cut a long story short we 'cut a deal' as they say. In return for setting me up on a small farm and leaving me, and any family I might have, alone I would say nothing of what I knew. They didn't like the black-mail but had to go along with it. I was given one of the Orders farms for a while and then when I met and married your Mum we were given the farm on which you grew up. As far as that went they kept their end of the bargain. I never did see Leo again after leaving and I never received the physical evidence he said that he had.

"So there you have it. I said at the beginning about the biggest lie in history but really, looking back on it all, and going over and over it all in my mind all these years, I'm really not sure if it's that Jesus didn't die unmarried on the cross, or that he did. I've done the best I can to protect you but at the end of the day I don't know if it will be enough. If those around you start having problems then you can be assured that they're trying to take you back as Master. If that happens, then God help you son because nobody else will be able too."

Chapter 29

Under Attack

Simon sat holding the notebook in his hand. Pamela, likewise, did not move. The vast silence of the universe, and time, pressed in against them. While Simon had been reading, twilight had arrived, and in the silence it wandered away making room for night itself. Pamela moved to be beside Simon. She put her arms around him and hugged him tight.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"While it all sounds fantastic, it does have the ring of truth about it," advised Pamela. "Like, I can't imagine your Dad writing all that to you for no reason. I think that what we've just heard is the truth." Again silence filled the void. Pamela gathered her thoughts and spoke again, "It all fits so well with what we know doesn't it? That's the thing. You've lead a pretty charmed life lately. While those around you have been falling like flies you've come through pretty much unscathed. I said pretty much. Physically anyway. It would seem to me that you've got two of the groups your Dad mentioned around you. On one hand the Irish Catholics trying to get rid of the impurities, and on the other hand the Zealots ensuring that at least you're okay. Perhaps the Zealots are on your side just trying to keep the balance and let God work it out how ever he has planned. What also interests me is whether the Irish branch have taken over from the original Order who believe you are a direct descendant, or whether the original Order is somewhere around as well."

Simon looked at her.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Well look at when I was kidnapped. As well as those kidnapping me, who I take to have been the Irish Catholics, or some-one working for them, there was that other lot that Alan said were somewhere in the background. Obviously I'm seen as some-one who is impure and there is a need to rid the world, well your world anyway, of me. That other group may have been the ones Leo and your Dad said were the Zealots. But, if the original Order of the Nazarene is still around, they could be protecting you, but eliminating the negative influences also, to get you into a position where you are acceptable to them."

Pam could feel Simon nodding. The night was now so dark that it was impossible to see your hand in front of your face. Simon stirred.

"You know what all this means don't you?" He asked.

"What?"

"It means that you're in really, really bad trouble." Pamela felt him move from beside her and then felt his hands upon her shoulders. "You're going to have to leave me Pam. It's the only way I can see you surviving. If you're off the scene then they'll leave you alone. It's me that they're after, so if I'm alone then they won't hurt either you or me. If what Dad said is right, then they see me as the chosen one so eventually I'll be approached to take over from where he left off. They've got rid of all those around me so I'm now isolated. Clearly they're ruthless. Without a doubt I think they killed Petra and Ali. Petra because she was tainting the lineage by having a female partner, one who was also pregnant, and Ali just because she was of the female line. I'll bet you anything you like that they are after a male heir from me. One that they consider untainted. Once they get that male heir I'll be expendable just like Dad and his father were. That boy will then face the same sort of life Dad did. I'm going to have to get you to a safe place and give myself up to them Pam. It's the only way I can see."

Pamela lifted Simon's arms and stepped inside them.

"It's too late," she said, her voice muffled by his chest.

"What do you mean?" asked Simon stroking her hair.

"I think I'm pregnant," said Pamela. Pamela felt Simon stop stroking her hair. His arms tightened around her.

"The morning vomiting, it was morning sickness?" Simon felt her nodding against his chest. "Well darling," he said, "I reckon that changes things a heap. Are you sure?"

"No," said Pamela. She allowed herself to be pulled down onto his lap. "I'm not 100% sure but I'm late and I just know I am. Don't ask me how I know, I just know. I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" exploded Simon. "What's there to be sorry about? I think it's bloody terrific."

"Being pregnant to you is all I wanted," agreed Pamela, "but death is close behind it. Normally I'd be over the moon, I think, but in these circumstances it sounds like a death sentence to me." Simon's arms tightened around her.

"No way," he vowed. "There's no way I'm going to let anything happen to you. I know that sounds like I'm full of shit and bravado, but I pledge it on my life."

They sat in silence, arms wrapped around each-other. With the moon still not yet risen the darkness remained impenetrable. Eventually Pamela stirred as cramp captured her legs. The spell was broken. The night sounds arrived. Hedgehogs rustled in the undergrowth and other nocturnals snorted and coughed their way towards their destination.

"So what do we do now?" asked Pamela.

"At this point in time," replied Simon, "not a lot. While we could try and get back down off the hill I think we're better off staying here for the night. Probably we've been followed up here but I doubt they will try anything in the dark. There's too much risk of hurting me if they try anything. They will probably wait until we're separate before attempting something. Still, just in case, we'll move off to one side of this cave entrance and settle down under a bush. That way we won't be trapped and we'll be able to move in any direction if we have to."

Quietly, and slowly, step by slow step Simon and Pamela moved off to one side of the cave entrance. It took about fifteen minutes to move 100 metres. They then lay beneath a bush and cuddled each-other to keep warm. The moon eventually made her entrance but its light did not penetrate their hiding place. In fact it made the darkness beneath the bush even deeper. Eventually Pamela fell into a light sleep. Simon did not. Even though his arm beneath Pamela ached with cramp he made no move or sound. Questions, and possible answers, came and went through his mind. Possible, and improbable, schemes came and went. By the time dawn pushed the night aside Simon had settled upon a plan that he hoped would see him, Pamela, and their child, safe and sound. It was going to involve some risk, both to him and Pamela, but he could see no other course of action. Daylight arrived but still Pamela slept. Simon did not stir. It was only the call of a bird close by that awoke her. She looked sleepily at Simon with love filled eyes, until the realization of where they were reached her, and he saw the love replaced with uncertainty and fear. Pamela started up but was placated by Simon.

"Hold on. Hold on," he said firmly. "Take it easy. You've got precious cargo on board remember." Pamela smiled at that. Simon kissed her tenderly. "And here I am," he continued, "your White Knight ready to do battle for you." Again Pamela smiled. Again she got a kiss.

"So, hero," she said. "What's happening?"

"First," said Simon, "we'll get back to the car, and then civilization for food, and then put in action my plan A."

"Plan A huh?" nodded Pamela.

"Plan A," reiterated Simon. Pamela was pulled to her feet and they did a few basic stretches to ease their muscles and pains. Side by side, holding hands, they headed back to the car. Simon's Dad's notebook was tucked into Simon's back pocket. As they walked, Simon talked.

"I've spent most of the night trying to think our way out of this mess. Although the whole thing sounds pretty improbable, especially now in the daylight, I think we should act as if it is real, all of it. Bearing that in mind, the last thing we should do is separate. My fear is that if we are apart you will be very vulnerable. At least with me you stand a chance. With a bit of luck they won't know for sure that you are pregnant. They may be a bit smarter than me and have realized why you were vomiting but they won't be sure until you either do one of those off the shelf tests or go to a Doctor. I suggest you don't do either until we've sorted this. With your background they may see you as an ideal wife for me and an ideal person to be their Mary to my Joseph. Because of that we'll stick together.

"Now, having sorted that, we need to put an end to this whole thing. Even if I am the chosen one, the way they want to go about things isn't the way I want it. If it wasn't for you I'd top myself and that would really fuck them."

"Oh no Simon," protested Pamela with alarm. "You can't even think anything like that."

"I'm not now. I've you and 'guts ache' there to think about."

"So what happens now that you've decided all this?"

"Well I think the best thing would be to force a show down. It must be on our terms though. Ideally it would be nice to engineer a win-win situation but somehow I doubt these people are into such a thing. My fear is that this could develop into a full scale war. Unfortunately we don't know enough about the enemy. At the moment we know, or think we know, that the enemy is a group calling themselves the Order of the Master. They seem to be supported or assisted by a group of Irish Catholics acting as a commando group. Also, in the equation somewhere, is another group, presumably of Middle Eastern extraction, associated with the Zealots of Qumran.

"Sound alright so far?" Pamela nodded somberly. "So," continued Simon, "there is you and me and a few people I can call on against those hordes. Even worse, is that we can't actually identify any of them. Our intelligence is seriously depleted. What's that saying? I think it's in the bible actually; know thy enemy. We don't, and we're going to have to learn."

"Actually I think that saying was from some Chinese Warlord," interjected Pamela.

"Whatever. So how do we do that? We need a person in one of those organisations to provide us with that information. Our primary source, of course, was the priest from the farm, but with him dead then we'll have to rely on the guards who were at the farm with him. Alan was to send men to debrief them and he hasn't mentioned them so far. Maybe Father Joe. Another thing we can do is set a trap and capture some of those following us. If we get an Irishman, fine, if not, then a Zealot would be able to top up our well of information. Either way we can only be better off."

"But," interrupted Pamela, "won't that be extremely dangerous?"

"Yes and no. Yes it will be dangerous, but we do have a 'get out of jail free' card because they won't want to kill me. They can't afford to have that happen, so we can take more risks than they can."

By now they were within sight of the car. It appeared undamaged and that proved to be so when they reached it. Without incident they returned to Greytown via Featherston. As they pulled up at the store to retrieve the papers from the postal box Simon turned to Pamela again.

"We've looked at this whole thing wrong. It's not me they're actually after. Not directly anyway. Well not in a dead or alive way. I'm okay. It's those who impact negatively upon me from their point of view who are in danger. The unfortunate thing is that we are not 100% sure of their point of view. However, from what we know at this time, I think we're in a position to be able to take the initiative. I doubt they will want to harm either of us until they find out if you are pregnant, and then whether the baby is male or female. At that stage things will change, but until then we are pretty much okay."

Simon opened the box. Watching from the car Pamela saw him stand still just staring for all of twenty to thirty seconds before he reached in, picked up the package and returned to the car. He handed the package to Pamela and without a word drove out of town. From the look on his face Pamela could tell it was not a good time to say anything. Finally, after about twenty minutes of silence, with much drumming of fingers on the steering wheel, Simon turned to Pamela.

"Someone had broken into the box so we can assume they read Alan's report. If they were the people responsible for the deaths of those women then they will know that we are on to them. Sort of anyway. If it was the Police, then they will not have learnt anything new. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that the box was checked and really I should have taken better precautions when I opened it. Anyone with a pair of binoculars could have read the numbers I punched."

"How did you know someone had been there?" asked Pamela.

"I had aligned a little mark on the envelope with the front edge of the box when I put it in there. Just habit really. The mark alignment was different."

"Clever boy."

"Just habit."

"So where are we going now?"

"I think we need to go back to see Alan. We need to get all the information he has, and then we need to set some traps and see what insects take the bait."

It took eight hours driving to get back to Auckland. Simon and Pamela took turns with both of them napping from time to time while the other drove. While they took no precautions, and did not attempt to ascertain if vehicles were following them, none were apparent. At nearly 10pm Simon rang Forsyth's monitoring centre and punched in his code. He knew that would automatically activate the remote garage code that would give them access to Forsyth's building. Once again they drove down the driveway of 19 Hibbert Street and the garage door opened. They drove inside. As the door closed Simon went through the radio frequency changes and the car descended. They parked and the garage floor returned to normal. As they left their car Alan Forsyth came out of the lift. After a few basic greetings they all re-entered the lift and travelled to Alan Forsyth's office. While they sipped coffee and tea, Simon filled Forsyth in on what they had discovered and what they believed to be the current situation.

"It's all very hard to believe really isn't it?" asked Forsyth. "In this secular day and age you'd think the Church was down and out. All this tends to indicate the opposite though doesn't it.

"Still, strangely enough your trials don't totally surprise me because I carried out the Church enquiries you asked me to and did what I could in relation to the Priest you captured, the muscle at the farm, and also your Father Joe. Let me go over what we've got and we'll put it all together and see what we can come up with.

"First the Church. I doubt there is any need to go into the basics of Christianity or the Roman Catholic Church. Suffice to say that it is extremely powerful and very rich. Because it is world wide, and because of its unique confessional system, it is privy to secrets that any spy system in the world would give its right arm to know. One of the most adept orders at that are the Jesuits. Most people believe that the Jesuits are no longer the power they once were, but believe that at your peril. To use a well worn phrase, they sup with the devil and do so with very long spoons. Father Joe is a Jesuit. He is indeed Peter Donahue also. Father Joe is actually a position. Like Father Peter of the Order of the Nazarene. It turns out that Father Joe, or Donahue as I prefer to call him, is a pretty okay type. Here is a card he gave me. He says that it would be in your interest to contact him at the given telephone number."

"So you've spoken with him," stated Simon. "How did that come about?"

"Actually he contacted me. He came through on one of our private lines. Obviously connected to the right circles. He didn't say much apart from telling me that the group he represented was a Jesuit one and that they were tasked with ensuring that the situation in which you now find yourself was resolved satisfactorily. He didn't say in who's favour. His card arrived in our mail.

"As you will recall, you gave me a list of names which related to people who had been at school with your father. We have followed up on those names and interviewed them using the cover story that you're in line for a prestigious honour and that a thorough check of your background was required. No pertinent information came to light.

"We were unable to confirm or deny that the captured Priest belonged to a Security group directed from the Vatican. Actually we were unable to confirm anything in relation to him. We ran his finger prints and DNA through various data bases without a match. Now that he is dead we will get nothing.

"The tied up guards at the farm were simply Auckland 'muscle'. Plenty of it but no brain attached. They were contracted by the captured priest to provide security, but they did not know who for, or against. We let them go back to their haunts.

"Our follow up on the Roman Catholic group that the mattresses were made for confirmed it as the Order of the Nazarene. Although we were unable to specifically confirm that the Order sent them to New Zealand, I think we can take it as read that they did. Currently the Order does not draw it's mattress supply from Ireland, but it did so until last year. Covert enquiries have revealed that there are no mattresses missing or unaccounted for. That of course means absolutely nothing and is just so much gobble-de-gook. I think the only thing we can draw from the enquiries into the mattresses, is that the Order of the Nazarene has access to them, but it is open to question whether that access is exclusive. I certainly wouldn't want that to be my only piece of evidence.

"The glass found at the scene of the accident and in the car belongs to a 2000 Ford Transit van. We can get no closer than that.

"The biggest point however is the water in the phials and the phials themselves. I know that you, Pam, said that normally tap water is blessed and that is what Priests use and not some special water. We have confirmed that what you say is so, but, and it is a big but, and a positive but. One specific group does use water from the Dead Sea and they store it in specially made phials. That group is not specifically Roman Catholic. It is a group calling themselves Christians, who profess to follow in the footsteps of the Master. I understand that probably refers to Jesus, although in their writings the reference is always to The Master. They follow the way of the Essene's Sect, and those in the know refer to them as Zealots. Now my source is not really certain of the ins and outs of the whole thing, but apparently some of the Disciples were Zealots and the best known of them was Judas Iscariot. Make what you will of that.

"So, that's my lot. How's that grab you if I may use a colloquialism?"

Pamela looked at Simon. "It fits doesn't it?" she asked.

Simon nodded. "Oh yes indeed," he agreed. For a short while there was silence and then Simon cleared his throat. Waving his arms for emphasis, he outlined his thoughts to Pamela and Alan Forsyth.

"I am going to be quite short in what I say. It doesn't need any elaboration. You both know exactly what I know. I believe there are three groups out there who are interested in me. One we know as the Order of the Master, one as the Order of the Nazarene and the other possibly are the Zealots. For whatever reason, they seem to think, or believe, I relate back to Jesus. On the evidence we have, the Order of the Master appears to be killing off my female acquaintances and descendants. The Zealots appear to be observing the action. I withhold comment as to whether they are on my side or not. I think there is also the possibility that there are some other Irish Catholics running around somewhere and goodness only knows their intentions. Probably they don't know themselves. There is also the Nazarene angle. I am not sure what to make of them. Possibly they are okay but may have been infiltrated by the Masters group.

"That, my friends, seems to be the sum total of the situation. Anyone disagree?"

Before an answer could be made a siren sounded in the corridor outside Forsyth's office and a revolving red light came on in the room.

"What . . . started Simon.

Before he could say anything else Alan Forsyth leapt to his feet and ran to a wall panel. He pulled it aside to reveal a door. He punched a series of numbers into the lock keypad and it slid open. He hustled Simon and Pamela before him and they went down the stairs revealed by the open door. At the bottom they were confronted with another door. Again he punched a series of numbers into the keypad and the door opened. It closed automatically behind them. They found themselves in another stairwell. They continued down the stairs for what appeared to be several floors, although there was no indicator to show how many. Another secure door was opened via keypad and it gave them access to a secure room. There were bunks along one wall, a gas cooker, refrigerator and heating systems, dehydrated and canned food on shelves, water containers, gas masks, breathing equipment, and all sorts of rescue and mechanical equipment. Obvious communication systems consisted of CCTV views, both internal and external of the premises, and several satellite and cell telephones. Seats were limited to wooden benches.

Pamela gripped Simon's arm. "What's this? What's happening?" she asked.

Alan Forsyth was busy switching on various pieces of equipment and contacting people via the cell phones. Simon pulled Pamela down into a seated position on one of the bottom bunks.

"This is what's known as a safe room or 'Panic Room' as the film called it. It will be impregnable to all apart from a direct atomic hit. We can consider ourselves as safe as we could possibly be. He is trying to contact his men. I presume there are other secure rooms in this complex. I imagine that shortly we'll find out what caused the attack alarm to activate. Just sit quiet for a moment."

Alan Forsyth put down the cellphone he was using and picked up another. He spoke into it for a few moments. Pamela and Simon could only hear one side of the conversation which consisted of a series of grunts, "what's", "where's" and "who's". Although the siren could not be heard in the room, there was a revolving red light in one corner. As he terminated the call, the red light went out and was replaced with a green light. At the same time a series of clicks at the door occurred as the automatic locking system disengaged. Alan Forsyth turned to them.

"All clear," he said grimly. "Now let's sort out what the hell happened. Follow me."

Pamela and Simon followed him back up the stairs to his office, and thence to a conference room. He indicated seats to one side for them, and he sat at the conference room table, which was shaped like a horse-shoe. The open bottom of the table gave viewing to certain aids such as white boards, video screens, maps etc. Simon and Pamela watched as six others made their way to seats; three on each side. There were four males and two females. Two of the men appeared to be in their twenties and looked the spitting image of TV FBI agents complete with close cropped hair and immaculate suits. All that appeared to be missing were the spring wires running from their ear-pieces down into their collars. The other two men were so non-descript that anyone would have had trouble describing them five minutes after leaving any room they had occupied. Simon put their ages at somewhere between forty and sixty. One was European and the other Oriental in appearance. Their clothes were casual. One of the women was smartly dressed in a suit. Her hair styling was immaculate and looked as though she had just come from the hair dressers. The other woman was dressed conservatively but casually. Simon knew that appearances were deceptive and believed, quite rightly as he was later advised, that all six were trained to Commando standards of fitness, firearms and explosives expertise.

Forsyth took control of the meeting.

"Right," he started. "For those of you who do not know, these two (he inclined his head towards Simon and Pamela) can be privy to all you have to say, so don't leave anything out of your reports. Perhaps if I introduce you, Simon and Pam, it'll be easier. From closest to the end, in suits, Eric Johansen external security, Roger Albert internal security, and the rough ones, Alistair Newbold investigation manager, Alwyn Chan IT security, Debra Sands surveillance manager and last but not least Pat Winger my number two. Simon and Pamela noted the sequence as young, older, young, older, young, older.

"Right. Pat," continued Forsyth. "Give us the run down will you please."

"Sure," said Pat Winger. "The evening was progressing pretty much as per usual. As you know we have several matters on the go and as some of them involve on-going national security issues we've kept ourselves at Status Orange."

"That's one down from red, our high alert," Forsyth interjected for Simon and Pamela's benefit.

Pat nodded. "We got Simon's electronic notification at 2150 hours. Although we didn't expect it, there was nothing unusual in it and we logged it as routine. Prior to that, however, we had noticed some unusual activity. Tell us about that Eric."

Eric Johansen, of external security, opened his notebook, which looked just like the one Simon had had anonymously returned to him following the Yarmouth death.

"At 2110 hours we noted two matters that rang alarm bells for us." He looked over at Simon and Pamela. "We monitor the entire surrounds of this building and Hibbert Street with CCTV, seismic sonar, ground penetrating radar and mechanical sniffing devices. That enables us to see and hear what is going on both above and below ground, and to sniff the air for any traces of unusual fumes e.g. accelerants, suspect gases etc. We also unofficially, and sometimes even officially, have feeds from some of our Security friend's satellites.

"What rang our bells was a vehicle in Hibbert Street and the actions of two people in Atmore Road. Atmore runs parallel to Hibbert but on the other side of this building. The front entrance to this place is on Atmore, but it only gives access to a quarter of the actual building.

"The vehicle was, or is, a painters van. We had noted it's arrival at 0835 hours this morning. At that time two people had exited the vehicle. They had opened the side of the van and unloaded some cans of paint and paint brushes and then headed down the path beside 26 Hibbert Street. That's about two down and across from number 19. Nothing unusual in that.

"Our mistake.

"After Simon and Pamela came in the sniffer registered diesel fumes. None of the locals have diesel vehicles and we couldn't see any other vehicles in the vicinity except for the painters van. That now registered with us. We're sorry Alan it should have rung bells a lot earlier. We zoomed in on it and saw that the engine was running. That's the diesel the sniffer registered. It ran for five minutes and then switched itself off. There was nobody in it so obviously it was being controlled remotely or via a timing device, probably to keep something charged up. We now know what, but Ally and Alwyn will fill you in on that.

"The other matter related to the actions of people in Atmore Road. The flow of pedestrian traffic is reasonably regular. Those who monitor the screens have names for about 60% of the people who walk the road. That means of course that they are regulars who work or shop in the area. We do run a software recognition program that will alert us to the presence of a face or body that appears more than twice within any half hour period. That sort of eliminates those people just going down to the take-out or similar. Our regulars are entered into the system, but while their presence is recorded we are not alerted to it.

"At 11.45am this morning the recognition system alerted us to two faces. These had first appeared on Atmore Road at 11.30am. Once we're alerted to a situation we're able to monitor it in more detail. The faces were those of a male and a female. The male was being followed and observed by the female. While we haven't been able to identify either of them yet, for convenience sake we have named the male Drummond, because he looks like a bulldog, and the female Julia, because she is so nondescript. Drummond was unaware of Julia although he was undertaking standard anti-surveillance checking. She was good. We taped their actions and they will make excellent instructional videos. From Drummond's actions he was clearly interested in our building. While he didn't look directly at the building, his way of looking into shop windows and the like allowed him to 'case' us pretty well. With us being alert to them, we were able to clearly monitor their movements. They spent most of the day in the vicinity. Up until the alarm sounded they were in Atmore Road. Once the alarm sounded we automatically sent people out to physically monitor the movements of Drummond and Julia. They are Deb's staff and she can fill you in on them in a moment.

"Shortly after we were alerted to the engine of the Hibbert Street car starting up, we were hit with a burst of electromagnetic energy, and two vehicles entered 19 Hibbert Street. At the same time another vehicle stopped outside our front entrance in Atmore Road. The electromagnetic burst was designed to disable our computer and security systems. Roger and Alwyn can tell you why that failed, but the attempt was enough to trigger our alarm system and lock down the building. While in the locked down state we have complete physical hands on control of all systems, and on top of that, we have teams who remain free to roam the building and do whatever is required. The two vehicles at 19 Hibbert Street carried four personnel each. They attempted to enter the garage. I'll let Roger explain what happened. Meanwhile the vehicle in Atmore Road had a driver and a passenger. The passenger entered the main front vestibule but on being confronted by our guards ran back to the vehicle, which left the area at high speed. I believe Deb can give us more on that.

"So, all in all we were attacked but repelled the invasion attempt."

Eric closed his notebook and nodded at Forsyth.

"Roger?" queried Alan Forsyth.

"Once lockdown commenced," said Roger Albert, the Internal Security Manager, "we activated the middle cordon. If you had a birds-eye view of our floors, you would see that there are three ring corridors that can be closed down into tunnels. The outer corridor is the outer cordon, the middle corridor the middle cordon and the inner corridor the inner cordon, of course. When we say we activate a cordon we pressurize it and pump nerve gas into it. We have a self sealing set up in the middle and inner cordons whereby if entry is gained to the cordon, by whatever means e.g. explosives or opening a door, then the room from which entry was gained will automatically lock off to maintain the pressurization. The gas will disable a person for up to three hours and is not dependant on inhalation. It will penetrate clothing and skin. The inner cordon is even more secure but we won't go into that.

"The goons at Hibbert Street eventually used explosives to open the garage but could go no further. They didn't have the electronic equipment to activate the hydraulics and seemed to have no idea how the garage actually connected to us. I can only assume they thought there was a ramp over to us or something. They scarpered when two of our mobile patrols arrived on the scene. One of the patrols followed them until some one from Deb's team took over. At that stage we allowed them to 'escape' our patrol." Roger looked at Debra Sands.

"You can give us an update on that shortly?" Sands nodded. Roger continued.

"Right. The Hibbert Street goons were armed with Armalite rifles and side arms. They did not attempt to use those firearms at any stage other than to blow open the garage door.

"Meanwhile, a group of our lads who were part of one of the internal teams, went to the Atmore Road entrance. As you know that entrance gives access to some store front firms and our entrance is via one of them. As I said, when they confronted the person he de-camped at speed. The team did not pursue the intruder but one of Deb's teams picked up on the car he left in anyway.

"Clearly the electromagnetic burst was meant to disable us but our communications were more than adequate.

"I must say that in my opinion the effort was a bit half hearted. It was a bit more like they were saying 'Hey we're here. We know where you are and can get to you if we really want to.'"

There were a few nods from around the table.

"Is the painters van still there?" asked Simon.

Alistair Newbold answered. "Not now. We've taken it to do a proper forensic analysis on it."

Forsyth looked at Alwyn Chan.

"Before we hear from Debra," he said, "have you anything at all to add Ally?"

Alwyn shook his head. Forsyth turned to Debra Sands.

"Okay Debs," he said, "What's the state of play at the moment?"

There was nothing remarkable about Debra Sands. Her features, her figure, her clothes, her hair, her deportment. All would be described as medium, regular, standard, normal, and unremarkable. You would be hard pushed to describe her. She blended into the background and she had made an art out of doing just that.

"We're on the winning team as usual," said Debra Sands. "The Hibbert Goons and the Atmore Idiots have both come together at a farm house about three quarters of an hours drive from here. Once the goons thought they had lost our pursuit team they drove virtually straight to the place. The idiots were a little more circumspect. They undertook some basic detection manoeuvres but didn't burn us at all."

Sands looked at Simon and Pamela.

"I suppose you know 'burn' means to detect or become aware of?"

Simon nodded. Pamela shook her head. Sands continued.

"Unfortunately, as far as Drummond and Julia were concerned, we were only able to stick with Drummond. We lost Julia. Drummond went to a park off Rathbone Drive. There he met up with a person in a SUV."

Sands flicked a series of surveillance photographs around the table. "These are a bit rough but given the circumstances and the fact that they were radioed through to us they're not too bad. As you can see we have a reasonable one of the SUV driver and not too bad a one of Drummond."

"That's Father Joe," said Simon. "While it's a bit hazy I've no doubt. Do you know where he is? What's he doing now? You haven't lost him?"

Debra Sands held up her hand.

"Hold on. Hold on," she remonstrated. "Let me finish. As I was saying, they met up with who we now know is Father Joe aka Peter Donahue. They spoke for a matter of two to five minutes and then Drummond left and by a circuitous route drove to the farm house. My team had back up by that time so one of them followed Donahue. He took no evasive action and drove straight to a residential address at Alma Crescent in Papakura. He is still there, and the others are still at the farm house. We have both places under tight surveillance at the moment."

"Thanks Deb," said Alan Forsyth. "Well done as usual."

He looked around the table.

"Okay, what's the feeling about all this?"

Alistair Newbold spoke. "As we've already said I think this was just a 'Ha, ha we know where you are' type of thing. Let's face it, if you're in the business you will have heard of us and be aware of us. It's not top secret as to where we base ourselves so I don't think they're a threat to us at all."

Pat Winger nodded her agreement. "I'd go along with Ally on that one," she said. "However, I do think that just for old times sake it wouldn't do any harm to have a team visit the farm house and extract a little bit of revenge by tuning them up a bit. Also, in the course of that, we'll try and ascertain the connection between them and Donahue and you two." Winger nodded at Pamela and Simon.

"And what about Father Joe?" asked Simon.

"Well what are your thoughts?" asked Forsyth. "After all, in reality, we're acting on your behalf and you brought this upon us."

Simon sat in silence for a while as he got his thoughts into some semblance of order.

"I'm sorry," he said, "to have brought all this on you but I'm sure you will bill me accordingly." Everyone laughed. "I'd go along with you Pat," Simon continued. "I think we need to establish the connections and try to ascertain any chain of command. In particular I need to know what any of them know about the Order of the Master, any people or places connected with it, and what they believe they are trying to achieve. As for Father Joe, I think Pam and I will go and see him. It's time for another talk. Does that sit alright with you Alan?"

"No problem," he said. "Pat, can you do the honours? Get a team together and sort out the farm house. Alistair you go also and organize the interviews etc."

Everyone, bar Alan Forsyth, Simon and Pamela, closed their notebooks and left. Forsyth turned to Simon and Pamela. "So that's that. Now, unless you really need me I've work to do so I'll get on with it and leave you two to toddle off and see Donahue. If you go back down to the garage you'll be shown another way out that does not exit onto Hibbert Street. Keep in touch won't you?"

With that, he up and left. A young woman came into the room and escorted them down to the garage in the same lift they had gone up in. The exit from the garage was the same as Hibbert Street except it came out on Avimore Street, an entire block over from Atmore Road.

"I wonder how many tunnels that firm actually has?" asked Simon of Pamela. "I'll bet the City Council Planning Department knows nothing of them."

Simon drove until he found an empty parking space. Once parked he turned towards Pamela. "Well," he said. "What did you think of all that?"

"It all seemed very 'Boy's Own,'" said Pamela. "If it wasn't for us being part of it all, I wouldn't believe that anything like that place of Alan's could exist, or that the sort of things that happened to us could have been done in real life in this day and age. It's all so frightening."

Pamela reached out and clasped Simon's hand. He patted it in an awkward gesture of comfort.

"I know darling," he conceded. "It is an unusual world some of us live in isn't it? I think though that we're getting somewhere. I don't see Father Joe as a danger to us. In my previous dealing with him he was helping me, and what we've learned from Alan has me leaning in his favour. Shall we find out?"

Pamela nodded, although it seemed to Simon, to be somewhat reluctantly.

"Okay big boy," she said. "Let's do it."

The address they had been given, 153 Alma Crescent in Papakura, was somewhat modest when compared with it's neighbours but fitted in well. While there was a small mowed lawn at the front, with a tree to one side, and neat gardens on either side of the path leading to the front door, it gave the appearance of a house rather than a home; a bed and breakfast place or motel unit. Before Simon could use the knocker the door opened. Simon nodded to Peter Donahue. Donahue nodded back and stepped to one side. He gestured to a door part way down the passage.

"Come in. Come in," he said. He smiled at Pamela, and Simon reckoned that if he'd had a hat he would have tipped it. "And you'd be Pamela Stevens. Nice to meet you. Come on, come on."

Chapter 30

The room was set up like the one in the flat where Simon had last met Donahue. Even the bed was in the room. The same three books sat on a shelf. The only thing missing was the oven/stove.

"Sit down. Sit down," fussed Donahue. "I've been expecting you of course. Can I get you anything to drink?"

Both Pamela and Simon nodded. Donahue continued.

"I know how you have yours don't I Simon, white with two like your women? Mind you I had no idea your woman was so lovely." Pamela had the decency to blush. "And you Pam? I may call you Pam? How do you have yours?"

Donahue took some mugs from under a cloth and made them all tea using UHT milk, Burger King's sugar this time, and water from a thermos.

"I take it this is another temporary residence for you?" queried Simon.

"Indeed, as you'd say," nodded Donahue. "I prefer not to get too attached to my surroundings. That way I seem to have a bit more freedom and not too many visitors. Saves me getting careless and into bad habits as well."

"I wonder," said Simon, "Why a man in your profession would find it necessary to be forever on the move? We never did get to finish our conversation before it was so abruptly terminated last time did we? Perhaps you'd care to do so now or are we holding you up from your next shift of location?."

"I agree I am about to shift, but with the current state of affairs it was my intention to wait here for you. If Alan's troops hadn't followed me here, I know you would have eventually contacted me via the details given to you by him. You can see that I have initiated the contact really. However, before we go any further, can I get you some dry biscuits or anything Pam?" asked Donahue. "Although I have no direct experience of the situation I understand that women in your, how do they put it, delicate situation, sometimes like dry biscuits."

Again Pamela blushed.

"Your sources are quite impressive Mr. Donahue," she responded. "But no, I am fine thank you."

"And you knew this how?" asked Simon.

"Surveillance information Simon," replied Donahue. "When a couple are sleeping together, and then the woman starts to have morning problems, then it usually adds up to only one thing."

Simon nodded to himself acknowledging Donahue's sources as being quite phenomenal. "Now you've done the Christian duty bit," said Simon. "Can we get on with this?"

"As I told you some time ago Simon," said Donahue. "I am in possession of incredible information. This is information that has come into the Roman Catholic Church over centuries. Some of it even extends back to the beginning of time. The average person would find a lot of it unbelievable, and believers in Jesus Christ would find it unacceptable. I doubt that I have to go into any detail about it as you're only interested in how it affects you and yours. Somewhat selfish perhaps, but understandable never the less.

"The crux of the whole problem is you. You will have heard of the Knights Templar and the Crusades they fought. They came to believe that Jesus had descendants. Real descendants. Okay, it's quite acceptable for his brother James to have married and had children, but most Church goers have always baulked at the thought of their Jesus doing the wild thing. As the bible makes no mention of Jesus being married, they assume that if he had children, then heavens above, he must have had it off with a woman who was no better than she should have been. Scholarly debate these days, however, tends to suggest that the wedding at Cana, where Jesus turned the water into wine, may well have been his own wedding. I won't go into the detail, you can find those out for yourself if you want to. And his wife? Again the finger is being pointed at Mary Magdalene. You will only know her as a prostitute."

"No," said Simon. "I have recently heard comment that nowhere in the bible does it say she was a prostitute."

"That's good," applauded Donahue. "Up to date with your theology. I suppose you're the positive influence Pam?"

"Among others," agreed Pamela.

"Good," nodded Donohue. "So if it is accepted that Jesus did get married, or even had a bit on the side, then it's possible that there were some off-spring. I would suggest that there were several children begat by Jesus and his wives. Note I said wives."

Pamela interrupted. "Are you really a Priest? If you are I find your language and terminology quite unacceptable. I can see no reason for coarseness." Simon raised an eyebrow at Donohue who nodded his head.

"Quite right. I apologise Pam. Please forgive me. Of late I have been keeping somewhat unsavoury company and it has led me a little astray; and yes I am ordained.

"What was that you said Simon?"

"I said you'd better note that down for your next confession."

"Yes I will," responded Donohue. For a second Simon caught the sincerity in Donohue's voice, which caused him to raise his evaluation of the man. Donohue continued. "Now where was I. Ah yes. Off-spring. Somewhere along the line the Templar's stumbled upon evidence of a genealogy leading back to Jesus. I'm not sure of the source of that genealogy. I don't know if it came to light in a long list of 'begats' or where. Clearly though, proof of such would turn the current understanding of Jesus on it's head. To me it would make him something more special. While you might think the Roman Catholic Church would frown upon such a thought, that is not so. We even have theologians within the Catholic Church who say that the virgin birth is not true. They are still with us and have not been excommunicated. Mind you they live a rocky old life. For Jesus to have married and had children would enhance him in my eyes.

"However, I am getting into sermon mode there.

"What I should be saying is that the Templar's kept the knowledge of the identities of the descendants to themselves. This, I believe along with others, is the Holy Grail that the Templar's had, and that their descendant organisations still have. You, Simon, they believe, are the current only living descendant. Before you it was obviously your father."

Simon and Pamela looked at each-other and nodded. Donohue continued. "Obviously this hasn't come as a great surprise to you so you must have heard it from some other source.

"Are you in a position to share that source?"

"My father," said Simon. "He left a message for me about it all."

"And?" queried Donohue.

"In the end he didn't believe it," said Simon. "He did say that there were indications of an ability to do certain things, but that because of the manipulations of those around him, it threw into doubt their authenticity."

"And you?" queried Donohue. "Do you believe he could do 'certain things?'"

"I'm not aware of him doing anything out of the ordinary," replied Simon. "According to what he said, he had the power to heal and to move things around using only his mind." Donohue nodded. Simon continued. "Mind you there are many people who can do those things. In your line of work you would be aware of that wouldn't you?"

"Yes," agreed Donohue. "Many can. Mind you not many are able to claim direct lineage to Jesus Christ."

"If such is so," pointed out Simon. Again Donohue nodded.

"Anyway," said Simon. "Where are we? Okay, you can take it as read that we're aware of the belief by a group of people who think, no believe, I am directly descended from Jesus. Where does that take us?"

"If they believe that, why are they trying to kill him?" interrupted Pamela.

"Oh they're not trying to do that," protested Donohue. "Well at least not all of them are. Look, I'm not being very clear here and I pride myself on being succinct.

"There are two groups operating in this matter. Three if you count the Roman Catholic Church represented by me. While we have always been aware of what the Knights Templar believed, we left them to their own devices believing they would eventually put up or shut up. Ours was a watching and listening brief. By ours, I mean the Vatican. Life continued on its merry way without anything untoward until a group of Irish Catholic monks became involved. Somehow they got hold of the information possessed by the Templar's. Through it they located your father. It was, and still is, their belief that the line had become tainted and it was their intention to return it to its pure state.

"That group was part of the Order of The Nazarene. At one stage they departed from the Nazarenes and formed their own Order; The Order of the Master. That Order, I think, has incorporated itself back into the Nazarenes. Some part of it still exists, I believe, but more in a consultant type of position to the Nazarenes. Don't quote me on that though. In order to return the line to its pristine state they believed that basically they had to start all over again. This meant they either had to convince an adult from the descendents to repent of all their sins, and therefore to be born again, or start with a young child or baby. Somehow they were able to put to one side their belief in original sin, or were able to circumvent it. Original sin means that even in the womb we carry the results of Adam and Eve's fall from grace.

"I don't believe that and nor do many others in this day and age. However, for whatever reason, they got hold of your father. When he became orphaned, the perfect opportunity presented itself. No body, organisation or anything else objected when they took him under their wing. At the time there was no suggestion of foul play in your Grandparents deaths."

Simon jerked upright. "You mean that there is doubt now?" he yelled. Donohue made pacifying gestures with his hands.

"There is no evidence to suggest such," he said. "But in the circumstances, I think it was very timely of them to become deceased and leave your father to the tender mercies of the Order. From this distance, and with what is currently happening, the balance of probabilities suggests that the accident was more than an accident, but proof will never exist."

Simon shook his head. Pamela reached out and took his hand into hers. She squeezed it and he squeezed back.

"What's the Church doing about this?" asked Pamela. "Surely they have a huge moral responsibility to do something. They can't just wash their hands of it can they?"

Donohue snorted. "The Church can do many things," he said. "Sitting back and letting things happen is a pretty regular occurrence. History shows that. In this case they've appointed me to hold a watching brief. Fortunately, well perhaps fortunately, there's another player on the scene. They are a group who trace their beliefs back to the Zealots who hid the so called Dead Sea scrolls in the caves at Qumran."

"More nutters who see me as Jesus," muttered Simon.

"Not necessarily as Jesus. More as the Master. Similar but not the same. While their beliefs are similar to those of Christians, or Jews really, they don't accept Jesus as their Saviour. They do, however, see his line as spiritually important to them. To them the lineage is important. The behaviour is not. They will protect you and yours, but particularly you, under any circumstances."

"And you know these people?" queried Simon.

"Oh yes," agreed Donohue. "I've contact with both sides. The person at the front of Forsyth's building belongs to the Zealot group, and he's their undercover agent with the Order of the Nazarene. He's the one feeding me information. A bit of a tricky individual by all accounts. They were also on hand to help you Simon, when Pam was being held on the farm after her kidnapping." Donohue smiled sympathetically at Pamela. "Unfortunately their protection system is focused on Simon and you don't figure."

"Well," said Simon. "I don't think much of the Nazarenes either. To me they're incompetent. Their performance at Forsyth's was amateurish at best."

Donohue nodded agreement. "On one level I'd agree with you, but they were doing what was necessary. It was known that Forsyth has above average surveillance systems, and by being as obvious as they were it was hoped that he would be on the alert for something. The attack was expected to be unsuccessful, but it did provide important information about Forsyth's organisation. After all, you were inside that building and may have needed rescuing, or to be rescued, at some stage."

"What about the woman who was keeping an eye on your informant in Atmore Street? Who does she belong too?"

"There was no woman," said Donohue. "There was the man who looked like he was doing surveillance on the building, my informant, but that was all. If there was anyone else there, they were nothing to do with the operation."

Simon decided to leave it there. "Okay," he said. "So I'm the target, or whatever, to those groups. Let's now get back to the beginning. They got Dad and tried to do what?"

"To make him into a pure God fearing man who would act and believe like they think Jesus acted and believed. Unfortunately, according to you, your Dad discovered, or became aware of, the truth of what they were doing and it all fell apart. I believe that normally they would have tried to start over again with you, but somehow your father thwarted them. They are only now starting to begin again with you."

"And how is killing me going to assist in that endeavour?" asked Simon.

"Oh," said Donohue, "they're not trying to kill you. At least not yet I would imagine. Dear me no. They need you to provide them with a child to work with. They need your child to continue the lineage."

"I don't understand," protested Simon. "Look at the times they've had a go at me. Look at the trouble they've got me into. Look at the deaths all around me. My children were very possibly killed by them. I was set up by them for the Police to arrest me for the murder of a prostitute. My ex wives have died and girlfriends have been killed. All because of me. And Pam; she's in danger as well. Now she is pregnant I presume she'll be in even more danger.

"Don't tell me they're not trying to kill me."

"But they're not," repeated Donohue. "If you analyse the events you'll see it's not you who is the target. Come on, you're the detective. The next in line has to be a male child. That male child must come from you. To date you have produced all females. Females are unimportant to the lineage as far as the Order of the Nazarene is concerned.

"I initially found it quite difficult to accept all the killings."

Simon leapt from his chair and grabbed Donohue around the throat with his left hand. His right fist drove straight into Donohue's nose spreading it flat against his cheeks. Blood poured out of his nostrils. Donohue screamed at the top of his lungs. Simon drew his fist back to repeat the blow. Pamela held onto his arm with both her hands. Even so she was pulled off her feet by the forward movement of his arm. Her weight, however, prevented his fist carrying through to Donohue's face.

"Quite difficult?" shouted Simon. "Quite difficult? Where the fuck does quite difficult fit into it? I've had enough of this shit. You're going to tell me what I want to know right now. All this nicey, nicey stuff ends right here." Donohue was cowering back into his chair. His arms were raised to ward off any further blows. Pamela still had hold of Simon's right arm. Blood was dripping onto Simon's left wrist where he still had hold of Donohue's throat.

Almost reluctantly Simon let Donohue out of his grasp. Vainly Donohue attempted to straighten himself up and wipe the blood from his lips and chin. He left streaks of blood on his shirt sleeves. The violent gush of blood had stopped. Pamela let go of Simon's arm. Simon sat back down in the chair. He settled forward on it.

"This is the end of the line as far as you and I go Donohue," said Simon. "I am going to be given some answers by you and then you're getting yourself back to Rome, or where-ever you came from or belong. Is that something you're capable of understanding?

"Is it?" shouted Simon when Donohue did not immediately respond. Donohue raised his arms again in an automatic gesture of self defense.

"Yes, yes of course it is," he said with false bravado.

"Okay," relented Simon. "Do the Zealots, as you call them, have any connection with the Nazarene crowd?"

"Not that I am aware of," mumbled Donohue.

"What about with Rome? Any connection with them?"

"Who, the Zealots?"

"Yes the fucking Zealots. Are they connected to the Roman Catholic Church in any way?" snarled Simon.

"I don't think so. Certainly not as far as I am aware of anyway," responded Donohue.

"Who killed Ali and Pet? Do you know?"

"N . . . n . . . no," stuttered Donohue. "Not by name. You can be sure it would have been arranged by the Order of the Master or the Order of the Nazarene though. As far as they're concerned there must be no stain on the off-spring."

Simon shook his head. "And the women who got pregnant to me or had sex with me?" he asked.

"Tainting the lineage. They would have had to die."

"So Elaine died because she was pregnant again, and again it was female?" stated Simon. Donohue nodded. "And Suzy the same?" Again Donohue nodded. "And Yarmouth, what about her?"

"Same reason," said Donohue. "She would have been considered tainted and the Order would have had to rid you of her."

Simon shook his head and sat in silence for a while. Pamela sat biting her knuckles as she rocked back and forwards in shock.

"You were involved with Yarmouth," Simon pointed out to Donohue. "Tell me how that doesn't involve you deeply in the plot against me."

"I admit I used her. You have no real idea how I feel about what happened to her. It is something I'll have to live with I know."

"Don't hand me that pious shit," threatened Simon. "How did you use her?"

"She was to get information from you as to what you knew about your father and your position on the lineage. Okay, I'm none too proud of it, but as far as I was concerned it had to be done, and quite frankly pillow talk appeared to be the best and easiest way given your proclivities," said Donohue defiantly.

"You, a Priest, would use an under-age girl in that way?" gasped Pamela. "You make me sick. You're no man of God, you serve another Master."

"See," pointed out Donohue. "I knew you wouldn't understand. You are unable to see the big picture. That's the problem with your sort. You don't realize that millions of people all across the world have to have a Church and a way of life they can rely on. No, depend on. Depend on to be the same today as it was yesterday and will be tomorrow. It's the bigger picture. You must always look at the bigger picture."

Simon, Pamela and Donohue sat in silence looking at each-other. "Anyway," continued Donohue. "She wasn't underage at all. If the Police had done the proper checks they would have found that her date of birth had been altered."

"What do you mean by altered?" asked Simon.

"The Church has many servants in many places," Donohue pointed out. "The birth certificate faxed to the Police was incorrect by a couple of years." Simon and Pamela looked at each-other again.

"You were willing to let me go down for something I didn't do? What sort of shit are you?" asked Simon.

"You wouldn't have been convicted. At Court they would have used a certified copy and the alteration would have been picked up at that stage, so you were never in any danger of being convicted." Donohue sat back with a satisfied smirk. It changed quickly to fear as Simon jumped from his chair. Pamela pulled him back down again.

"He's not worth it love," said Pamela. "He's just a poor pathetic excuse for a man. He's not worth anything and certainly not worth expending your energy upon. Just have pity on him."

"Do you have any way of contacting your Zealots?" asked Simon.

"They're not my Zealots, and no. I have to wait for the under-cover one to contact me," replied Donohue. Simon moved threateningly again and Donohue cowered back.

"Okay, okay," said Donohue with his palms held outwards to Simon. "I can make contact but they're not my Zealots okay? They're a power unto themselves so they may or may not respond."

Donohue sat back in his chair with his head against its back. His arms suddenly dropped to his sides. Next his head fell forward and his body slumped to the right. Glass sprayed inside from the window as Simon saw the red hole appear in Donohue's forehead. Simon's tackle was launched from his chair and took Pamela with it as they both crashed to the floor below the frame of the window.

"Don't move," commanded Simon pulling the revolver from the small of his back. He was aware that Pamela was lying on broken glass but reasoned that was more practical than exposing themselves to the rifleman who had taken out Donohue. After ten minutes Simon returned the revolver to the small of his back and slithered to the window. Using one hand, with difficulty, he pulled the drapes across. With sight denied the gunman Simon was able to help Pamela to her feet and check her cuts. She was shaking with shock but otherwise appeared okay. The cuts she had sustained were minor and had already stopped bleeding. Pamela clung tightly to Simon and he clumsily tried to quieten and settle her by petting her as you would an animal. Crying and upset women were not his forte regardless of his feelings for them. As they sat together, their attention was attuned to the sounds they could hear from outside. Nothing! Well nothing that they thought could harm them. There were everyday sounds; children crying and yelling, 'things' banging and rattling, cars revving, televisions and radios blaring, sounds that were not threatening.

Pamela's eyes crept towards the body of Donohue and quickly averted themselves. Gradually her shivering and shaking eased and then ceased. With care, Simon got her to her feet and out of the room into the passage. He pulled a chair from the lounge and sat her upon it. Taking a blanket from the bed, he wrapped it round her. Simon then went back to Donohue. Quickly he checked his pockets and emptied them onto the floor. They did not amount to much. A wallet, a pristine handkerchief, a cellphone, two ball point pens and a packet of breath-mints. He then commenced a thorough search of the room. It was indeed like a motel room with the only personal items being the three books; a bible, King James version, a dictionary and a J B Phillips translation of the Gospels. Simon then extended his search to the rest of the house, which was also in motel condition. Just inside the back door, however, Simon found a small over-night bag. The bag contained nothing of great interest; personal clothing and toiletries.

Simon slipped the wallet and cellphone into his pockets. He and Pamela then sat in the passage for three hours until darkness fell. They then left via the front door. The car was where they had left it. Within minutes of leaving the house they went into their anti-surveillance routine and confirmed an apparent lack of followers. Simon stopped at a Public telephone and reported Donohue's body to the Police. He hung up on the operator giving only his name and the fact that there was a body at 153 Alma Crescent.

Having restored some sense of normality, they sat in the car with the heater going to give themselves some warmth to counter-act the shock. They talked over the facts and happenings in an effort to get to grips with the situation.

"But why kill him? And who?" asked Pamela for what must have been the 20th time. As they talked, Simon had let his sub-conscious mind work its way through the information, and now he tried to pull it all together. Slowly he explained to Pamela what he had sorted out. There were periods of silence as he searched for the right words.

"We know why they're targeting me," said Simon. "That's the one big thing we have resolved. It seems to me that I am safe. Really it does. Safe from both sides. Actually I'll come back to that; to the both sides bit. I also think that at the moment you're pretty safe as well, regardless of what Donohue said. If our baby (and he caressed Pamela's stomach) is a boy, then we're both safe until the birth. After that we're probably okay until he's a teen-ager. I don't think you'll have a problem. After all you're an upright Christian person, even if you're not left footed, and you're going out with Jesus' descendant." Simon grinned and cuddled Pamela some-more. "Mind you, all that means is that once the babe is of a certain age we'll both be expendable." What Simon did not say was what they both knew: if the baby Pamela was currently carrying turned out to be a female then she would become immediately expendable. Simon resumed. "Getting back to the 'who' of all this. It seems that we can positively acknowledge that we've got two main groups; the Nazarene/Masters Group and the Zealot Group. Both want me to live, at least in the meantime. To one side we also have the Roman Catholic Church. This is the strange bit to me. Donohue said that he only had a watching brief so which of the groups would want him dead? That has given me some pain trying to figure it out. I'm not sure if I have got it right but I suspect that it was probably the Nazarene group. Donohue said that he had informants with the groups, and I suspect that this came to the Nazarene Group's attention so they decided to get rid of him. Yes, that's the most likely scenario. They probably thought he was gathering information and knowledge that could damage their relationship with Rome, and although they don't have a great love for Rome, they can use it as a justification for their existence, and hey, they may even have hopes of making their man the main man. After all, isn't the Pope only an Apostles representative here on earth? Surely a Jesus descendant trumps an Apostle rep." They both gave an ironic laugh. Simon continued. "That still leaves that unknown person; the woman in Atmore Street. She was an absolute professional. The only groups I've known who would be capable of doing such a good job are espionage groups. Which country they work for, of course, is another question. Two come to mind. It could be our own. I say this because when all this started I checked with the S.I.S. and while they didn't come back with any hard information, they did acknowledge rumours of a hit man or group so it could be them. Maybe it could be Mossad, the Israeli Secret Service. After all, this all started in their area a couple of thousand years ago didn't it? Mind you, if I take it that far it might be a contract group working for the Vatican. Maybe they didn't fully trust Donohue. Maybe they have their own people on the ground to ascertain what is going on. Actually, I think that perhaps that is the most likely scenario when I really think about it. Yes, that would make the most sense."

"So where do we go from here?" asked Pamela. "It seems to me that if what you say is right, then we're safe for the next few months at least. Perhaps we should just use those few months to find a place to hide. To disappear. I'm sure you know the right people who could make new identities for us, and help us relocate as they say." Pamela gripped Simon's arm tightly. "We could do that couldn't we? We could be just us and our baby? No more fear. No more people hunting us. Just us. Couldn't we?"

Simon shook his head as he gently caressed her arm. "I don't think so love. Yes, I reckon I could get us new identities, and even a new start, but we'd always be looking over our shoulders. Waiting. Waiting for the day when we notice some-one watching us, or our mail being tampered with, or mysterious hang ups or clicks on our telephone, or even the disappearance of our son or daughter. No, I don't think so. While the thought is attractive, the reality is something quite different love." As he spoke he watched Pamela's expression go from hope to despair to anger.

"You're right of course," she said. "But to hell with them. Let's not live in fear. Let's take the initiative. Let's go get 'em."

Her expression made Simon smile. "It's easier said than done love," he said. "But I agree with you. It'll help that we have immunity for the moment."

"So what are we waiting for?" asked Pamela. "Let's go."

"Whoa, hold on," laughed Simon. "Let's get serious for a bit. We need to put a plan in place first. It appears to me that we're not even close to the head of these organisations. So far we've only had dealings with the foot soldiers of both groups, and maybe some middle management of the Nazarene lot. We can leave the Zealots out of it I think. They're not really concerned with getting rid of either of us. They just want us to keep on keeping on. No it's the Nazarene lot who are the problem so we'll just target them. Alan's group should have some information from the farm by now so that'll be where we start.

"Once we've got details of the leadership, and/or Headquarters, then we'll mount an operation against them and take them out. We need to get rid of the current leadership and destroy the records so that the continuity can never be re-established. I know this all sounds pretty war-like, but I think it is the only way we'll ever be able to have peace of mind. The thing is that it will be very dangerous and there is the real risk that we may not live through it. Okay, I know they won't want to harm us, but in a fight things generally go wrong. Having said that, however, I think that the bigger picture Donohue talked about, shows we really need to do this.

"Because of the bigger picture, I think it is imperative that we leave a record of what has happened. As you know, when I first got into trouble with Yarmouth, I vowed to conduct this investigation as if it was a genuine Police one. Things have moved so fast lately that I have not been able to update it, so I'll have to do that at the first opportunity.

"What I suggest we do, is find out from Alan's team what they've learnt from the farm, update the file, and then we'll plan our campaign to take out the Order of the Nazarene. Sound okay?"

"I don't know Simon," responded Pamela. "I don't know about these sort of things. It sounds okay, I guess. Dangerous, but okay. If all else fails I suppose I can fall back on the old Christian attitude that if it is God's will then it will be done." She smiled wanly. "Mind you, where as before I met you that would have seemed a complete philosophy, it now seems so inadequate bearing in mind all that we've been through."

Again Simon pulled her close and lightly rubbed her back. "I know. I know," he comforted. "I'm sorry I've got you into this mess, but really I would not have not wanted you by my side, if you can understand the Irish of it. I'm frightened for you, and I'm frightened for our baby, and I'm frightened for us. I love you so very much, and it terrifies me that I've placed you in so much danger. I do need you by my side though. While we'll be heading into danger, I feel you would be in more danger if you were left alone. I'll take care of you. I promise." Simon kissed Pamela with considerable passion, a passion that was returned by her until he broke it off.

"Okay," he said all business like. "Let's do it."

Simon started the car and headed for Forsyth's. He called ahead on his ordinary cellphone and arranged for those who had been out at the farm to meet with him. At Forsyth's suggestion though, it was decided they would meet at the farm, where the opposition had been captured, and to plan the future from there.

The farmhouse was situated on the outskirts of the City, in a rural area of Pukekohe that had been broken up into life-style blocks. It had clearly been the original homestead. Fifteen acres of land, and several old barn-like buildings, seemed to have been retained with it. The house itself was large and rambling. It had a porch that protected all four sides of it. There were five bedrooms, two bathrooms, bay windows with window seats, high ceilings, a formal dining room, a couple of lounges and numerous other rooms. As they drew up to the house it gave no indication that it was other than just another house. While Simon believed that there had to be several vehicles present, only one was visible, parked in the semicircular driveway out side the main front entrance. He presumed the others were hidden in one of the out buildings.

Simon and Pamela climbed the five wooden steps to the front veranda. Before they could access the bell, the front door was opened by Pat Winger who stood aside to let them enter. She gestured down the hallway that split the house in two. Simon did not think Feng-Shui would appreciate the positioning of the front and back doors in an unbroken line. As Winger closed the door, Simon and Pamela went along the passage until they saw Alistair Newbold seated in a reclining chair in one of the rooms. He waved them in.

"Grab a pew," he instructed.

Pamela and Simon sat together on a couch. Winger had followed them in and she sat in an armchair and hung her left leg over one arm.

"What have we got?" asked Simon.

"Not a lot really," responded Newbold. "We have confirmed some of the details that were only speculation on our part, and got a little bit more background, but none of it advances things much as far as we can tell."

"Go on," encouraged Simon.

"Okay," nodded Newbold. "Both teams, that is the people from Atmore Street, and the group from Hibbert Street, only arrived here two days ago. They are a bunch of Army Territorials. As far as they know they are on an exercise. Our building allegedly housed a terrorist cell and they were to maintain surveillance on it and attempt to storm it when they were given the signal. They believed they were using blanks in their firearms. Their instructions came from one of the two in Atmore Street whom they understood to be from one of the intelligence agencies. As you are aware, most of the intelligence agencies use the armed forces as their foot soldiers. They believe that what they were doing was part of their training. They even believe that our questioning of them is part of the whole exercise. They take us to be either the enemy or debriefing them for the Secret Service."

"Can we believe them? asked Simon.

"Oh yes," said Newbold. "No problem there. The Hibbert Street group and the Atmore two are indeed just who they say."

"And Drummond?" queried Simon.

"Another tale altogether. I think we can take it as read that he is working for the Nazarene Group, and probably the one giving the instructions. All we have been able to get out of him is that he is acting upon instructions received. While he claims to also be a Territorial, his Identification doesn't stack up. We've confirmed that the Hibbert Street and Atmore Street boys are indeed Territorials but there is no authorized, or formally sanctioned, exercise involving them at the moment. Obviously some-one in the system set it up.

"They've got no identification or anything traceable on them. Even when we put the names Father Joe and Donohue to them they haven't battered an eyelid. My best guess is that we'll get nothing from them. You'd agree with that wouldn't you Pat?" Pat Winger nodded her agreement.

"So where are they all now?" asked a despondent Simon.

"We've sent the Army home, but we've got Drummond locked up downstairs," replied Pat Winger. "There is an extensive layout below ground here, so clearly this place is a safe house operated by some organisation. If we dig long and deep enough we could maybe locate who it belongs to, but that would take some considerable time and effort; time I doubt you two have got."

They all sat in silence for a while. Simon reached out and held Pamela's hand while Winger and Newbold watched without comment.

"So," said Simon. "We're not much further advanced are we?" Nobody said anything as it did not seem to warrant comment. Simon got to his feet and pulled Pamela up onto hers. "Okay," he said. "Let's go and see Drummond downstairs shall we?"

Winger and Newbold looked at each-other, and then nodded and led them down into a cellar via a cupboard that Simon thought was a broom closet. Off the cellar was a network of tunnels giving access to rooms containing beds, eating, cooking, washing facilities, and communications equipment. There were also two cell blocks capable of holding up to six prisoners. One held Drummond.

"Do we even have a name?" asked Simon.

"Not a real one," said Alistair. "He says he is Kent Clark."

Simon stood looking at the person calling himself Clark. He did indeed fit the description of Bulldog Drummond. At Simon's nod, Alistair unlocked the cell door. Simon stepped inside. Clark was standing with his back maybe six inches from the far wall. They traded stares for some time until Simon asked,

"Do you confirm your name is Kent Clark?" He received a nod in reply. "I want to know who you work for."

"The Government."

"Security Intelligence or Special Branch?"

"The Army."

"I see." Simon took a couple of steps closer. "Mr. Clark," said Simon in a reasonable tone. "I don't believe you. Now, before you can leave here you're going to have to tell me a little about yourself and those who have employed you. You see I desperately need to locate your employers as they're doing their best to cause great stress and aggravation to me. You may tell me until you're blue in the face that you're Army but I know you're either a Zealot or are a member of the Order of the Nazarene or The Masters Trust."

Simon thought he saw a flicker of something in Clark's eyes.

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Clark. "I was just conducting a routine practice exercise for the Territorial Army."

"No you were not," said Simon calmly. "You are acting for some religious group and in that capacity you were passing information along to Father Joe or Donohue or what-ever he called himself. You know the person, the one you met in the SUV before you came here, and after you'd left Atmore Street."

"I don't know what you're talking about," shrugged Clark.

"Then perhaps I can remind you," said Simon calmly.

Suddenly without any warning he launched himself at Clark. All his frustrations boiled over. It was as if some-one, or some-thing else, had taken control of him. His fists hit Clark with out of control fury. Clark attempted to protect himself as blows landed on his arms, his abdomen, his head and his face. Pamela, Winger and Newbold were so taken by surprise that they could only stare. Simon's eyes were wide open, his face was flushed and mucus ran from his nose. He gasped for air and kept screaming over and over.

"Tell the truth you bastard, tell the truth."

Clark fell to the floor and curled into a ball in an effort to protect himself from the onslaught. If anything, this seemed to infuriate Simon all the more, and he started to kick Clark; on his back, his buttocks and legs. All the while Simon continued to scream at Clark who made no response. It was only when Simon aimed a kick at Clark's head that the watchers were galvanized into action. It took all three of them to pull Simon out of the cell and into the corridor. Once there, all the fight went out of Simon and he slumped down against the wall and cried. He cried with great sobbing gasps. The tears ran down his face and mixed with the mucus from his nose. Spots of blood from Clark's nose patterned his face and clothes. Gradually Simon regained control of himself. His breathing returned to something like normal. Pamela dug into his pockets and dragged out a handkerchief. With a nodded thanks Simon blew his nose and returned the hanky to his pocket. With Pamela's help he got to his feet and then went into a room that had a hand basin and a mirror. He ran cold water into the basin, and with a paper towel cleaned himself up as best as he could. Returning to the corridor he looked at Pamela, Winger, and Newbold. They were not making eye contact with him.

"Okay," said Simon. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have lost control. I know it is no excuse but the whole thing has just got on top of me. I've been shot at; and those I love have been threatened, shot at and apparently killed. In that person in there I have a lead; A lead that could perhaps take me, or at least point me, to those responsible. Still, I know that I've over-stepped the mark. I shouldn't have involved you. I'm sorry."

Winger looked up. She cleared her throat.

"Alistair," she said to Newbold. "Will you see to Clark? If he needs it get him to a hospital or something. I think you'd be fairly safe taking him there. I don't think he'll incriminate us at all.

"Simon and Pam, you come with me."

Winger took them back upstairs. They returned to the room in which they had found Newbold when they first arrived. Winger sat down and Pamela and Simon did the same. For a while all was quiet. They heard Newbold and Clark leave the house and a vehicle depart.

"Okay," said Winger breaking the silence. "This is where it ends."

Simon looked up. "What do you mean?" he questioned.

"This is where we part company. You and us. What you did down there tonight overstepped the mark big time. This company acts for big clients and also for Governments. Okay, we sometimes walk a fine line between legal and illegal, but tonight's performance went too far. We've done for you all we intend doing. From here on in you're on your own."

"Have you run this past Alan?" queried Simon.

"I don't have to. We're a team and know how each-other think and respond. What work we've done for you is all reported and the final report will be available tomorrow. As of now though, we are through." Winger stood up. "I am leaving. That report will be available at our reception tomorrow. Do what you like here and from now on. Goodbye!" Winger left the room. Shortly afterwards Simon and Pamela heard the front door slam, and again, within a couple of minutes, heard a vehicle leaving.

Chapter 31

Desertion and Help

Gingerly and tentatively Pamela reached out for Simon's hand. He allow her to hold it. She gave it a little squeeze. There was no response from Simon. She waited a while and then squeezed it again. This time he responded. She looked at him. Tears were again streaming down his face, and in such quantities that they were dripping off his chin. Spontaneously they turned to each-other and clung together. Pamela could feel his tears against her cheeks and his shuddering sobs shook her very soul. Like a mother soothing her baby she stroked his hair and found herself saying.

"There, there, Simon, it'll be alright. It'll be alright."

Quietly she rocked him, and slowly the sobs subsided and he relaxed fully into her embrace. Time had no meaning. Even the creaks, moans and groans of the house did not penetrate. Eventually Pamela felt Simon start to withdraw from her embrace. Reluctantly she allowed it. Slowly the world returned to them, or more correctly, they returned to the world. Simon sat up and then stood up. Pamela keenly felt the loss of his warmth and wrapped her arms around herself in an effort to recreate it. Her eyes followed him as he paced back and forwards.

"One, two, three, four . . . " Pamela silently counted his laps. At fifty he looked at her and smiled wanly.

"Sorry kid," he said. "I didn't mean it to happen like this. I've really fucked it haven't I? I suppose you'll be off now as well?"

Pamela looked bewildered. "What do you mean?"

"Well I'm sure a girl like you won't want to be associated with an animal like me. I'll be sorry to lose you Pam. I do love you, and I could see a future for us, but I've blown it big time. It's no use me saying I don't know what got into me because I do know. It was me reverting to kind. As I've said before, a leopard doesn't change its spots. I've done this before, and obviously it is a part of me. I've no doubt that I'll do it again. Oh I'm sorry enough once I've done it, but then the next time something will click and bingo I'll be away again. Yes, it's for the best that you go."

Pamela stood up and stepped in front of Simon so he had to stop pacing. She reached up and placed a hand on each side of his face forcing him to look her in the eye.

"Simon Allan," she said. "Don't be a bigger wanker than you already are." He blinked at her language. "I love you Simon. I am carrying our baby. You love me. I have said that we are in this together and we are. You are what you are, and I am what I am. We both have good and bad in us. So far you have not seen my bad. Just wait until you do. I think that what you did, needed to be done. It could have achieved something but in the end it didn't. There's no question of me going off anywhere, or at anytime. I find it hard to believe that Alan's company has gone, but we will manage. We have so far."

Pamela released his face and hugged him. Hesitantly Simon put his arms around her and then pulled her tightly to him. With his mouth close to her ear he spoke.

"I love you girl," he said. "More than I thought I could ever love. My feelings for you are so different to those I've had before. I do need you. I need your comfort, your guidance and your support. I think that for the first time in my life I am admitting that there is something I can't face alone. While I'm scared about involving you, I know that I can't do it without you."

Eventually they pulled apart.

"So," said Pamela. "Where to from here? You're the Detective so detect."

Simon smiled. "Right," he said. "I detect that we need something to eat. You find a kitchen and do what women do, and I'll have a look around and see what is what."

Pamela aimed a pretend kick at him and left the room looking for the kitchen. Simon undertook a room by room search. Three quarters of an hour later they both sat down at the kitchen table. Pamela had managed to put together a meat and vegetable based curry on rice. Between mouthfuls Simon outlined what he had found, and his thoughts on their situation. He started by commenting on Winger and Newbold.

"I've known Pat and Alistair for sometime. Not overly well, but I've been involved on enquiries that they have also been part of. While we haven't shared any big intimate secrets we are aware of each-others likes and dislikes and that type of thing. Their attitude to me about this is a bit of a puzzle. I actually wonder if they do speak for Alan. Alan and I go way back and although I may have over done it a bit with Clark, it normally wouldn't have caused him to hang me out to dry.

"Having said that, my eyebrows go up a bit more with what I've found. Winger and Newbold and company were here long enough to do at least a reasonable preliminary search, and they either didn't, or did a really pathetic job of it. The house itself is pretty much just that. A house. It shows occupancy by a regular family."

"I'd suggest parents and two kids." Pamela interrupted him.

"The cupboards in the kitchen would agree with that." Simon nodded. "A simple search would show that, so I'd say the occupants are just caretakers. They may or may not be aware of what's going on. I would suggest that they do know about the underground complex but turn a blind eye to what goes on down there. So on the face of it, Winger and Newbold would have deduced what I've told you, and I have no negative comment to make about that. A check of the telephone inlet though would have told them that this place has a major communications centre. The fibre optic cables and the mysterious boxes with blinking lights in the ceiling space are not there for free to air television or a few satellite channels. They lead down to the underground complex, and a communications centre that the fucking Pentagon would be proud of. I can't identify all the bits and pieces, but I can recognise several encryption devices, satellite telephones and even a low frequency transceiver. That's something usually only the military would use. All very strange."

"And Pat and Alistair didn't find it?" asked Pamela.

Simon waved his fork around. "Doesn't look like it. Okay, the entrance to the room is hidden, but a competent searcher would have found it. Once I found that, I checked for other rooms they may have missed and ended up hitting the jack-pot. It's a room that I suppose you would call an Operations Centre. It's actually entered via the communications room. I haven't been able to digest any of the information yet, but there are maps, photographs, computers, and documents everywhere. My initial take on the place is that this is the Head Quarters of the Zealots. Both you and I feature, so with a bit of luck the Nazarene Group should also feature, and perhaps we'll get lucky and find a location for them."

"My goodness," gasped Pamela. "How can you sit there so calmly, tell me this, and eat, while all that is down there waiting for us?" Pamela pushed her plate away and stood up. Simon signalled her to sit down. He pushed her plate back in front of her.

"Eat while you can," he said. "We've got a long night in front of us and we'll need all the energy we can take on board.

"What concerns me is Pat and Ali not finding it. Maybe they did find it and didn't want us to know about it, or even perhaps they've known about it the whole time. You can see how this puts a whole new angle on this thing. If Pat and Ali are working for, or with, the Zealots, or the Nazarenes, then everything we know, they will know. So I wonder if we're doing the Zealots or Nazarene's work, or they're doing ours. I also wonder if Alan knows any of this." Simon pushed away his plate and got up from the table. "Come on girl, let's get into it."

They went back down to the underground complex and Simon guided Pamela to a blank wall at the end of a short passage, between two bedrooms, that led nowhere.

"If you looked in those two bedrooms you would find that they are shorter than this passage, so there has to be something behind this wall. Not rocket science, just plain old common sense."

Simon pushed against the beading and part of the wall swung back. They stepped into the communications room. It was impressive, with floor to ceiling racks containing grey boxes with dials, switches and blinking lights. One rack contained two large revolving tapes that Pamela thought were something to do with computers. There was the hum of both machinery and air conditioning. Against the far wall was a bookcase with what appeared to be instruction manuals, atlases, and other paraphernalia. Simon pulled at one end of the bookcase and it swung back into the room. A set of steps led downwards. Pamela followed Simon down them. The bookcase swung back into position as they descended. A door automatically opened at the bottom of the stairs and they stepped into what Simon had called the Operations Centre.

It reminded Pamela of photographs she had seen in history books of the Second World War operation rooms. There was a sunken floor, with a large, make that huge, table at its centre. At one end were three terraced areas, each with six computer stations. In the history book photographs they had been telephones operated by women members of the Armed Forces. Pamela realized that eighteen computer stations made this place a pretty major operation. The terraces continued along the side of the room from which they had entered, but the computer stations had been replaced with benches capable of holding eight people. There were three benches to each terrace, directly above each-other, with an aisle running down between them giving access to the central floor area. At the end opposite the computer stations, there was a floor to ceiling glass divider, which appeared retractable, and behind it was a U shaped table. Photographs of Pamela and Simon were affixed to the divider. It was clearly a conference room. The open end of the table would allow those seated at it see the entire room. Opposite Pamela and Simon were a series of projector screens. Not pull down screens, but the latest digital and rear projection ones. In a row down the middle of the ceiling, above the central table, were revolving lights similar to those Police cars had in the old days, but they were coloured blue, red, orange and green. Even though the room was empty of people, it contained an atmosphere of tension and excitement. Pamela could imagine all the computer stations and tables occupied, with the hum of machinery and conversation, and with people moving quietly, but purposefully, about their jobs.

"My goodness," said Pamela. "Who or what are we up against to warrant all this? It's not all against us is it? What hope do we have?" Simon tried a reassuring smile.

"Oh no," he exclaimed. "I don't think it's all for our benefit. A small part of it perhaps, but no, this will be the base for something much bigger than you and me. There are several bunkers like this around, but most of them have not have been renovated. They were actually built by the Government during the Second World War in case we were ever invaded. The members of Government were meant to end up in them to continue the fight.

"Now, I wonder where we should start?" Simon looked around the room. "We could be here for days if we rely on booting up the computers so we'll just have to tackle it another way. I tell you what. You do that centre table. Make a note of the maps, the areas they cover, and any place you think might indicate a Headquarters or Monastery or something. There must be paper and pens somewhere. Then do the computer stations and the benches. In other words, you do this room. I will do the one behind the glass. I can see a lot of filing cabinets in there.

"Let's do it quickly. I can't imagine that we will be left alone for long. I'm sure that the Principals of whatever organisation this is won't want to leave it unprotected for long.

"Let's go."

Pamela decided that the best way for her to get through the task was to do a quick overlook of the table to see if anything caught her eye. If it did, then she would put it to one side. That way she could quickly review it and either note it or bin it. Within ten minutes she had a heap of paper, files and maps about twenty inches high. In addition she had found a felt marker pen and circled what she considered were pertinent locations on the maps under the glass top of the table. Pamela then started through the pile of paper. Those pieces she thought warranted further scrutiny went to one side. The rest were consigned to the floor. Within another ten minutes her pile was limited to two inches and she started to work her way around the sides of the room.

Meantime Simon was in the conference room. Like Pamela he had to make a decision on the quickest way to evaluate any information the room contained. Simon opened a file cabinet and lifted out a file. He tipped the contents of the file back into the cabinet, giving him an empty file. He then went through the rest of the cabinet. With each file he tore the first page out and put it in the file he had freed up. He would then quickly glance through the rest of the file noting down any names he found. After twenty minutes, on the third filing cabinet, he noticed he had to blink his eyes rapidly to clear them. His nose was starting to run a little, and then he heard Pamela starting to sneeze. He stopped what he was doing and listened. All he could hear was Pamela rustling through drawers. There was no smell. Pamela started sneezing again. Simon went through into the main room.

"Can you smell anything?" he asked Pamela. She stopped and sniffed.

"No. Nothing unusual. I don't think so. Why?"

"I don't know. There's just something." Pamela sneezed again and coughed.

"Now you mention it," she said. "There is something irritating me. My throat is dry as."

"We're under attack," said Simon. "Gas. It has to be some form of gas. Probably disabling rather than deadly." He looked wildly around and then ran to the door but found it locked.

"Check the cupboards and things," he yelled to Pamela. "Look for gas masks. There'll have to be some in case the place ever came under gas attack. Quick as you can."

Simon ran back into the conference room and began pulling open drawers and cupboards. He dumped contents onto the floor as he went. In the main room Pamela followed his lead. Soon the floors and tables in both rooms were littered with papers, boxes, filing trays etc. But no gas masks. Pamela was seized by another coughing fit that drove her to her knees. Simon raced to her and held her until the attack subsided. It left her weak and unable to get back to her feet. Looking wildly around him Simon's eyes fell upon a control panel. There were a series of lights and push buttons on it above a fire hose reel. To one side was a dry ice fire extinguisher.

"Of course," said Simon. He propped Pamela up against a desk and she slid sideways like a rag doll. Leaving her lying awkwardly, Simon ran over to the control panel and pulled open the door upon which it was fitted. Inside was the pipe work for the hose reel, and hanging neatly in three rows were six gas masks. There were also three large gas bottles that Simon knew, by their colour coding, were oxygen. Knowing it would take time to work out how to activate the oxygen, Simon disregarded them. He quickly pulled a mask over his face. There was no oxygen being fed into the full face mask so he assumed they would have a limited effective life. He correctly guessed that that life would be about fifteen minutes. Long enough to provide life support until the wearer reached safety, or figured out how to activate the oxygen tanks. He slung two extra masks over his shoulder and took another to Pamela. He fitted it over her face and stayed holding her until she was able to sit upright without support. He left a spare mask with her and then went back to the entrance door. There was no doubt about it. It was sealed air tight and obviously secured via an electronic locking system. There was no easy way it could be forced open.

Step by step Simon examined the walls of the two rooms for any concealed exits. Nothing revealed itself. He finally reached the conclusion that the only way in or out was the single door. There were no air shafts or large ducting pipes so it wasn't going to be like in the movies where you could remove a grill and crawl to safety through a shaft. Simon did locate where the gas was coming from. It was via small holes situated right across the ceiling. They were too numerous to consider blocking. Simon figured they could also provide oxygen if he could figure out how to activate that system. He decided time was not on their side. He pulled on a fresh mask and saw Pamela do the same. She was now sitting on a chair. For a moment Simon also sat. He stared into the middle distance trying to catch hold of a thought that was nagging at him but staying just out of reach. Suddenly he jumped up.

"Got it," he said aloud, although Pamela could not hear what he said due to the mask. She watched as Simon went from computer terminal to computer terminal checking the wiring and rear of each one and also under the consoles. After doing that, he did the same to the central table, the projectors and each of the filing cabinets. Once that task was completed he went to where Pamela was seated. Although it was difficult to figure out what he was saying, Pamela managed to get the gist of it all.

"The gas is just to disable us. It's not here to kill us. I can't turn it off but I reckon who-ever is behind this had a fair idea we might find these masks, so they won't come in here until they reckon we've been over-come. It's possible they might have CCTV monitoring us. I don't know. The thing is though that this place is rigged with explosives."

"You mean we're going to die anyway?" Alarm sounded clearly through Pamela's mask.

"No. No," Simon moved to pacify her. "They're our way out. Explosives used to be a way of life for me. I know them like people know the back of their hands. Clearly they are rigged for the destruction of this place should it ever be required. The fact that they've not been activated gives credence to my belief that we're only meant to be disabled by the gas and not killed.

"So what I will do is use some of the explosives to get us out of here. I'll blow the door. Now just stay here while I get things organised. If you feel up to it though, try walking around a bit to get yourself as close to normal as possible so we can leg it out of here once the door opens."

Simon left Pamela and went to work. He assumed that the leads to the charges would be inactive. While it was a risk to assume anything, he felt it was a balanced one and when he cut the first wire and nothing happened that risk proved justified. Within minutes he had enough plastic explosive to start work on the door, and shortly after that he pulled Pamela down behind a desk and touched the two wires of his makeshift detonator together. The bang was not as loud as Pamela expected, but the result was spectacular with the door left lying on the floor.

Simon grabbed Pamela's hand and pulled her towards the door. Nearly at the door Pamela pulled away and ran back to the central table. She picked up a paper weight and smashed the glass top. She pulled out a couple of the maps she had previously circled, and that caused Simon to remember the folder in the conference room. He grabbed that and both of them bounded up the steps into the radio room and then back into the house itself, tearing off the gas masks as they went. They ran to the front door but found it had been secured somehow. They were unable to open it. They raced into the kitchen but found the windows similarly secured. Simon did not hesitate. He picked up a stool and smashed the glass. He pushed out the broken pieces and he and Pamela made good their escape.

They found the car where they had left it. It started immediately and they made excellent time getting away from the area and back into proper civilization.

Chapter 32

They found a late night Starbucks and sat down to recover from their imprisonment and assess what they had discovered. Sitting there with normal activity going on around them made the danger of the previous few hours seem distant and somehow unreal. Simon put sugar in their cups, making sure that they got extra to help keep shock at bay.

"You okay?" he asked Pamela.

"Sure," nodded Pamela. "I am getting use to being shot at, gassed, imprisoned and goodness knows what else. I used to lead such a non-life really didn't I; the odd drunk, the odd smelly vagrant!"

Simon smiled. "Sounds like my old girl is getting back to normal."

"And ours," said Pamela patting her tummy.

"Great. He'll grow up with a taste for adventure won't he?"

"So where do we go from here?"

"What were the maps you got?"

Pamela pulled them out of her bag. She laid them out on the table, pushing the cups to one side. They were topographical maps that showed extremely good detail of a country area. It was pretty hilly, almost mountainous in parts, and very isolated. Pamela looked at them in dismay.

"Oh Simon," she sighed. "I must have picked up the wrong ones. The ones I was after showed towns and I thought they would probably give us some sort of a starting place. These don't mean a thing do they?"

Simon didn't answer immediately. He spent some minutes looking at the contours shown, and the heights of the hills.

"It doesn't say where it is does it?" asked Pamela.

"On the contrary," said Simon. "We can locate it very quickly. You see, these figures and letters and other symbols pinpoint the area. It could be anywhere in the world but with those pieces of information we can pinpoint it. I'm just wondering why they had this map. See these little symbols? They indicate huts and as you can see there are not many of them so this is a pretty isolated area. The huts would normally be maintained by the Government for the use of recreational trampers and hunters. I'd be pretty safe in saying this is probably some Regional or National Park designated to maintain its wildlife state.

"What does interest me though is this little area here." Simon pointed with his finger. "All around here you can see these little wriggly lines. They join together places that are of the same height. The closer they are together the steeper the rise." Simon removed his finger and pointed to another part of the map. "See here? Look at how close the lines are and the numbers on them. The numbers by that dot say 18924 and that means that the dot is the top of a hill that is 18924 feet above sea level so it's quite a little old mountain. Now if we go back here." Simon's finger shifted again. "You can see that while the numbers are quite high all around this area, right here the lines are far apart. That means the area is flattish. I think that is what is important about this map. It is showing a plateau in quite mountainous country. I may be wrong, but I'll bet we'll end up there. My waters tell me the Order of the Nazarene, or the Zealots or whatever are based there."

"You really think so?" asked Pamela excited. Simon laughed. A sort of a bark really.

"I don't know girl," he admitted. "It's just a wild guess really. I could say it is based on gut instinct and I suppose it is. Deep down though, something is telling me that's the place we're interested in. Before we get too carried away though, we'll have to get a map of the world and locate the latitude and longitude of this map. That will tell us exactly where this location is."

"What about the stuff you got?" asked Pamela. Simon picked it up and then put it down again.

"Names," he said. "I just took names. Names of people, of company's, that sort of thing. With those we can perhaps trace them and try to put things together if that is possible. We'll need resources to do that though. More resources than you and me and that's for sure."

"So what do we do now?" asked Pamela. "Where do we go? How do we know we're not being tracked or whatever right now? Perhaps that waitress over there is not just a large middle-aged woman. Maybe she's some form of secret agent." Pamela giggled. Simon realized it was an outlet for her fears.

"Maybe," continued Pamela, "her name tag is her under-cover name. She may not be Mavis. Probably she is Janice Bond and while we think she is pushing her hair back behind her ear she's probably got an earpiece receiving information from the agents outside who are ready to pounce upon us once we leave."

"You're right," agreed Simon. "I've seen her turn the knob on that machine over there several times and talk to it. I think it's probably a radio tuner and as far as those tongs in her hand are concerned, I'll bet they convert into a pistol in forty-five easy movements." They both laughed, letting the tension ease from them.

"Seriously though," said Pamela. "What is next?"

"Well as I see it," explained Simon, "the next step is a little on the big side so we'll need help. Our best source is Alan . . ." Simon raised his hand to stop Pamela as she opened her mouth to protest. "Okay, okay. I know what was said but I find it hard to accept that Alan would cast us aside. Alan and I have been through things together that don't allow us the privilege of judging each other. What I want to do is telephone him. If he is turning his back on me then I want him to tell me, not some flunky.

"Come on, there is a public telephone box down the road a bit."

They got up from the table and went to the till at the counter to pay for their coffees.

"Give James our regards," said Simon to a bewildered waitress as both he and Pamela burst into laughter.

Pamela crowded into the telephone booth with Simon. He had removed the light bulb before dialing so the only light was that from the nearest street light some distance away. They both knew it was to make them a less easy target, but neither wanted to acknowledge that. The number Simon dialed was Alan Forsyth's private and confidential number, always answered only by him or his secure voice mail box. This time however it was answered by a female, and both Simon and Pamela recognised Pat Winger's voice. Simon immediately altered his voice.

"'Ow are ya me girl?" he asked. "Is me ole mate Alan there? Tell him it's Paddy, Paddy O'Hagan. You his Missus are ya?"

"No," responded Winger. "Unfortunately Alan is unable to come to the telephone at the moment. Can I take a message for him?"

"No way girly," said Simon. "You listen to me now. Alan was to have some information for me and he was to give it to me now. Okay, so he's probably busy but you just go and ask him what he's got to tell me and then I'll be off. If not, then me and the boys will just have to come over and get that message. You understand Missy?"

"One moment please sir," said Winger, and the telephone switched to a Brahms Symphony. After a moment or so Brahms was interrupted by Winger. "Are you there Sir?"

"And where the hell else would I be?" asked Simon.

"One moment Sir," said Winger as though Simon had not spoken. "Mr. Forsythe will take your call now." Simon heard the transfer and after six rings Alan Forsyth answered the telephone.

"Is that you Mr. O'Hagan?" he asked.

"Of course it's me ya fool, who else would it be, ya fucking Grandmother?"

"Just procedure Paddy, just procedure," replied Alan Forsyth. "You wouldn't want this information getting into the wrong hands now would you?" Simon did not answer. "So," continued Forsyth. "Is this a safe line?"

"As safe as Pub lines get," replied Simon.

"The frequency with which you use the Bull and Bear public lines would almost have to make it your personal line, so by now it is probably tapped anyway" replied Forsyth.

"You let me worry about that," stated Simon. "Anyway, that's not where I am ringing from. Just give me the information will ya? All this other crap fucks me off."

"Alright," pacified Forsyth. "The name is Jeremy Tollyer and the current address is 165 Avenue Way East. The telephone number is 7864-03265. Got that?"

Simon grunted. "Okay, got that. If I need anymore I'll be in touch in the next couple of days."

"Fine," said Forsyth. "If I'm not here then either Pat Winger or Alistair Newbold will be able to help." Again Simon grunted and then hung up the telephone.

"I take it the news is not good?" queried Pamela.

"No," responded Simon. "Alan's in trouble. Nobody, but nobody, except Alan answers that telephone number. When Winger answered it I knew straight away something was wrong. The name O'Hagan is a code name Alan used during a job we were doing in Ireland. I was Paddy so by combining the two names I was identifying my true self to Alan. His mention of the Bull and Bear means he is not able to speak freely."

"So you were right," said Pamela. "Winger and Newbold are operating independently. It's good news in one way though isn't it? It means Alan hasn't deserted us." Simon nodded agreement.

"It tells us why we haven't been getting far with our enquiries and that what we have learned we have found out for ourselves. It also means that whoever they're working for has been able to keep a tab on us easily and thwart us whenever they feel the need too."

"So why would they blow their cover now?" asked Pamela. "Like, we thought that they were for real and that Alan didn't want to do anything else for us so why now reveal them-selves to him?"

"I don't know," agreed Simon. "My best bet would be that Alan has some information that they need to stop us getting, or he has uncovered something that alerted him to them. Either way he's in trouble and we're going to have to give him a hand because we need him for the next few steps."

"So how do we do this?" asked Pamela.

"First we update all that we have done. It's probably best that we précis it and then we'll deposit it with the rest of the stuff. Once that's done we'll set up an operation to sort out Alan's problem."

They got back into their vehicle where, with Simon's help, Pamela learnt how to complete what was the equivalent of a Police job sheet. The writing served to clarify in their minds all that had happened.

Daylight was penetrating the darkness by the time they had finished their writing exercise. With the exhaustion of the night behind them they drifted off to sleep in each-others arms, and awoke when cramp forced them to move their limbs. They found an early morning breakfast café and tucked into bacon, eggs and hash browns as Simon outlined the course of action.

"First, we're going back to where there are a lot of eyes and ears so we're going to have to reactivate our anti-surveillance techniques. Just stay with me and please do whatever I say without your womanly protestations. Please. This is my area of expertise. I know what I am doing. Trust me.

"I'll take you to the bank where I keep all the job sheets. You need to know where they are in case anything goes wrong and you'll at least have some supporting evidence to give to the Police or whoever else may believe you.

"Then we'll go to a 'rent an office' that I have and we'll organise some troops to assist in sorting out Alan's rebels. Mind you, that will take some thought as well. When Alan said to Paddy about information getting into the wrong hands, I think he was probably saying that we should be careful who we trust.

"Come on then, let's get going."

They went back out to the car and commenced their anti-surveillance routine. Within half an hour they had pin-pointed operatives keeping track of them. They were experts, but did not seem to care if Simon and Pamela noticed them or not.

"Who are they working for" asked Pamela. "Alan's rebels, or one of the other teams?"

Simon shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. However it's time we lost them. I've got to get you to the bank and the locker. Be prepared for some unusual driving and some quick steps. Don't look behind unless I ask you to. Okay, let's go."

As they approached the next intersection, Simon signalled a left turn at the red traffic lights. When the lights changed to green Simon accelerated straight through cutting across in front of the vehicle on his right. Simon kept an eye on the rear view mirror and smiled as he saw the following vehicle get trapped and abandon the chase. He repeated the exercise at the next set of traffic lights and then did follow his indications at the next two. He used one way streets and alley-ways in a series of manouvres until he told Pamela to be ready to move. He drove into an alley-way between two streets and then right into a blind access way half way down that alley. Following Simon, Pamela left the car and they went through a back door that gave access to an underground shopping complex. In turn that complex gave them access onto a different block. They then took a taxi to the local council building which they left via a side exit, and took another taxi to a suburban railway station where they boarded a train to the Central Railway Station after having ducked into a shop to purchase a few items of disguise. Once on the train they donned the hats they had purchased and changed their tops. They left their old tops under the seats. When they left the train they were more than confident that any surveillance had been dropped, but just to be sure they sat in the station café for half an hour before heading to the bank. They deposited their updates and arranged with the bank for Pamela to also have access to Simon's safe deposit box. They then boarded another train that took them out to the West of the City. On the fourth stop they left the train and again went through their anti-surveillance routine before taking a taxi back east to the rent-an-office. Pamela was amazed at the techniques but quickly adapted to them and on a couple of instances was more creative than Simon.

Once in the office, Simon outlined to Pamela the strategy that he intended to follow regarding what he termed, the rescue of Alan.

"I've told you before that there are a number of things in my background that are what you would probably call undesirable. By that, I mean that the 'powers that be' considered the ends justified the means, and I was part of the means. Some of those were in Ireland, and of course that's where Alan and I worked together. We actually were a very good team. We were part of a larger operation, of course, but my team became heavily dependant upon each-other, not only for our safety but also for guidance and companionship. We became family. Because of that, we have always remained in touch. It's a bit of a loose contact, but we always know where and how to reach each-other. I know that besides Alan and me there are two others of us locally, and four in Australia. I will contact each of them and try to set up a team of three or four. While we don't know how many are holding Alan, I know that it will only take a small group to win through. Believe me when I say they won't know what has hit them when we go in.

"So, while I'm doing that, I want you to telephone Dwayne Ratima at the Vice Squad. Tell him who you are and that you're calling on my behalf. He won't ask you anything too much. Tell him I need a huge favour. Tell him Alan Forsyth is in trouble and that I need the plans for his office; the storm plans. He'll know what you mean. The storm plans are those that would be used by the Police Anti-Terrorist Rescue Unit, and others, if it ever became necessary to attack the building to free hostages. All Government Buildings and vital infrastructure have storm plans for the 'Agencies'. Ask him to leave them for pick up addressed to you at one of your father's places.

"That sound okay?"

"Piece of the proverbial lover," nodded Pamela. "And hey?"

"Yeah?"

"Love you heaps."

"Me too."

They set about their tasks with enthusiasm. After an hour on the telephone Simon sat back to find a hot cup of coffee and some biscuits in front of him. Pamela was similarly equipped.

"Begged these from some of the others around here," explained Pamela.

"Dwayne okay?" asked Simon.

"Yep," said Pamela. "He sounded nice. Didn't ask any questions and the plans should be at Stevens Devine by about now. He did say he thought I would be good for you, as you needed reigning in from time to time." Simon smiled. "And how about you?" she queried.

"No problems. It sounds as though there are some pretty bored people out there. Three of the four from Australia will arrive tomorrow and the two locals will be at the safe house tonight. One is already there actually."

"A safe house?"

"Yeah," said Simon. "As you probably know, from films and things, a lot of Government Agencies have normal houses out in the suburbs that they use, from time to time, as homes away from home for various people who need to be out of the spotlight, or circulation, for a while. This particular safe house is really a holiday bach used by ex Special Forces guys, and it so happens that one of our locals is on holiday there at the moment. So after we tidy up a few things, we'll pick up those plans and go to the holiday bach at the beach. How about that?"

"You're including me aren't you?"

"Oh yeah."

"What about your mates? Will they be cool about me?"

"No problems," promised Simon.

"Just putting Alan to one side at the moment," said Pamela. "While you were on the telephone I got an Atlas and looked up the latitude and longitude you showed me on that map. The place is not all that far from where we found your Dad's cave out of Featherston. Well, relatively speaking. The hills where you and your Dad used to have the cows are the foothills, sort of, to the ranges where you found that flat area. It's called the Rimutaka or Tararua Forest Park or something."

"You're joking?" said Simon with a look of utter disbelief on his face.

"No," stated Pamela. "When you look at it, it's probably not unlikely is it? That way they would have been able to keep an eye on him and you."

"Holy shit," said Simon. "Look, once we get out to the beach I want you to get onto the internet and find out whatever you can about that area. There should be back copies of newspapers available, local histories, all that sort of stuff. Holy mother of God we may be getting somewhere." Simon jumped up and waltzed Pamela around the room.

"What a great investigator you are Sherlock," said Simon with a delighted grin. "Hey let's forget about this place and get out to some surf, sea and sand."

Simon telephoned for a taxi and they locked up the office. The taxi took them to a local shopping mall. They then went through their anti-surveillance routines and ended up buying a cheap Ford van, advertised on the side of the road, for cash, and a promise they would change the ownership details within the next couple of days. Within ninety minutes of the purchase they were driving down a right of way to a three storey complex one street back from one of Auckland's Eastern beaches. They had uplifted the storm plans from Stevens Devine en-route. Simon parked the van, and as he and Pamela approached the front door, it opened. A male strode towards them with his right hand out-stretched. Pamela estimated him to be about forty years of age. He was slim and wiry with curly black hair. He was indistinguishable from hundreds of other forty year olds. The constant motion of his eyes spoke of a difference however. They were constantly checking the surroundings; high, low, left, right, far, near, front and back. Pamela could see that this was a man who expected the unexpected and would never be surprised by it.

"Simon, Simon," he said with warmth and a smile that genuinely lit up his face. "It's good to see you again brother." He and Simon shook hands.

"And this is Pam," introduced Simon. "Pam, this is Bernie. Bernard he does not answer too."

"Pleased to meet you," said Bernie shaking Pamela's hand. "I do pity you though having to put up with this animal. Keep him on a short leash and feed him only crumbs. That's my advice.

"However, come on in. Come on in."

The front door gave access to a glass lobby. Pamela could now see that the lobby extended to all three floors, clearly divided the building into left and right on each floor. Back, front and top were all glass and, Pamela learnt later, it was bullet proof to all except anti-tank missiles and better. Curtains, drapes really, could block out the outside and make the place look friendlier than it would have if steel shutters clanged over.

Bernie led them in through the door on the right. It revealed a spacious three bed roomed family unit. Nothing cheap. The kitchen sported all the latest labour saving devices known to mankind. The rest of the unit matched, with computer, televisions, stereos, home theatre systems etc. You name it and the unit had it. Pamela could see evidence of a woman's presence with flowers and a historical romance novel. She doubted Bernie read such. Bernie saw her glance at the book and said, "Ellie's just ducked down to the shops. She'll be back in a minute." At Pamela's quizzical look he continued. "Simon hasn't told you? Ellie's my better half. We've been together fifteen years so far and I reckon we've got another fifteen plus left in us as well. You'll like her. You'll also learn a lot more about Simon and the rest of us from her.

"Speak of the devil," he said as a West Indian woman walked through the door. "Ellie, this is Pam. Simon of course you know." Ellie gave Simon a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

"Simon," she acknowledged. "Pam, it's good to meet you. Pity about the boyfriend but I won't hold that against you. Come on and help me make a coffee for us all." Pamela and Ellie went through to the kitchen area while Simon and Bernie followed. They sat at the kitchen breakfast bar while Ellie showed Pamela where to find everything.

"You'll be right across the hallway," Ellie told Pamela. "Everything is an exact mirror duplicate of this place. It's all fully stocked up so you won't need to buy anything."

With coffee's all round they looked expectantly at Simon.

"Okay," said Simon. "I won't go into any detail now or I'll spend hours repeating myself as everyone arrives. What I will say is that Alan Forsyth has had his freedom curtailed by some of his associates. Why they are doing this is not fully known at this point. It will be our task to free him. Tom will be here tonight and Ross, Ray and Jack will be here within the next twenty-four hours. By that time we will have briefing papers in place and begin the planning in earnest."

Pamela looked at Ellie. "Are you part of the team Ellie? Does this sort of thing happen often?"

Ellie laughed.

"No, it doesn't occur often. Normally us women are not part of any action thing, and certainly not at any official level. On some 'off the books' jobs we do get involved but certainly not in your condition."

Bernie looked closely at Pamela, who was blushing, and raised his eyebrows at Simon.

"How did you know?" asked Simon.

"A woman just knows," said Ellie.

"What does a woman just know?" mimicked Bernie.

"There's going to be the pitter patter of little feet shortly," pointed out Ellie.

"Really?" asked Bernie. Simon and Pamela nodded.

"You old dog," said Bernie. "Well done. Mind you I'd have thought you were past it."

"You're never past it," said Simon. "Trust me."

"Yeah, right," said Bernie. "So what now?"

"Well, I'll get Pamela settled in next door, and then perhaps you and I can make a start getting things in order for when the rest of the troops arrive. Give us quarter of an hour and then we'll meet upstairs." Bernie nodded.

Simon and Pamela went across to the apartment opposite Ellie and Bernie's. As Ellie had said it was a mirror duplicate. Pamela turned to Simon.

"Ellie's nice," she said. "How long have you known her and Bernie? How come you haven't mentioned them before? Are the others like them, and do they have girlfriends as well? Will they be coming also? Simon this is like a whole new secret you that I've never heard of before."

"Hey, hey. Hang on a minute," said Simon raising his hands in surrender. "Let's sit down and I'll try to explain."

"You'd better do more than try," warned Pamela.

"Okay," started Simon. "Where to start? That's the point. Okay. We've all been Special Forces operatives. Over the years we've been places that you've never heard of. We've done things you've never heard of for reasons you'll never hear of. Most of us never want to remember but we can never forget. Those are old clichés but true. We have had close mates and friends killed. None of us are involved in any of that shit actively at the moment, but from time to time the past does intrude on us. People and movements from our pasts catch up with us. That can place us, and more importantly our loved ones, in danger. Often mortal danger. When that happens we regroup to take care of the problem. Our partners know of our general background, and because of the uniqueness of the situation they get to meet the others. There is a sort of qualifying period normally involved.

"Okay, okay I think you qualified some time ago and I should have told you, but honestly honey, when have we had real quality time together to cover everything. I have told you of my past life. At the moment my whole world is upside down. I was going to involve the team anyway, once we had located the Order of the Nazarene Head Quarters, so that we could take it down once and for all. This thing with Alan has just precipitated it. I think we both know that it's his involvement with us that has got him into this situation so we have a moral duty to help him.

"I'll have to brief the whole team about this and us. It means that there will be no more secrets. It's pretty rare that the partners get involved in any dirty work, but it has been known to happen. Generally they work as a support team providing logistics etc. This building was actually built and funded by the team to provide both a holiday type place, as well as an H.Q. if needed. The two units above us are the same as these two on this level. The top floor is actually an armoury and operations centre. You'll see it a bit later on.

"We also have a basement that is a bunker type outfit a bit like Alan's safe room. Also there is an exit from the basement that allows us to actually reappear a couple of blocks away.

"So, about the others. Those coming from Australia are Ross, Ray and Jack. Ross is known as Rosco and lives with June. Ray is known as Sunshine and is married to Rosy. Jack is known as Jacko and is married to Claire. None of the women are coming at this stage but are available if required. The other one who will be arriving soon is Tom. He's known as Tee and his wife Alice will be with him. They'll all accept you as you are. You don't have to be other than yourself. Tell them as little, or as much, as you want. In time you will find that they will all become your absolute best friends."

"Did Elaine and Suzanne know these people?" asked Pamela.

"Elaine did, Sue didn't."

"And how will that make me feel?" asked Pamela. "All of them know your ex, and from what you say will have known her quite intimately, and then suddenly I'm your one and only. They'll have to react differently to me."

"They won't," said Simon. "If you are here, you are here. The loyalty and support is for the current, not the past. Okay, sure, if an ex partner is in danger due to their previous connection with us then we will act, but only as a business arrangement. The loyalty and support is current. I know you will find that hard to understand but it has to be. If we were tied to the past we'd be in the shit because much of our past lays dead on foreign soil.

"Again, as I've said before, and as that Television character, Sledge Hammer, says, 'trust me, I know what I'm doing.'"

Before Pamela could reply the door burst open and in came a rolly polly red haired and freckled forty year old man accompanied by the skinniest woman Pamela had ever seen.

"Simon you old prick!" said the man embracing Simon. "About fucking time we got together."

"Tee. Tee," replied Simon. "Great to see you again man."

"Alice," said Simon acknowledging the woman and then hugging and kissing her. Pamela stood up.

"Tee, Alice," said Simon. "This is my Pam. Pam, this is Tee and Alice."

"How the fuck are ya?" asked Tom bounding over to Pamela and giving her a big hug. "You'll have your hands full with Simon but I'll bet you can handle it okay."

"Hi Pam," said Alice also giving Pamela a hug.

"You'll have to watch your language a bit Tee," said Simon. "Pam's not use to it."

"Yeah? That so Missy?" asked Tom.

"Sort of," agreed Pamela. "Mind you some words are worse than others don't you think?"

"Yeah, probably," said Tom doubtfully. Alice laughed.

"You'll get used to him Pam. There's no way he won't swear. He reckons they're only words and frowned upon because of that. He reckons that if the word porcupine referred to a certain part of the female body then that would be a swear word. Just ignore him. That's the best advice I can give."

"Now you've gone and hurt my feelings," said Tom, not looking in the least bit put out.

"Actually Pam, Alice is probably right," said Simon. "I heard him talking to the Queen once and he used the 'f' word a couple of times to her. I'm sure if she could handle it then we can."

"I'm sure we'll get on just fine won't we Tom?" said Pamela giving him a hug.

"Fucking oath," agreed Tom. They all laughed.

"Okay," said Tom. "We'll get ourselves settled in upstairs and then we'd better get things underway."

Simon nodded. "Yep," he agreed. "See ya upstairs in say quarter to half an hour?" Alice and Tom left and Simon took Pamela by the hand. "He's actually great," he continued. "He's one of my closest mates."

Pamela hugged him tight. "I love you Simon Allan," she said.

"I love you too," replied Simon. "Okay, let's get this fornacatorium on the road."

Thirty minutes later they all met together in the Operations Centre on the top floor. It was similar in set up to the underground room at the farmhouse only on a reduced scale. There were several radio sets and various other items of electrical equipment with screens, dials and things. Simon, Pamela, Bernie, Ellie, Tom and Alice all sat round a circular table at one end of the room. They all held cups of coffee made by Ellie in a little kitchen area off the room. They looked expectantly at Simon. He cleared his throat and looked around at them all. He started to talk.

"What I'll tell you shortly will change your life. I have found it to be completely unbelievable and to involve things I had never previously heard of."

He then proceeded to lay out for them everything that had happened since he met Yarmouth. He left out nothing. He did not try and put his involvement, with what at the time he believed was an underage prostitute, in any light other than the truth. Pamela marvelled at his precise recall of events and his almost encyclopedic knowledge and recall of paperwork, names, dates and places.

He concluded; "As near as I can guess, Alan is currently under the control of a hostile agency. I am uncertain if it is directly related to what has been happening with the Order of the Nazarene, but if it isn't, then it must be the co-incidence of all co-incidences and we don't believe in coincidences do we? There is the possibility that I may be wrong, and that it is entirely unrelated, but I doubt it.

"So what do you think?"

"While it may surprise you lot," said Bernie. " I must say Simon that I can accept most of what you say. A lot of that stuff is out in the mainstream now and I've followed up on a lot of it. As you say, it may be that Alan has got tied up in something else, but I'll bet it is something to do with you and yours. Now I know why you were always the boss." Everyone laughed.

"Okay," continued Simon. "Let's put the reason to one side for the moment. We'll organise the rescue of Alan and then we'll see if his problem is associated with my problem. Once that's done we'll take the next step. Everyone in agreement?" They all nodded.

Ellie spoke up, "Look, I can't see any need for us women to be involved at the moment so what say us girls go and attack some wine, cheese and comfort while you three get things organised for Rosco, Sunshine and Jacko? Besides, Alice and I really need to sit Pam down and extract all the information she has." The last was said with a smile that showed the words true intent.

Bernie, Simon and Tom were left alone. Between them they listed all of Alan Forsyth's staff known to them, along with as much as they could recall of the offices and what they knew of his work. With the help of the Storm Plans they put together a rescue scenario. They set out this scenario in a battle plan, and made up the flimsies and transparencies etc that would be required to brief the Australian contingent when it arrived. By the time they had finished it was early morning the following day. They returned to their units and joined their partners in bed, and slept late. At midday they joined together for lunch and spent time catching up on all that had happened since they had last seen each-other. Pamela was fascinated by the way they were able to act as though there was nothing more important on this earth than their little group. She realized that it was their way of coping. If they lived every moment on the edge then they would fall apart. She joined in fully, having found the previous day that she was not judged in any way by either Ellie or Alice. If anything they seemed delighted with the change they could see she had wrought in Simon. That evening they had a meal together in Tom and Alice's unit before heading to bed.

Late the next morning the Australian contingent arrived. Again Pamela found she was accepted without any judgment. By mid afternoon they were all in the Operations Room ready for the briefing. Between their arrival, and the meeting, the Australians had caught up on the situation via a précis outline prepared for them. They did not seem to find the situation at all unreal. Like the others they took it all in their stride. They were now all seated at the Operations room table, with the briefing details laid out. Partners and wives were also present. Simon stood, and without consulting any notes, proceeded to outline the battle plan. And battle plan it was. None of them were under any illusions. They knew that this was for real. There was the possibility that some, or all, of them might not live to see the end of the operation. While Simon outlined the plan from memory, the others followed it in the briefing notes, watched the overhead projections, and made notes themselves. The briefing followed the standard Armed Services format. The operation was code named Operation Thunder. This had been named by Tom, who had revealed biblical knowledge that Simon did not know he had. Tom had explained that as Simon was a descendant of Jesus, and two of Jesus disciples were James and John, who were the sons of Zebedee, and that as they were known as the 'Sons of Thunder', it might be a good code name in keeping with the situation in which Simon, a descendant of Jesus, was being assisted by his followers; the Sons of Thunder. The Operational brief was set out as follows:

OPERATION THUNDER

Staff: Simon, Bernie, Tee, Rosco, Sunshine, Alice, Ellie and Pam.

General: Alan Forsyth (show photograph) is currently being held hostage by an unknown number of armed hostiles. The target address is well fortified. You have all previously visited the premises on occasions so will be aware of its security. Some or all of Forsyth's staff are involved with the hostiles. It is possible that those staff not being co-operative will be held captive somewhere in the premises. It is highly likely that there are outside hostiles involved.

Situation: At the present time the only firm information we have is that Forsyth is in the building and that Pat Winger (show photograph) and Alistair Newbold (show photograph) are holding him. There is no known involvement by any legitimate Government Agency. The most likely hostiles are paramilitary/espionage Sections associated with overseas religious groups. Those groups are not, repeat not, Muslim based but Christian based. Deadly force is part of their operational technique. They are well armed in their own right with exceptional intelligence gathering ability. In addition, of course, they have access to Forsyth's equipment.

Mission: To remove Forsyth from his captives, unharmed, and to relocate him to the safe house.

Execution: Outline: While hostile numbers are uncertain it is known that the building is well equipped to detect any outside threat. To combat that we have devised a means of egress that will give us maximum surprise. That will be covered in phase 3 below.

Phase 1: Refer to the attached maps and building schematics.

Preparation: Ellie, Pam and Alice will man the Ops. Centre. They are to ensure all the equipment is operational. They will also have the responsibility for ensuring the Ford Forresters being used by the rescue team are fuelled and ready to go. Ellie is O/C with Alice first back-up and Pam second backup until the operation begins.

Jacko is O/C communications. Rosco is O/C special weapons. In addition to normal requirements special attention needs to be paid to the explosives and percussion grenades. Tee is O/C weaponry and is to ensure the vehicles are fully equipped with all that they can carry.

Phase 2: Refer to the area maps.

Moving to the Assembly Area: The assembly point is 83 Trennar Street. It is situated two blocks away from the target building. We leave at 0200 hours tomorrow and assemble at 83 Trennar Street at 0230 hours. Vehicle one driver is Tee, deputy Jacko. Vehicle two driver is Sunshine, deputy Rosco. Pam will take the Previa people mover to 83 Trennar Street and await the team's return.

Phase 3: Refer to maps and schematics.

Entry and Recovery:

At 0240 hours Simon, Bernie, Rosco and Jacko will go to the intersection of Trennar and Atmore and access the storm-water system. They will follow the drainage system to where it goes closest to the lift shaft giving access to the Investigations Limited Safe Room.

At 0255 hours Tee will access the underground carpark via the 19 Hibbert Street garage. It is believed access will be permitted in the belief that the vehicle and occupants can be trapped in the underground area. Tee will wear breathing apparatus and anti-gas tactics will apply as they will in all likelihood flood the garage with gas. Tee's objective is to gain access to the main lift shaft, or failing that, the stairs alongside it or if that proves impossible, to make it to the ground floor to support Sunshine.

At 0255 hours, Sunshine you will attempt entry via the Atmore Street front door. The hostiles will more than likely allow entry into the main lift or stairs and attempt to disable or terminate you there with gas. If you're unable to obtain your objective then join forces with Tee, if he's available, and gain access to the 6th floor. Once there blow your way onto the 5th floor, which is filled with 'white noise', and is a vacuum. Once in there attempt to gain access to Investigation Limited's reception area. Doing that will bypass the outer three corridors of the 4th floor.

At 0258 hours Simon, Bernie, Rosco and Jacko will blow their way into the safe room lift shaft. Seismic detectors will probably indicate the entry but hopefully it will be put down to Tee and Sunshine. The team will then climb the lift shaft and exit into Forsyth's office. We will act on the belief that Forsyth will be in the Command Centre. He is unlikely to be held in the outer safety rings as they will probably be closed down and filled with gas. In that area, the hostiles will be able to access all the equipment and keep an eye on Forsyth at the same time. We extract Forsyth and exit. The entire operation is time limited. Disengagement will be at 0315 hours whether or not the mission has been successful.

You are to shoot to kill if your life, or the life of another, is threatened. In the event of a disabling injury to any of the team the operation is to be terminated. If any member gets lost then they're to make their own way back to the safe house ensuring they get rid of any surveillance they may have acquired. Prior to that course of action, or if such is not possible, they are to make contact with Ellie or Alice to advise of their situation.

Phase 4: Withdrawal:

At 0315 hours, or prior if operation is successful, disengage and exit the premises. This will be via the lift, lift shaft or stairs to the ground level and then via the Atmore Street front entrance to Sunshine's vehicle. Tee's vehicle will be sacrificed by initiating the self destruct protocol from Sunshine's vehicle. We will travel to 83 Trennar Street. Sunshine will clean the vehicle and return to the safe house once he ensures he's free of surveillance. Pam will drive the rest of the team back to the safe house in the Previa.

Phase 5: Debrief and refurbish:

Debrief will be at 0700 hours. Before that you will clean, check and replace your weapons and ammunition etc.

Admin & Logistics:

Dress will be night cam. with night vision gear, balaclavas, no rations, no identification.

Weaponry will be standard hostile night ops. Tee will have vehicle V1 with Jacko and Bernie.

Sunshine will have vehicle V2 with Rosco and Simon. Pam will have the Previa.

Command & Signals:

Order of command: Simon, Rosco, Bernie, Jacko, Sunshine, Tee.

Team will operate on our frequencies. Channel 1 until 0230 hours, radio silence until 0258 hours, and then channel 3 open until 0315 hours or exiting the target at which time we will return to channel 1.

Call signs: Simon 19, Tee 4, Jacko 9, Bernie 5, Sunshine 11, Rosco 15.

All communications are to be recorded by Ops.

All G.P.S. will be deactivated for the duration of the operation.

"Okay gentlemen and ladies," finished Simon. "Co-ordinate your watches. It is now 1600 hours. So, any questions?"

Chapter 33

At 2 am three vehicles left the beach house complex. Two were Ford Forresters with darkened windows, and a deck type arrangement on top of them where the roof rack would normally be situated. The third was a dark blue Toyota Previa. 83 Trennar Street turned out to be the site of an old gas works. A narrow entrance gave access to a courtyard surrounded on all sides by two storied brick structures that had previously housed garages, workshops and offices. The team exited the vehicles in silence and set about rechecking their equipment. At 2.40 am Simon, Bernie, Ross and Jack left the old gas works yard on foot. They were dressed in black and wore balaclavas. Anyone seeing them would think they were a Police Armed Response team. At the intersection of Atmore and Trennar Streets, Bernie and Jack lifted the cast iron cover from the storm water system, revealing iron rungs descending into the dark. With Simon leading they quickly descended the ladder system with Jack, being last man down, ensuring the cast cover was put back in position. It took only five minutes to get to the position closest to where they believed the safe room lift shaft was. To their surprise they found a door. This had not been shown on any plans but had obviously been illegally fitted as an escape route from the shaft. As such there was no bolt or lock on the drain side. It was going to make access much simpler though. They all realized that if there was a door it had to be accessed so there were probably ladder rungs in the shaft. At the same time they realized that the doors existence may be known to the hostiles and, if so, then they could well face a fire fight before even getting near Alan Forsyth. Ross and Bernie placed explosives over and around the three hinges and pushed detonators into the explosives. They used wired detonators, having previously had negative experiences with wireless ones. Having finished, they squatted with their backs against the drain wall watching Simon as he kept an eye on his watch. At 2.58 am Simon nodded to Ross who touched the detonator leads to the battery. The resultant explosion was more of a loud 'crump' than a bang. The door fell to one side. Simon was first through to a short passage. A door at the end of that passage gave access to the lift shaft. There were rungs leading upwards. He commenced to climb. The others followed. As they ascended they could hear the sound of explosions and small weapons fire coming from somewhere above them. It was not directed at them. The higher up the shaft they got, the more remote the sound of gunfire, so Simon assumed that Tom and Ray had met early resistance at their points of entry from the street and underground entrances. Simon's team reached the top of the safe room lift shaft. Simon pushed a small electronic camera on the end of a cable through the lift shaft doors. Nobody was present in Forsyth's office so with a small jemmy they parted the doors and gained access to it. Simon and Bernie went to the door giving access to the corridor. Nobody was in sight. Jack and Ross ensured Forsyth's ensuite was clear. Ross then went to Alan Forsythe's desk and booted up his computer. Within seconds he had accessed the security camera system. Simon joined him while Bernie maintained the corridor watch. They switched the display to the garage. Tom's Forrester was visible looking much the worse for wear. All the windows were shattered so it had probably been stopped in a classic ambush operation. Such an operation gave clear access shots at the occupants through the windows. The shattered windows, combined with the bullet riddled doors, showed that the hostiles meant business and were not afraid to kill to achieve their objective. There was no sign of Tom. A switch to the main entrance showed it to be empty. Simon switched to the command centre but before he could take in the picture there was a loud explosion somewhere outside Forsyth's office door. The computer screen went blank showing a 'no signal' message. The crackle of small arms fire started up again. Simon quickly joined Bernie who indicated that nothing had changed as far as his view of the corridor was concerned. Simon beckoned Jack and indicated that he was to concentrate on the corridor directly opposite the office door. He then indicated to Bernie and Ross that they should go along with him to the right and access the Command, Surveillance and Equipment area. At Simon's finger countdown from five they erupted into the corridor. Jack immediately took up position outside the door giving him clear sight of both the corridor Simon and his team went down, as well as the corridor running at right angles to it leading to the main lift, foyer and reception areas. Outside the entrance to the C.S.E. area, Bernie used the mini camera under the door to assess the situation. He signalled three hostiles, and indicated their whereabouts in relation to the door. Again they used explosives on the door. In the movies they would have simply kicked it down, but this was not the movies, and the door was somewhat solid. In addition, the use of explosives would help to disorientate the hostiles. The explosion blew the door inwards and it was followed by two percussion grenades to further disable the hostiles. Simon and his team followed the grenades into the room. Three people lay concussed over benches and on the floor. A small fire was blazing at one of the consoles containing video screens. While Simon and Ross took up positions either side of the door leading from the surveillance room into the command Centre, Bernie checked the hostiles and secured them with plastic ties. Again Simon counted down from five and then opened the command centre door. He threw in two percussion grenades and Ross did the same with gas grenades. Simon had gone low to execute his task and Ross had gone high. As the door swung back shut a hail of bullets hit the central portion of the door. Immediately following the crump of the grenades Simon, Ross and Bernie burst into the command centre. It was almost an exact replica of the surveillance room. There were four people lying disabled. Again Simon and his team followed the procedure of securing the hostiles with plastic ties. Bernie was left with the job of assessing the situation and devising a strategy while Simon and Ross checked the equipment room with the small surveillance camera. They could see some-one bound to a chair who appeared to be the rooms only occupant. As they could not take chances, their entry was similar to their previous room entries but on this occasion they did not use grenades. Inside the room they found Alan Forsyth bound to the chair with a gag in his mouth. There were no guards. They set him free and left him to restore circulation to his extremities and re-orientate himself. During this time they could hear the sound of small arms fire increasing. In the command centre they found that Jack had joined Bernie and they had established a position that was under intense fire from hostiles who were in the surveillance room. Simon had Ross replace Jack in the line of fire, and he and Jack rejoined Forsyth in the equipment room. Jack explained that he had come under fire from the corridor leading from the reception area down to Forsyth's office, and had repositioned to outside the surveillance room. After a quick discussion it was decided that the best way to leave the premises was likely to be via the main lift area, or by retracing the steps of Tom or Ray. Forsyth advised that they were facing a force of about twenty armed hostiles. He did not go into any great detail about the rights and wrongs or any personal details. He was unable to list the plans of the hostiles as neither Winger nor Newbold had discussed them in front of him. As far as he was aware the hostiles were outsiders. He had caught glimpses of them and they were well armed and apparently well trained. He felt the only reason they had not blown Simon and his team apart was the uncertainty as to which of the team was actually Simon. Forsyth was of the opinion that they had instructions to take Simon alive. Privately Simon had his doubts, bearing in mind the damage he had seen caused to the vehicle in the garage.

Simon noticed that Jack had moved away from him and Forsyth, and was examining an air duct on the wall common to the equipment room and the general office area. He signalled Simon and Alan Forsyth over to him. He pointed up to the air duct and all three could see the end of a mini-cam exactly like the one Bernie used. The question; was the operator one of the hostiles? Before any of them could formulate the question the camera was with-drawn and replaced with a mini-microphone/speaker. It was pushed well into the room so they could reach it easily. Obviously they were meant to make use of it. Simon picked it up and put it close to his ear. The unknown operator spoke, "Mr. Allan?"

"Yes," responded Simon.

"This is Roger Albert. Do you remember me?"

"Indeed I do," replied Simon. "The Internal Security Manager."

"Yes I am," responded Albert.

"What's the current situation?" asked Simon.

"Me and some of the others are on your side Sir," said Albert.

"There'll be time to discuss that later," cut in Simon. "I asked you what the current situation is."

"Yes Sir," responded Roger. "At the moment there are two of your men in the area above reception. Hostiles have engaged them but no headway is being made by either side. The hostiles in the surveillance room, who have you trapped, number six."

"What's the plan as far as the enemy is concerned?" asked Simon.

"They're under original instruction to take you alive, but with the lack of progress tempers have become a bit frayed, and the odd hostile has stepped outside the agreed parameters."

"Okay," said Simon. "How many are there in your group?"

"Five," replied Roger. "We are armed with Uzi equivalents. We are located in the General area which is next door to where you are, and at the moment we are unsuspected. That is not going to last much longer."

"Okay," agreed Simon. "Understood. Standby." Simon turned to Alan Forsyth and Jack. He quickly outlined the other side of the conversation for their benefit. "What I need to know Alan," he continued, "is do you think Albert is on our side?"

"I would think so," nodded Forsyth. "While I could probably argue both ways, we don't have the time, and based on my knowledge, with some hindsight from the last few hours, I would go along with Roger."

"Accepted," said Simon. "Jack, any comment?" Jack shook his head. Simon clicked his transmit button. "Nineteen," said Simon identifying himself. "We have our target. Currently we are in the equipment room and under heavy targeted fire that in all likelihood will become fatal shortly. We have assistance from the general area. Four and Eleven what is your position?"

"Four. Nineteen, with Eleven on top of your floor."

"Nineteen. Four, hold the fort where you are. Eleven, access the general area from where you are and extract five personnel and us four A.S.A.P. on my call. We will exit as per plan. Out."

Simon updated Bernie and Ross and quickly outlined his plan.

"Bernie and Jack," he said. "I want you to blow a hole in that wall." He indicated the one shared with the general area. "Once you have done that we will join a group of five. Sunshine will take us all up into the ceiling area. I also want the floor area in here to disappear once we're clear. Okay?" They nodded. Simon then picked up the microphone connecting him to Albert and his men. He outlined the plan to them and advised them to move to the far side of the room. While he had been talking Simon's men had been busy setting charges. Simon raised his eyebrows. He received a nod in return. He clicked his transmit button. "Nineteen. Go," he said. Immediately there was an explosion and the majority of the wall to the general area disappeared. Simultaneously there was an explosion in the general area and part of the general area's ceiling deposited itself on the floor. Without a word Simon and his team dived through the hole in the wall with their weapons sweeping over Roger Albert and his cohorts. While armed, they were not levelling their weapons at Simon's team. There was a cessation of gunfire from where Simon's team had come. Clearly the hostiles were uncertain of what was going on. Two ropes had dropped from the ceiling opening. Those in the general area, both Simon's team and Albert's, immediately began scaling them. No words were spoken. All the men were professionals. Before the last of them disappeared into the ceiling the hostiles opened fire again. They had cautiously entered from the command centre into the equipment room. Through the hole in the wall they could see their targets disappearing so opened fire. Before they could find the measure of their targets however, an explosion caused the floor to crumble under them. The hostile fire ceased but Simon knew that they would quickly be replaced and that the pursuit would resume. In the meantime they had a small window of opportunity. Led by Tom and Ray, they headed across to the main lift shaft. A hole in the shaft wall showed how Tom and Ray had accessed the fifth floor. Ray briefly explained that they had sealed the lift doors on the fourth floor, disabled the lift and directly entered the 5th floor rather than using the 6th. Again the professionalism of the men showed as they set outward facing guards to protect those entering the shaft. The shaft maintenance rungs were used by Ray and Bernie to lead the team down the shaft. Well trained men like these were took less than five minutes to descend from the fifth floor to ground level. At ground level there was another hole in the lift shaft wall that had been accessed from the foyer. By the time the last man had reached the ground floor the team had engaged and disabled a small group of hostiles occupying the foyer area. A percussion grenade, and tear gas, ensured that Simon, his team, and the extras, made it out on to Atmore Street without any further delay. Simon's team, with Alan Forsythe, left the area in Ray's vehicle. Albert's team were told to make their own way to a safe house at 66 Allum Street where Simon would make contact with them at a later time. As they left the area, they initiated the self destruction of Tom's vehicle. Back at the Trennar Street rendezvous point, Simon's team left Ray's vehicle and were driven back to the beach house by Pamela in the Previa. As they left, they saw Ray checking the area to ensure that no trace of them ever having been there remained. Prior to arriving back at the beach house Pamela undertook anti-surveillance steps.

An hour later the entire team, plus Alan Forsyth, assembled in the Operations Room for a debrief of the operation. Each member of the team gave a brief run-down on their part in the operation, which also included a critique of their fellow operatives, number of rounds expended, reasons for the taking of certain actions and the number of hostiles killed and/or wounded. At the end of the individual debriefs Simon spoke. In keeping with the informal attitude existing in the room, he remained seated while speaking.

"Without a doubt the operation was a success. We achieved our aim without any loss or serious damage to ourselves apart from a few bruises and the loss of a vehicle. The debrief tapes will be held for forty-eight hours and then destroyed. Thank you very much for your help and didn't we do well?" There was a spontaneous cheer from them all. "Okay," continued Simon. "Let's all grab ourselves a beer or whatever, get stuck into the tucker in the kitchen, and hear what Alan has got to tell us. Sound like a plan?"

"Best bastard I've heard of for a while," said Ross making a dash for the kitchen area and standing undecided between the fridge and the sandwiches.

Chapter 34

Once they had settled back down again Alan Forsyth began.

"Thanks fellas, and young ladies," he said. "Where to begin? I understand you are all aware of the situation Simon and Pam find themselves in. It is quite clear that they have been targeted by a group of religious fanatics who, rightly or wrongly, believe Simon is a direct bloodline descendant from Jesus Christ. This may or may not be so. I would go as far as to say that such a thing is possible but to date I haven't seen him walk on water. This group of fanatics is clearly those we call the Order of the Nazarene, a genuine Order who appear to have been infiltrated, or taken over, by some group known as the Order of the Master. Without going into any great detail, my enquiries have confirmed the existence of such a group, which had its origins in Ireland. We have been attempting to locate some type of Headquarters for the order so that we can target it and sort the whole thing out. To date we have not been terribly successful. They obviously have huge financial resources and their tentacles reach into small town New Zealand in a number of areas. They appear to be quite ruthless in their dealings with those surrounding Simon, but draw the line at harming Simon himself. This would of course be in line with their beliefs. They would hardly want to hurt he who is the reason for their being would they? From my informal discussions with Simon, since you rescued me, I understand there is a possible location for that Headquarters but will discuss that in due course.

"As well as the Nazarene Group, there is another more shadowy group operating. They are real experts and it was sometime before we actually became aware of them. They seem to be adopting a watching role but I feel pretty safe in saying they're probably a group of Zealots descended from a branch similar to the group who hid the Dead Sea Scrolls at Qumran. I presume you are aware that scrolls dating back to about 400 BC were discovered in 1947, at Qumran, and contain, among other things, copies of the Book of Isaiah and other religious documents. They are believed to have possibly been hidden there by a group of Zealots known as the Essene Sect. It is possible they believe Simon to be their Master, or a descendant of their Master, in some way. They will be protecting Simon also, and I believe they're as brutal as the Nazarenes. The Nazarenes clearly believe Simon has, or is, tainting the lineage and they will do anything, and I mean anything, to obtain a direct male descendant whom they can train and present to the world as the new Messiah. In their zeal they have erased several women who are 'impure' in their eyes. What I mean is that those of ill repute, or poor reputation, who have been impregnated by Simon, have been murdered without remorse. At the moment, however, they have Pam, a woman who has a strong Christian background, who is pregnant to him. If the baby is a boy then it is likely that Simon will become dispensable and they will take the baby and raise him to be their Messiah. If the baby is a girl they will more than likely hang around for a while to see if any other off-spring of the male gender put in an appearance. Should such not happen I don't believe it to be beyond the realms of probability that they will kill Pam and organise another partner, or forcibly cause Simon to produce a male child even if it has to be done artificially.

"So there you have my view of it. You may well wonder how I came into this whole matter, and why I was taken hostage and had some of my own men turn against me. Well, the short answer would have to be greed. As in any organisation, there are always those who believe they can do better than the boss, and to some degree they're probably correct. I've always included my staff in all my work, my senior staff in particular. As a result of that Winger and Newbold were aware from day one of my company's involvement with Simon. Why they turned the way they did I don't know. Perhaps it could have been pure greed, or it may even have been for some religious reason. Looking back on events over the last little while, I can't see any particular stage at which they changed, until the unsuccessful attack on the office and its aftermath. During that attack everyone acted and behaved as I would have expected, but then once we reached the farmhouse the wheels seem to have come off. From what Simon has told me, whatever did occur, happened between the death of Donohue and the arrival of Simon and Pam at the farmhouse. Perhaps Winger and Newbold were sleepers for someone, or something, and the death of Donohue triggered their awakening so to speak."

"Could they have been involved in the killing of Donohue?" asked Ellie.

"It's certainly within the bounds of possibility," agreed Forsyth. "Actually the more I consider that as a possibility the more likely it becomes. They both knew Donohue was being questioned by Simon and presumed he would talk, bearing in mind their knowledge of Simon's abilities. To save the Nazarene's or the Zealots, and I'd plump for the Nazarenes, they took out Donohue. Before they could adequately clean, and seal the farmhouse Simon and Pam arrived. Yes, I think that scenario that would run for me. Simon?"

"I agree. They certainly knew their way around the farmhouse, although they gave the impression that they didn't. Their actions would coincide with your theory okay."

Forsyth continued. "So we can presume they knew you and Pam would either approach me, once you got free, or cut your ties completely. Either way they would feel that they had achieved their object by being able to control the dissemination of any information that came into my possession."

"What information?" chorused Pamela and Simon?

"As you know we do quite a bit of work for various Government Departments and in the course of that work I became aware of some communication intercepts. The Government isn't interested in them but they consisted of encrypted burst technology. While that in itself is not of note, lots of private companies use the technology now, its source location was."

"Source location?" echoed Simon like a parrot.

"Where it originated from," said Bernie. Simon rolled his eyes.

"It originated from the hill region north-west of where your father's hide-out was. At the time it meant little to me, but after seeing the map co-ordinates taken from the farm house by Pamela, things fit together," said Forsyth.

"The map," gasped Pamela. "It's like a confirmation isn't it?"

The rest of the crew round the table looked puzzled. Simon explained about the map references and the area they indicated.

"It would seem to me," he added, "That it is more than mere co-incidence that things tie in together."

"I don't believe in co-incidence," stated Tom. Most of them round the table nodded. Co-incidences did not sit well within their experiences.

"So where do we go to from here?" asked Alice. Every-one looked at Simon.

"Well," he said. "I think it has been a really long night so my suggestion is that we all head for some well earned rest and we'll reconvene at 1900 hours for a bloody big feed of Chinese at The Green Lotus. Sound okay?" The chorus of agreement carried the day.

Quietly they all left the ops room and dispersed back to beds, rooms and flats, sharing where required. Forsyth went with Pamela and Simon to the unit they were using. They sat down in the lounge area with cups of coffee.

"What happens now?" asked Pamela. Forsyth raised his eyebrows at Simon.

"The way I see it, that depends on quite a few things," replied Simon. "To start with we're going to have to make some more in-depth enquiries into those co-ordinates, and if the place is what we think it is, then we'll have to formulate a plan to destroy it."

"Destroy?" asked Pamela.

"I think so," said Simon. "It'll be dependant on a few things though. We need to establish how widespread this belief held by the Order of the Nazarene actually is. If it's a small outfit that depends on certain written records then we may be able to destroy those records and thereby destroy evidence of any link between Jesus and me. In the absence of such a link, I'm sure the supporters would soon disperse. If it is as simple as that I'll be very happy."

"And if it isn't?" queried Forsyth.

"Well," sighed Simon. "If it's not that simple then really I don't know what I'll do. Perhaps I'll be able to bargain with them, reach some sort of agreement. If Pam is carrying a girl, I'll get a vasectomy which will put paid to the whole deal once and for all."

"And," asked Pamela holding her abdomen, "if it's a boy?"

"Then I guess at that stage the whole deal changes doesn't it? The bottom line would be that a boy is, as far as they are concerned, a direct descendant of Jesus, so at least he would be safe. I also reckon we would be as well, for a while anyway. On a balance of things I think we would come out on top one way or another."

There was silence for a while and then Pamela said softly, "We need a miracle." She got up and went into the bedroom. Simon and Forsyth talked quietly for a while and then they also turned in.

All the group used chopsticks, and as dish after dish of food hit the table, the lazy Susan spun round. It seemed as though the action of the early morning had served to provide huge appetites. The talk was bright and cheerful. To all intents and purposes it was a group of best friends making up for lost time. In spite of a reluctance to join in so heartily, Pamela found herself drawn into the fun and laughter. Looking back on it she found it hard to believe that for three hours she enjoyed herself almost as much as she ever had at any time in her life. The laughter continued until they reassembled back at the beach house. This time they did not go to the Operations room but to the flat used by Bernie and Ellie. What Pamela found fascinating was the absence of alcohol. No one seemed to need it to relax. They all relied on their natural highs. In their hands they now all held mugs of hot chocolate, coffee or tea. Even though they had consumed huge amounts of food and dessert, hands kept helping themselves to the home made cake and biscuits that Ellie had managed to somehow conjure up.

"Right," said Simon around a piece of fudge cake. "I owe you an update on the whole situation. Nothing appeared in any media about last night's operation. I found that to be somewhat unusual. Let's face it, heaps of gunfire and explosions are not the norm in the city. My best bet feeling would be that the Government put a clamp on the media. Let's face it, they wouldn't want their connection with 'unusual happenings' to be spread around. Alan's guys who helped us out have been back to Atmore Street, and they report that Winger, Newbold and crew have all decamped. Destination unknown. They are in the process of re-establishing Alan's business but it's a major task given the client base and the standing of the traitors. Bottom line, for Alan, is that he probably doesn't have a business there anymore. It's like having discovered moles in the S.I.S and C.I.A.

"As far as Pam and I am concerned, we are determined once and for all to have a go at ridding ourselves, and the world, of these Order of the Nazarene slash Masters Trust people. We did quite a bit of work one way or another earlier today on the information we had regarding the map references we had obtained. The references are in the Tararua Ranges West of the Wairarapa. The only current access to the area is by foot or helicopter. Many moons ago there was an asylum for the insane there. Since then it has had a varied life as a Monastic retreat, commune, ambassador's hideaway, safe house etc. The current occupants are not listed anywhere, but air traffic logs indicates a moderate number of flights to and from the site. Whoever, or whatever, is there are keeping a low profile. My own gut feeling is that the place is the current Head Quarters of the Order of the Nazarene. Proof at this stage eludes me. What I intend doing, however, is to spend some time narrowing things down and then mounting an operation to take the place out. While I know you'd all help out, I honestly do not need that help at the moment. I may in due course. If I do, I promise I will ask. Meanwhile, as you go about your daily living, I'd be obliged if you could keep an ear open for anything that may pertain to this situation.

"So, there it is. Any questions?"

Tom answered for them all. "Fucking shit Simon," he said. "Never heard so much crap in all my life. The chances of you keeping us in the loop ain't good. As usual, you'll be too late and in so deep we won't be able to help. Nah. Here's the story sport. We'll continue with this operation as though it's an extension of last night. Really, of course, it is. Let's do it once. Let's do it properly. We're all in agreement with that aren't we?" He looked around. Everyone nodded their agreement. "Right, there you are. Unanimous. Where to from here?"

"Thank you," said Simon humbly. "I've got to admit that the task is pretty daunting to consider doing it with only Pam to help. I was reluctant to involve you all because, strictly speaking, it is outside our guidelines for call up."

"Oh we're not doing it for you," said Ray. "We're doing it for Pam. Our Missus' have told us." Amid the laughter, the women had the decency to grin their acknowledgement.

"Okay," said Simon. "I've got the message. What say we put the whole thing on hold until the morning and then Alan, Tom and I will plan what we're going to do? The rest of you go and have a ball. After dinner tomorrow night we'll get stuck in. Sound like a plan?"

The following night found them once again with drinks and food in Bernie and Ellie's unit. Simon again took the floor.

"I thought it best if we handled this in a less formal way. We have been pretty busy making enquiries today and calling in favours left, right and centre. We have tried to firm up details regarding the place in the Tararuas. As we knew, Governments and their Agencies have previously used it so we were able to access full details on the structure, layout, power supplies etc. Those schematics will be with us tomorrow. By all accounts the place is, or was, as secure as it is possible to make a place. Mind you we've heard all that before haven't we? We have been able to pick up a bit of information on the current occupants, their patterns and habits etc. I'll give those to you in a moment. What I am going to need assistance with is the obtaining of spy coverage. I'm thinking satellite surveillance at best and perhaps some military or agency aerial and communications surveillance. I would love you to bits if any of you can assist in that direction."

"As it happens," advised Jack. "I can assist with the aerial bit. There's an exercise on over here at the moment and we've a son with the team who would be more than willing to help out his 'olds'"

"Me likewise with the communications coverage," agreed Tom.

"Actually I my be able to help with the satellite situation as well," added Jack. "Can't say too much, but even though we're neighbours, the old ANZAC spirit and all that, we do still have to keep an eye on you to make sure you're not going to stab us in the back. Consequently I'm privilege to certain things, and as the place has been, and may still be, used by Government Agencies we'll be more than interested in having a decent look at it."

There was a good deal of ribbing at that revelation but it was good natured as all present knew every country, government and multinational company spent huge sums of money spying on their neighbours and friends. They themselves had benefitted significantly from such sources in the past.

"Great," said Simon. "Thanks a heap. Now, getting back to the current occupants. Official records show that the place is currently owned by a Trust known as The Master's Trust. That takes us back to earlier enquiries, which showed that a Masters Trust funded my father. Our previous enquiries into it you know about, but we failed to locate its actual whereabouts. At one stage, we thought we had it at Pigeon Bush, and while we got some information, we weren't in a position to gather it all. As it was, we were pretty lucky to fall upon the information, which was hidden among various land titles we have been looking at. Sometimes lady luck is on your side. The Masters Trust connection virtually proves to me that the place is related to me and my problems. Combined with the recently increased communications traffic etc. we have one of those non-believable coincidences.

"So what I want now is to firm up our information. I would be obliged Jacko and Tee if you could assist. I know time frames are hard in these matters but do you think you could give a ballpark figure?"

"Couple of days at the outside," said Jack.

"Tomorrow," confirmed Tom.

"Okay," nodded Simon. "When the building information etc. arrives tomorrow, Bernie, Rosco, Sunshine, Alan and I will start formulating a plan to take the place. I suggest you young ladies might like to go spend some money."

"Naturally," they chorused.

"Right," said Jack. "I need to make a couple of 'phone calls before I catch some sleep so I'll see you all later."

"Me too," said Tom.

"Agreed," said Simon. "Let's call it a night and see what tomorrow brings."

As they lay in bed, Pamela asked Simon. "Do you think it is going to get real dangerous?"

"It's more than possible. We still have my life and your pregnancy as huge plus factors. Big enough factors to ensure that we'll survive the whole thing."

"And what about the others?"

"If we do things properly, then again, I think, they will be okay as well."

"I hope we will be," said Pamela. After a pause she continued, "Tomorrow the girls are taking me for an ultrasound. They want to make sure our baby is all well considering what we have been up too."

"Sure," said Simon. "You can tell the sex with an ultrasound can't you?"

"It's pretty early, but yes, more than likely."

"Do you want to know?"

"I don't know love. Do you?"

"Typical woman," laughed Simon. "Throw it back at me. No, seriously, I don't mind what sex they are, singularly speaking. It's up to you sweetie. Come on over here and let me cuddle you, sensitive new age man that I am." Sleep crept over them.

While the women left to do some serious retail therapy, Simon and the team examined the plans that had arrived earlier. Initially it had been planned, designed, and built roughly similar to a medieval castle. Later changes had seen the demise of the turrets, the moat and other defences. In their place had come landscaped lawns and gardens, high electrified perimeter fences and state of the art electronic equipment that could detect a gnat at 50 paces. The inside of the castle had been gutted and modenised into the equivalent of a five star luxury hotel. Within the perimeter fence were a dozen self contained chalets. All security and communications connected back to the castle. The team could only marvel at the efforts that it must have taken to build the original so far from civilization. Oxen, horses and men must have exhausted themselves. All that cost and effort just to satisfy the demands of some one who wanted to pretend they were still back in England.

"Shit," said Ross. "It looks like a bloody fortress."

"From these plans it does," agreed Simon. "I wonder how much of this is still pertinent. Like, I can understand the security etc. when it's a Government outfit, but one wonders if that went with the place when they sold it on."

"That's going to be the $64 question," agreed Ray.

"The only obvious access is via chopper," pointed out Tom.

"True," said Forsyth. "But, as we've already acknowledged, the original structure was carried in piece by piece so we can assume that the remnants of a track still remain. If we can find that track then it would give us an element of surprise. There is always the likelihood that the old track has been blown up, or eroded away, but if they've come to accept aerial arrival, they've more than likely forgotten the original track. With an active perimeter fence they probably feel safe from such an approach. I'd be willing to bet that their whole security system is geared towards an aerial attack."

Simon and the others agreed, with the proviso that if a ground approach were chosen as the best option, then extra care would be needed to ensure that no surveillance was present.

"What about all those chalets?" asked Simon.

"Good question," said Roscoe. "If I was in charge of the security, one or two of them would be the main operations centre." The team all nodded in unison. Ross continued, "The problem is we don't know who or what we're up against. Are they amateurs, professional amateurs, or professionals full stop?"

"Let's proceed as though we are going up against seasoned professionals," advised Simon. "Remember that Alan's ex second in command and Investigation Manager are, in all probability, with them. If that is so, then they will be aware of how good we are and will prepare accordingly. Mind you we do have the ace that Pam and I were discussing last night and that is that they will not want to kill either me nor Pam's unborn child."

"Hold on!" instructed Tom answering his mobile 'phone. There were several minutes of silence, then nods, some scribbles on a notepad and grunted acknowledgements. In the end, Tom folded his cell-phone closed. He looked around. "Right," he said. "That was information concerning the communication checks on our target. It sounds as though Winger and Newbold are there, so I suppose we can assume that the place is occupied by the Nazarene Group, or at least in sympathy with it."

"Anything worthwhile?" asked Forsyth.

"More than," said Tom. "I gave my son a rough outline of what we were looking at and as last night was a dead one he spent it playing his own games. As a result, he concentrated on computer, landline and other communications originating from the target building. All were encrypted but not to current military standard. He broke them easily. As a result, I can tell you the following; Communications from the target were being forwarded to numerous addresses in various countries. The language varied from military style to religious legalise, if there is such a thing. The intended recipients were several agencies, including those with known affiliations to Israeli, Vatican, American, Russian, British and Arab intelligence gathering sources. From the tone of those communications, the agencies were only acknowledging a routine low-level interest. The main intended recipient was a religious order in Ireland with ties back to Rome. My son was unable to tie the Rome recipient to the Vatican, or any direct or indirect Roman Catholic institution. The gist of the messages related to a failed mission in which the targets, and I emphasis the plural, had avoided capture. From the time sequences given, there is no doubt it was our operation against Winger and Co. It almost sounds as though Alan being held hostage was an attempt to draw us to the address so that you, Simon, could be captured, possibly along with either Pam, or the rest of us. While no names are mentioned it is evident that Winger and Newbold are at the monastery. The available evidence suggests that another operation is being mounted. Unfortunately, details of it are not available. The best he could establish was that it involves a large-scale surveillance. That operation sounds 'top of the line' so I think we can expect quasi-Government involvement. My son will dip into the sources from time to time over the next few days. I have a full list of the communication details and recipients available.

"In summary, I think we can safely assume the Nazarene Group is in residence at the target, they are being assisted by Winger and Newbold, and that they're looking at having a go at us shortly."

Simon nodded his agreement. "I think I would go along with you on that Tee." There was a moment of silence before Simon spoke again. "If anyone got really serious I reckon they would be able to locate a fair number of us, and probably this place. That puts us and ours in quite serious danger. I'd actually say very serious danger. Things are starting to come to a head. In our own interests, I believe we're going to have to become pro-active and deadly. When we look back on the Op. at Alan's building there were some serious operators there. Tee's vehicle was the subject of some major firearms damage. I still believe Pam and I are safe but the rest of you will be considered collateral damage. Actually, it is more than likely that you would be used to put pressure on Pam and me to acquiesce with their demands or they'll kill or harm yours. I think they're that serious."

"So do I," agreed Alan Forsyth.

"Rosco? Sunshine?" asked Simon. "Do you agree?" They nodded. "Jacko? Bernie?" asked Simon. Again, they nodded. "Tee?" A nod. "Okay," said Simon. "I see it like this. The target is clearly the place in the Tararua's. We'll call it the monastery. The best covert approach appears to be on foot. What we want to do is access whatever records are held there and destroy them. I'm also pretty much in favour of taking out all those who are there. I suspect that Pam will be a limiting factor in that decision however. So, I suggest tomorrow we form ourselves into two man teams and head towards the target. We will rendezvous at Otaki, on the Eastern side of the Tararuas, finalise our plans, and then split again to approach the target from different directions. At a rendezvous point we will review matters, and then attack. Before then we should have been able to gather a bit more information and have a slightly better idea of what we will be up against. Sound like a plan?

"Sounds like a plan," was the chorused response.

Jack's cell phone rang. A grunted conversation took place before he closed the cell phone. "Give us a couple of minutes will ya?" asked Jack as he plugged his laptop computer into his cell phone. "Talk among yourselves while I get this stuff down." Within minutes, Jack was finished.

"That was quick," said Bernie.

"That's why we Aussies are always a step ahead of you Kiwi fellows," retorted Jack. "Well, my boys have done me proud. We actually have our own satellite coverage of the area. It turns out that some Government organisation is conducting surveillance in the general area of the target and my man has managed to access that coverage and direct it straight to us. I'll bet it's actually us that the surveillance is after, but hey, that's great isn't it? One of the planes has also done a couple of fly over's for us so we've got a fair bit of information to assist us. There is more in the pipeline for the next few days."

Tom's cell phone then rang. After a few spoken words Tom hung up. "There's some bad news I'm afraid," he said.

Chapter 35

Retaliation

"And that is? asked Simon.

"They're on to us," said Tom. "And I mean on to us here. We're already under surveillance right now, but at the moment it is only minimum physical. They haven't set up the electronics yet but are in the process of doing that. How do I know this you ask? Because part of the surveillance gear on the aeroplane is to be used to track us. My son is fair shitting himself but blood is thicker than water and all that stuff."

"Make sure he is not compromised in any way Tee," said Simon. "I mean it. Only he can assess the risk factor but if need be we'll do this without his input. Please Tee. Don't let him be a hero." Tom nodded seriously.

"Okay," Simon decided. "If they want to get serious then serious is what they will get. Bernie, go and find the girls. Bring them back but make it look as though it is casual. You know, drift back in twos and threes etc. but I want them all here within an hour and a half." Bernie left. "Okay Jacko, "continued Simon. "let's look at the satellite pictures."

The pictures were crisp and clear, nothing like the blurry ones seen on television. These were classy. While the plans they had, showed the outline of the buildings, these photographs brought the place to life. The team burned the images into their minds. While there were areas of gardens and bush close to the main buildings, none of them obstructed clear views between it and the twelve chalets. Also, ominously for a covert approach, there was clear open ground from the high boundary fence for 400 yards in all directions. There were also watchtowers, and search lights, but they all knew that the real threats were the video cameras, the motion sensors, and audio detectors secreted throughout the surrounding bush.

When everyone returned they gathered in the Operations room.

"Let's not be formal," said Simon, "but this is the best area for doing what we need to do. I'm afraid we have some pretty serious information to hand. It appears that Winger and Co. are ensconced at the monastery and that we are currently under surveillance. That surveillance is purely physical, now, but is due to be stepped up to electronic shortly. To me that means it will only be a matter of time before some of us are kidnapped in order to bring pressure on Pam and me to give ourselves up." There were no gasps as there would have been at the movies. These were seasoned professionals. The only movement came from Pamela who raised her hand to cover her mouth. Simon went on.

"This is serious. As they have stepped things up, so will we have to. First things first however! Again, are we all in this together? It is going to get nasty and that means that some of us will, in all probability, be injured." Simon did not make eye contact with Pamela. "As there are no dissenters this is what we plan to do." Simon went back to the royal 'we.' "You women are not going to be part of the monastery attack, except for Pam who is already deeply involved. We will take out the current surveillance and get you out of here. With some of Alan's team involved there is the chance that they may have already identified you, so you will be heading for safe houses in Australia. Once the all clear is given, you will be safe to return to your normal haunts. With me so far?" All nodded. "Okay," continued Simon. "We are assuming, on the evidence we have, that the old government place which we call the monastery is the head quarters of the Order of the Nazarene. Once we have done what we have to do here, we will break up into two man teams. They are; me and Pam, Bernie and Tee, Rosco and Sunshine, and Jacko and Alan. Originally we were going to assemble at Otaki but I've now changed that idea. We will operate autonomously to reach the rendezvous point five clicks from the monastery." Simon designated the GPS reading. "Once there we will launch our attack. So here is what we will do now. While us men get our gear together I want you women to make up our folders with all we will need. You know what is needed; maps, call signs, frequencies needed for downloading the extra information that will become available from Jacko's people etc. Will you supervise that please Ellie? Okay, once that is done we will take out the surveillance and be on our ways. Hopefully they won't be aware that we are on to them and we will be off before they know what is happening. Okay, let's go!"

Two hours later, they all reassembled in the Operations room. Round the perimeter of the room were the backpacks and armaments each team would need once they set out for the Monastery. Also included were the clothes that they would need. The team members were still dressed in the casual clothes they had been wearing previously. Lying on the table were eight folders. The men and Pamela all took one and put it with their respective packs.

This time it was Bernie who gave the directions. "Right," he said. "Here is the way it is going to happen. We need to stretch the resources that they have. We will all leave here as couples. You women will have some basic disguises with you for later use. We have to assume that some of us will have been photographed. We will not all have been however. Initially our travels will be random but at specific times, each couple will have to be at a specified place. That will enable us to target the operatives following you and take them out of play. Once you are given the all clear you girls will head off to Perth and our place there. We have advised some of our people over there and they will take out any surveillance at your Sydney stop over and again at Perth before putting you up at the safe house there. You will know the troops doing it but please do not acknowledge them in any way. I am teaching my grandmother how to suck eggs aren't I? Your tickets are all in front of you along with your new false identities. Be careful out there won't you? Any questions? None? Good. Okay.

"You will all leave here at different intervals. First will be me and Ellie, then Tee and Alice, Jacko and Alan, and then Simon and Pam. Rosco and Sunshine will leave via the covert exit and take out the first targeted team. That will be the one on Jacko and Alan. They will be followed by those on Tee and Alice, me and Ellie and finally Pam and Simon. Now you all know how to act, even when it is going down just carry on as though you are unaware of it. If any of you get involved, or acknowledge us, then the teams on you will call it off and we will be likely to miss some, which will mean grief further down the line. We are trying to keep things as tight as possible and we are dealing with experts so it is not going to be easy. You are all equipped with personal communication systems but that will not alert the observers. Far from it. They know we are also professionals and they will expect us to be equipped with things like communication systems. So, Alan and Jacko you are to be at the corner of Victoria Street and Lorne Street at 1415 hours. Tee and Alice, you are to be at Hobson and Federal at 1445. Me and Ellie, are to be at Custom and Queen at 1500 hours. Simon and Pam, you are to be at the Supreme Courthouse at 1515 hours. Do you all have that? Right. We will keep in communications contact with each-other so we can advise of any obvious shadows, but initially Rosco and Sunshine will take it from here and do the bulk of the work. Okay, out you go, but gently."

And that is what they did. Jack, Alan Forsyth, Simon and Pamela ended up going together in a carefree and laughing manner. They caught a taxi into the city centre and then went their separate ways. The rest followed at ten-minute intervals. Bernie and Ellie spent some time at the local shopping centre before heading into the city. Ray and Ross had left half an hour before anyone else via the covert exit. That had allowed them to exit onto a back street about 200 yards away from the units. They used their tradecraft to ensure they were free from any surveillance, and then settled into a room on the fourth floor of a local hotel. It gave them excellent sight of the front entrance to the units. Within five minutes of settling in they identified three observers; one man and two women. The women were at a sidewalk café and the man was browsing in a bookshop. Ray and Ross knew that those three were mere observers. They would only take up the tail if everyone else had gone. Sure enough, when Pamela, Simon, Jack and Forsyth appeared one of the women spoke into her sleeve. As Pamela and company walked along the street a silver Mitsubishi Diamante arrived behind them with a driver and two passengers. It parked on the side of the road but nobody exited it. A man and woman holding hands also entered the street from a side alley and walked along behind Pamela and her friends, but on the opposite side of the street. Ray and Ross knew that different operatives would cover the end of the street when the team reached it. They photographed the 'shadows' and noted the car registration number. Once Pamela and her companions reached the end of the street the silver Mitsubishi moved up closer to the corner. Once around the corner Pamela, Simon, Alan Forsyth and Jack entered a taxi. The hand and hand couple joined those in the Mitsubishi and it also left the street but turned in the opposite direction to that taken by the Pamela and Co. Ross and Ray knew that there had to be a holding pattern, or area, in use by the surveillance operatives. Ray left the hotel to locate it. Shortly after he left, Bernie and Ellie hit the street, and then fifteen minutes later the next two followed. In each case the same pattern ensued with the holding hands couple and the silver Mitsubishi vehicle. Once Tom and Alice left the street, Ross vacated the hotel. With him he had the printouts of the digital photographs he had taken. He met up with Ray who advised that the opposition was based in an old warehouse a block away. They knew that while they themselves were unsighted, the surveillance teams would stay in place believing them to still be in the units. They left the area via a taxi hailed several streets away. They knew the surveillance team would not risk entering the units while there were still two operatives unaccounted for. Ross had sighted and photographed the car driver and the couple holding hands as well as a female at a coffee shop hidden from the hotel room's view. They presumed she was the 'heads up' operative as she had sleeve problems when each member of Simon's team hit the street. Ray had also been able to get the details of the vehicles that had followed each of Simon's groups and photographed most of them. On their way into the city they checked the photographs, but Ross did not recognise any of the operatives. He sent the photographs and details to the rest of the teams cell phones for their information. In all, nine vehicles and twenty-seven operatives had been used to follow the team. Three cars had followed Simon, Pamela, Forsyth and Jacko, with a driver and two operatives in each. Ray and Ross realized that even though the operation was meant to have been hastily put together it was still a big one. The size of it worried Ross as it showed large resources aligned against them. Bearing in mind that there was also the Mitsubishi team, and other vehicles and operatives that they had not sighted, it meant there were probably another two or three vehicles and up to a dozen more operatives involved. That type of scale rivalled, and in most cases surpassed, most Government Operations in which Ross had been involved. This, he realized, was very serious stuff. In a 'heads up' communication Ross updated the team of the situation. Ross and Ray then went to a rental car agency and hired a Toyota Starlet vehicle using fake identification and cash. Ross then dropped Ray off at a second hand motorcycle dealer's yard where he bought a 250cc Honda for $250.00c complete with helmet. They were now set for an operation that they knew had to be managed with speed and accuracy if they were to be successful. At 1400 hours Ross checked Simon and Pamela who were in Albert Park and identified one car that was 'on' them. It contained a driver and one operative. Ross knew that it meant there was another operative somewhere on foot in the vicinity, and probably another vehicle.

Once in the city, Jack and Alan Forsyth had separated from Simon and Pamela and went off on their own. As Jack and Forsyth approached the intersection of Victoria Street and Lorne Street just before 1415 hours Ross and Ray surveyed the scene. They quickly identified the vehicle, a Ford Fairmont, with three occupants. While Jack and Forsyth admired the suits in a window and argued over the quality and cut, Ross and Ray mingled with the passersby and their attention was drawn to two women in a bookshop just up Victoria Street from Wrights Suits. Ross advised Jack and Alan Forsyth to call a taxi and get it to take them to Wellesley Street. As the cab pulled into the curb the two women left the books they were browsing through and walked out onto the street. A Holden Vectra car drew up beside them. One woman opened the front passenger's door and the other a rear door. Before the rear door could be closed Ross jerked it wide open. Three shots from his silenced Glock pistol left the occupants slumped where they were. Ross quietly closed the door. He then walked to the Starlet and drove off towards Hobson Street. Meanwhile Ray had used the motorcycle to follow the Fairmont that had automatically assumed lead vehicle when Jack's cab drove off. As both the taxi and the Fairmont arrived at the Victoria and Queen Street traffic lights, Ray pulled up alongside the Fairmont. When the lights turned green, Ray reached out and attached a magnetic explosive to the Fairmont's roof. Above the engine and traffic noise the occupants did not hear the click as the explosive and car metal bonded. Likewise, one minute later as the Fairmont turned into Wellesley Street, they did not hear the click that freed the detonator, which started the small but quick chain of events that resulted in the Fairmont exploding into a ball of fire. It was only after dropping off Forsyth and Jack, and doing an illegal u-turn, that the taxi's Indian driver even noticed the carnage caused by the bomb. Having come into Wellesley Street from the opposite direction, Ross picked up Jack and Forsyth. The Starlet and motorcycle were then left parked in Federal Street. Again, it only took minutes to identify the next car. A Ford, again. As with Jack and Forsyth before them, Tom and Alice were arguing the merits of a dress on display in a shop window. Alice was pointing out the finer features of the material's cut, and the superior way it hung while Tom did his best to look interested. He did so by imagining removing the dress from his lovely wife's body. He caught sight of Jack but did not acknowledge him. Instead he gruffly cut Alice short and started along Federal Street towards it's intersection with Hobson Street. Tom looked at his watch several times as though he were late for an appointment. At 1445 hours precisely they arrived at the intersection of Hobson and Federal Streets. Neither Tom nor Alice hesitated. They went straight inside the main door of the office building on that corner. The surveillance operatives had easily identified themselves to Ross, Ray, Alan Forsyth and Jack. This time there were two men on foot and a woman driving a small Mazda car. The car stopped along Hobson Street after driving past the office building and turning from Federal Street. One of the men on foot followed Tom and Alice into the building and the other took up a position on the opposite corner in order to be able to head in whichever direction Tom and Alice took when they left the building. His concentration was such that he was unaware of Ray and Forsyth stopping beside him. Likewise, he only belatedly became aware of the pain as the knife in Ray's hand removed his life force. Ray sat him quietly down on the pavement and he and Alan Forsyth headed across the road and into the office building. Jack had followed the man into the building and they followed as back up. They need not have bothered. As they entered the front door, they met Tom, Alice and Jack coming out. Jack nodded to confirm the cessation of problems from the follower. Tom, Alice, and Alan Forsyth walked back along Federal Street towards the Starlet and motorcycle. Ross went to the Mazda. He leaned down and tapped on the driver's window. The woman wound it down and he shot her between the eyes, again using a silenced Glock. Forsyth picked him up on the motorcycle and they drifted quietly down Federal Street to Customs Street. Ray turned into Hobson Street and walked up to the Ford previously noted. As with Ross and the Mazda, the driver lowered the window when Ray tapped on it. Ray shot all three occupants. He was then picked up by Jack in the Starlet. Meanwhile Tom said goodbye to Alice and she caught a taxi and headed for the airport. From there she would catch a flight to Wellington and then to Sydney. Tom joined Ray and Jack in the Starlet, and they positioned the car on Queen Street. There was a certain amount of chaos starting to emerge with the sound of sirens as Police, ambulance and Fire Services responded to the explosion in Wellesley Street. At this stage, though, traffic was moving reasonably freely where Simon's team was operating. They adopted their usual procedures and quickly identified the man and woman following Bernie and Ellie, along with the back-up Holden Barina car. Again, this was being driven by a woman. It's surprising how woman of average features and size get overlooked in a crowd scene, and that is why they make some of the world's top surveillance operators. As previously, all were taken out quietly and quickly and Ellie was farewelled on her way to the bus depot where she would head for Hamilton and then take a flight to Sydney via Palmerston North. This now left Simon and Pamela to be picked up. Simon was aware of what had happened via his communications link and could see the plume of smoke rising into the sky from Wellesley Street. While he wanted to be there, and in action, he knew it was imperative to stay with the plan. Any deviation would risk alerting his followers, allowing them to make good their escape, or even worse, lead to the death of one or more of his team. Simon and Pamela sat down on a hard wooden seat outside the front entrance of the Supreme Court. It was a beautiful day. The sun was past it's zenith but retained its warmth. The smell of the old-fashioned roses surrounded them from the rose garden to their left. The noise of the sirens and the traffic was muted to some degree, and all in all the sights and sounds were those of a lovely summer afternoon. From time to time, men and women in gowns and wigs would walk past or stand to have a cigarette as they discussed some arcane point of law. If they noticed Pamela and Simon they put them down as either jurors, witnesses or passersby, and that was why they were later unable to provide the Police with any form of reasonable description. After all, real life rarely touched them. Simon had not identified any surveillance. He knew that it would be present, but again he did not want to alert anyone by doing any checking. He and Pamela sat holding hands and discussing trivial things. There was always the risk of their conversation being overheard by covert means. Pamela was not aware of the fact that death was following her and Simon. She had heard that surveillance had ceased on the rest of Simon's team but did not know that they had been killed. Pamela glanced at her watch. It was 1515 hours.

"I've just got to go to the toilet Simon," she said. Simon nodded. She rose from the seat and entered the Court House through the old-fashioned revolving door. Simon also stood up. He walked towards the footpath and then stepped onto the grass beside a 'Keep off the Grass' sign. With slow deliberate steps he walked the perimeter of the grounds. The Court House occupied a block in that it was bordered on all four sides by streets. The rear street was more of an alley than a street, but never the less it separated the Court grounds from the warehouse behind it. That alley of a road also gave the Police and Prison vans access to the cells holding the prisoners appearing in Court that day. Simon continued on. When he had completed the circuit he sat down again on the seat he and Pamela had previously occupied. Pamela was not there. He glanced at his watch. It was now 1525 hours. The 10 minutes he had walked had not been sufficient for Pamela to complete whatever she had been going to do. Meanwhile, the team had been able to identify Simon and Pamela's surveillance. There were two vehicles. This was a bit of a surprise as they thought the surveillance on Simon and Pamela would have been a lot lighter than for the rest of them. They then realized that as far as the Order of the Nazarene was concerned, Simon, Pamela, and the unborn child were the most important things in the world. Nay, the Universe. In fact, as far as the Order was concerned, at a fundamental level, they were the Universe. There was a white Ford Fairmont, with a woman driver, situated on the eastern side of the Court House covering the rear alley and Symonds Street. Another white Fairmont was parked on the Western side covering that side of the Court House, and the front. The woman driver in the Eastern vehicle had a male in the front seat with her. The team had also identified several operatives on foot. Three were outside the Court House. They were male. One could have been a Barrister given his age, dress and demeanour. The other two could have been a defendant with his unreliable witness. When Pamela had gone inside, the team had identified two women and a male with her. One of the women followed her into the toilet area. The other woman, and the male, read pamphlets on the rights of wrongdoers. The team acted swiftly. Tom and Ray took out the vehicle occupants simultaneously. The operatives didn't have time to register the presence of Tom and Ray before they died with silenced gunshots to their heads in all cases. They were left slumped in their vehicles, to all intents and purposes as though they had succumbed to the heat and fallen asleep. At Ray's request Simon again left his seat and followed his previous route round the circumference of the Court House. The 'defendant and unreliable witness' followed him. The 'Barrister' stayed where he was. Jack kept surveillance on the 'Barrister'. Ross and Ray quietly took out the two following Simon when they reached the alleyway at the back of the Court House. Their necks were broken before they even registered the arms around their necks. The bodies were placed in a dumpster at the rear of the warehouse. To anyone observing the actions of Ross and Ray it looked for all the world as though they were merely supporting and assisting friends who had drunk too excess or were ill. When Simon reached the front of the Court House again he walked inside through the swing doors that had swallowed Pamela. The 'Barrister' followed. The inside was ornate. The gargoyles that watched over you outside left you to your own devices once inside. Everything here was solid. The tiled floor picked up your footsteps, threw them against the plaster walls, and then up to the huge dome that filtered the sunlight with bird droppings. All the doors were solid, polished and varnished. The brass door handles were polished like the brass name plates identifying those concealed behind them. Clearly an army 'spit polished' the place continuously. A solid wooden railed staircase led one up one side of the foyer to the first floor, along it, and then down the other side. The impression was one of solid finality. A stand inside the swing doors indicated, by way of pointers, the various destinations available only here they were jury rooms, Crown rooms, Defense rooms, Clerk, Courts 1 – 8, toilets, etc. and not South Pole, Australia, South America. Simon acknowledged to himself that the last time he had been in the building was giving evidence against Read. Life had been so much easier then.

The only visible nod to the 21st Century was the metal x-ray machine operated by two uniformed security guards. Situated just inside the swing doors everyone had to pass through it before they could gain entry to the building proper. Unarmed Simon walked casually through. Ray and Forsyth remained outside and occupied the seat Simon and Pamela had used. Simon was followed inside by Jack, Ross Tom, and Bernie. Their firearms did not register being of the latest design and invisible to technology. Scanning machines the world over are, after all, only there to catch the amateur and the innocent. Professionals would never be caught. Simon's team were professionals. Simon never hesitated but went straight to the men's toilets. The 'Barrister' hesitated but not seeing any of his associates other than those following Pamela, had to follow Simon into the toilets. If he did not, then there was every possibility of Simon leaving via a window and the 'Barrister' knew that if he lost Simon then his life would be worthless. Literally. He stepped through the doors. Before he could take in his surroundings he was pulled forward by Simon, turned, and slammed against a wall. His head hit the towel dispenser. Bernie had followed the 'Barrister' in also and faster than the eye could see he pulled his pistol, shot the 'Barrister', returned the pistol to its holster and helped Simon catch him as he fell. They dragged him to a stall and sat him on the toilet seat. Bernie left the stall and Simon locked it from the inside and climbed out over the top. He and Bernie left the toilets. As they emerged, Pamela appeared from the ladies area. She joined Simon and they walked up the stairs to the first floor. The woman pamphlet reader followed. The woman who had been inside the toilet area with Pamela joined the male pamphlet reader. Bernie and Ross found a seat opposite the readers. Jack headed up the opposite stairs from Simon and Pamela while Tom left the notice board listing the various trials taking place, and headed down the corridor marked 'Private Judges Chambers'. Simon and Pamela reached the top of the stairs and started walking towards the opposite side. By this time Jack was already on the first floor level and walking towards them. There had always been the chance that one of the surveillance team would recognise one of Simon's team and in this instance it was Jack. He was recognised by the woman who had followed Simon and Pamela up the stairs. On seeing Jack, the woman hesitated, and then brought her hand up to her mouth to speak into her cuff microphone. Jack hit her in a rugby tackle and drove her upwards. For a few precious seconds she seesawed on the banister railing before gravity drew her to the foyer floor. Her screaming was cut short by the thud of her body onto the tile floor. The other two members of the surveillance team acted quickly, but not quick enough. Both were taken out by silenced shots from Bernie and Ross. Almost simultaneously alarm bells began to ring as Tom forced open an alarmed door adjacent to the Judges chambers. To assist matters, Simon broke the glass on a fire alarm trigger, and the fire alarms added to the general mayhem that was erupting. The Court guards were trained, but not to handle situations like the one unfolding before their eyes. Automatically they were drawn towards the body on the floor. How could you not be? Before they even reached the body, the alarms started up, and people rapidly filled the foyer heading towards the exits. In the confusion, Simon, Pamela and the rest of the team met together outside and made their way to the Starlet and the motorcycle. Tom and Alan Forsyth took the motorcycle and the others squashed into the Starlet. The Starlet followed Tom to Cornwall Park where they stopped to reassess the situation. Simon and Pamela listened to the results of an hour of mayhem. Pamela was visibly distressed and upset. While Simon had understood what was happening she had no idea of how serious the whole thing had become. She grew paler and paler until she had to turn away and vomit. The group left her to Simon.

"Honey," he said. "I know this is awful for you to take in but it had to be done. These people are out to kill Ellie, Alice, Tom and the rest. There is no nice way to handle them. Even you are at risk, pregnant and all. At the end of the day, it is me who is the safest. You are expendable, collateral damage, and I won't have that." Pamela nodded weakly. She wiped some flecks of spit from her lips with Simon's handkerchief and held him tight.

"I know Simon," she acknowledged. "But it all goes so much against what I've believed for years; love your neighbour and thou shalt not kill seems such a pitiful response to what has happened, no, is happening, to us. I've seen dead people before, but I've never been so, so responsible for those deaths." She paused. "Tell me there's no other way Simon."

"There is no other way," said Simon. "Look, if you really want, we'll get you out of the Country like the others, and put you in hiding where possibly you will be safe." Pamela shook her head and turned back to the group.

"No," she said. "I'd never have any peace. I'd always be looking over my shoulder and I need to be with you. You are my life." Pamela pulled back her shoulders. "Okay, where are we at then?"

"Okay," said Simon thankfully. "Unfortunately it doesn't end here. We need to take out the rest of the surveillance team. They will still be observing the units at the beach."

"Actually," said Tom. "I wonder whether or not we should leave them alone. They'll stay where they are for some time because they still believe that Rosco and Sunshine are there. They will shortly become aware that something has gone down when they get no response from those whom we've taken out, but it'll be some time before they actually formulate a plan that will involve them going into the units. Probably they will have to seek authority from the Monastery to do so. Once they do end up going in, they will activate the self destruct mechanism and that will end that. In the meantime, we buy ourselves a bit of time to get started. Sound okay?" There was a moment of silence while they digested the plan.

"Okay," continued Tom. "It means that some will more than likely survive, and that means more against us later at the Monastery, but hey, let's do it." The rest nodded.

"I agree," said Simon. "Sounds good. Let's leave them to it and get on our way."

With the decision made, they left in their two person teams. The Starlet and the motorcycle were simply abandoned. They walked off in various directions to catch taxis, buses, and whatever, to go back to the units via the covert entrance. Once there, they picked up their gear, and then headed off for the Monastery. As a result, Simon and Pamela found themselves back in the Operations room. The place had a strangely unreal and sad feel to it. There were only their two packs left. Simon's was a full army style one while Pamela's was a lightweight job carrying little more than some essentials. Pamela watched as Simon walked around the room. While he did not physically touch anything, it was as if he was committing it all to memory. Sadness pressed down upon him. He physically shook himself and then looked at Pamela with a rueful grin.

"Oh well," he shrugged. "I suppose I should have known better than to allow myself to become attached to this place. In general I've always steered clear of involvement. My motto was; not now, later." He looked around again, took Pamela by the hand, and they left the room. Simon had his pack in his hand and Pamela had her lightweight one already on her back. They headed down into the basement area and through the storage area to the underground walkway that took them covertly away from the units. As he went through the door giving access to the walkway, Simon entered a six-digit code into the alarm sequence. That set the delayed self-destruct. Anyone entering the units would be unaware that it had been set. It was not possible to abort the sequence. There was no over-ride system. Precisely sixty seconds after anyone, or thing, entered the basement area, or the operations room, the building would be torn apart by explosives. It was not pleasant to think about, but it would be very effective. It would allow entry to the entire complex, so it was possible to envisage entry being gained, and once the units had been searched, more and more people coming in until either someone entered the basement, or the operations area, and it would be all over.

Chapter 36

Once outside, Simon and Pamela walked for several blocks before they caught a bus into the city centre. As they passed Wellesley Street they could see that there were still Police and Emergency Service vehicles surrounding the blackened remains of a car. Pamela's hand tightened on Simon's. He squeezed back. They did not say a word. At the bottom of Queen Street, they entered the railway station and paid cash for tickets to Wellington. There were two hours to fill in before the train left, so they spent the time drinking coffee, reading newspapers and browsing. They spoke only in monosyllables. It was as if the day's events were just beyond their ability to comprehend and process. Well, in Pamela's case anyway. Simon had 'been there, done that' more times than he cared to say, but he was concerned for Pamela. He knew that she was severely traumatized by the suddenness of the violence. She knew that he had previously killed people, but she had been able to compartmentalise that fact; place it to one side as something that had happened, but in a galaxy far, far away. Suddenly though, in a matter of seconds, violence had erupted around her leaving people dead, and not nice and clean dead, but broken with blood everywhere dead. He knew that adrenalin had got her this far but that it would all collapse shortly. He trusted that she would be able to hold herself together until they got onto the train. To assist, he did not enter her space. He said what he thought were all the right words. He made what he thought were all the right gestures. It seemed to work.

"What about the cameras Simon" asked Pamela as they sat on a seat watching the attendants getting the train ready?

"Doesn't matter much," said Simon. "If eventually the Police, or whoever, put it together, we'll be long gone. It would be an absolute miracle if they were ever able to link us to anything that has happened today. To do so they would have to fabricate too much, and it would never hold together. They'll know of course. They will get the tapes from here that will show us walking around etc. and they will say 'There they are, the bastards' but they won't be able to prove it." As he was speaking, the last of the food and drinks were loaded onto the train. The public address system announced, in the way that only public address systems in railway stations, airport terminals, and bus stations can, that those travelling from Auckland to Wellington, and all stations between, should board the train. Pamela and Simon did so, with their packs being forced into the luggage space above their seats. While one may have though that Simon's pack contained guns and explosives, that was not so. It took a further thirty minutes for the train to board all the passengers. People were hugging, kissing and crying as they said goodbye to family and friends. Simon had forgotten that people did still travel by train. He had not done so for years. For speed and convenience an aeroplane, or car, was the obvious way to go, but for some the cost was too great, or for access to some of the more remote backcountry towns it was easier to use the train. Just as every-one thought the train was on its way, there was an interruption. The engine had tooted the way trains all over the world did and the carriages had jolted, the way they did all over the world as the slack was taken up. Seemingly from nowhere, the Police had arrived. Some stood on either side of the carriages to apprehend anyone getting off, while others went from carriage to carriage noting down names and checking them against identification. Those who were unable to provide identification were photographed with digital cameras. The excuse given by the Police for the exercise, was that an explosion in the city was the work of suspected terrorists. Simon turned to Pamela.

"I can just see a terrorist having their occupation listed as terrorist and their bags loaded with home made bombs and maps with 'X' marking the spot," he said.

Even so, the check did surprise Simon. It meant that either Winger and company had more reach and power than he thought, or that some cop was more on to it than one would have believed possible. The Police officer doing the checks in Pamela and Simon's carriage was a woman. While Simon had worked and met many Policewomen he had not seen this one. She was quite attractive and was getting the 'come on' from a number of the males in the carriage. Her inexperience showed and she allowed herself to become a little flustered. Even so, she wrote Pamela and Simon's names in her notebook along with their driver's licence details as identification confirmation. As the licence photographs matched Pamela and Simon, the officer moved on to the next seat. It would only be much later that she, and the Police department, would discover that the licence numbers, and names, were false. It was neither her, nor the Police departments fault. It is just the way things are. Eventually the train jerked again, and they were off on their way out of Auckland. Initially the clack, clack of the line joints, and the lurch of the carriages, were noticeable, but as the train settled into its rhythm the clack, clack, became clickety-click, and the lurch gave way to a gentle sway. Pamela and Simon saw industrial sites with dirty sheds, strewn metal, cranes and trucks, give way to house back-yards with swimming pools, vegetable gardens and toys. Closer to the city, those backyards were neat, and tidy, and up-market, but they deteriorated the further away from the city centre they travelled. Once the last of the recognised suburbs had been left behind, the backyards started to return to neat and tidy, like the up market areas that had existed closer to the city centre. Now, however, these were much larger and they began to belong to life-style blocks with two to five acres of grounds. The vehicles at the addresses had returned to the Audi, BMW, and Range Rover's of the city, leaving the suburban Fords, Holdens and wrecks behind. While the conversation of others flowed around them, Simon and Pamela were content to sit holding hands, giving each other a squeeze from time to time. As the lifestyle blocks gave way to farms, they saw the cows that are the backbone of the New Zealand economy. They lay peacefully chewing their cud while the guard cow flicked flies away with her tail. Articulated milk tankers blinded them from time to time as the lowering sun reflected off their shiny stainless steel tanks.

The rhythm of the swaying carriages and the clickety-click of the tracks became almost hypnotic and Pamela and Simon felt their eyelids becoming heavy. Pamela, exhausted both physically and emotionally by the days events, and her pregnancy, dropped off to sleep. Simon fought the pull of it. While he craved it, he knew that there was a chance that surveillance operatives may have still been with them, even after the steps taken to eliminate them. With an arm around Pamela, and her head resting against his chest, he forced himself to review all that had led him to his current position. He checked for ways he could have done things better, his reactions to the various threats, and most of all how he had come to love the woman he held. He admitted to himself that he had sunk about as low as he could prior to her entering his life. From there on, he had climbed out of his sorry little world, and again gained a purpose for his life. Whether Pamela's God had anything to do with it he did not know, but his representative, Pamela, certainly had. That he deeply loved her he did not doubt. With that came all his male protectiveness. He did wonder if part of it was the fact that he was once again to be a father, and have his loss of Alison and Petra replaced, but he put that to one side. While all that was wonderful, he knew he could have replaced his dead children via any female, but by some miracle it was occurring with this particular one. One who had got so far under his skin that he knew he could not live without her. Well, he knew those facts were not right in reality. While focused on Pamela, he just did not want to sully his thoughts of her with his activities that had led other women, impregnated by him, to their deaths.

As his mind freewheeled, darkness wrapped itself around the train. Occasionally the rhythm of it would be disturbed by the clanging of road crossing bells as the train accepted right of way in the steel tracks versus macadam contest. From time to time, the train would race motor vehicles as track and macadam roads paralleled each other. Sometimes macadam would win, but most times track would, as it never veered from its set course, while macadam had to find its way around structures both natural and man-made. From time to time, the train would pause in its flight from Auckland, and gather people from railway stations. At those times, Pamela would stir, but Simon would sooth her back to sleep. Those were also worrying times for Simon, as he knew surveillance agents could be boarding. While he tensed, waiting for the new passengers to enter the carriage, they never did. While that would ease his mind a bit, he knew it meant little. They could be outside in the corridor, or even on the roof. As the night wore on, the other passengers dropped off to sleep one by one. By about 2 am there were only a couple of others still awake. Both were reading by personal lights. Simon eased Pamela off him and propped her against the side of the seat. He then took their packs from the rack above them, and placed them in the area between their carriage and the next one. He glanced at his watch as he did so. Nodding to himself, he laid the packs up against the exit doors and went back to Pamela. He gently awoke her. As she returned to the real world, he spoke softly to her about nothing until she was once again wide awake. He explained to her what their next step was. She nodded her understanding. Simon again looked at his watch and then out the window. In the distance, he could see red warning lights on top of some radio aerial masts. Well, he could not see the masts but he could see the lights and knew what and where they were. He whispered to Pamela and she got up and went into the toilets by their packs. The train gathered speed as it ran down an incline. It was as if it knew that without the extra speed it would never make it up the other side. The train entered a divide cutting through a hillside. The roar of the engine closed in on them. Suddenly it was replaced by an echoing silence with only the clicking of the rails present. Simon knew they were on a viaduct with a drop of several hundred feet to a river below. He left his seat and went to Pamela. The train 'bottomed out' and started the climb back up the other side of the viaduct. The climb was steep and the engine was finding the going hard. It reached deep into its mechanical body to do its best, but even so, when it reached the far end of the viaduct it was down to walking pace. Simon opened the carriage door and he and Pamela stepped neatly down onto the gravel supporting the railway tracks. The engine seemed to say, "There you are." It started to regain its momentum, and within the space of a few yards accelerated away into the distance leaving Simon, Pamela and their packs alone in a wilderness.

"Where are we?" asked Pamela. She was shivering slightly, but due to the transition from sleep to movement, rather than anything else.

"In the country lover," replied Simon picking up his pack as though it was no weight at all. He laughed aloud for the sheer joy of it. "All by ourselves in the most beautiful part of God's world. This is why they call it God's own country."

Pamela found it was surprisingly easy to see. There was a bright moon and, while it would be silly to compare it with the sun, it was providing more than adequate light. The shadows were very dark.

"So, we go bush now do we?" asked Pamela.

Again Simon laughed. "No need to lover," he said. "If we really had to we could but there is an easier way." He took her hand in his and they started to walk back in the direction from whence the train had come. "We've just come over the rail bridge known as 945.6. That's its official designation. Locally it's known as dark bridge. Not because it is dark though. It's not a viaduct either, but because it is as high as it is the locals used to pretend it was, so it became known as the viaduct. Over time viaduct shortened to duct as kids found via too hard to pronounce, then duct changed to dark, and there you have it; dark bridge."

"You know this place," Pamela stated rather than asked.

"Indeed," said Simon. "We used to do armed exercises in this area for years. I grew to know the locals pretty well."

"The women no doubt."

"Actually, no, just the boys at the local. In time, one of the sons ended up in one of my units and got himself into a spot of bother with some nasties. We got him back home here and I kept pretty much in touch over the years. Nice family. You'll like them."

"We're going there?"

"Oh yeah. They do a bloody wonderful breakfast. Really bad for the cholesterol, but hey, who's caring?"

As they reached the bridge, Pamela saw that there was a road leading off in a westerly direction. Simon turned on to it. Road was being a bit generous. It was a rough cut and bulldozed track, but it had been metalled. Some maintenance had been done to keep it usable. It was about three yards wide. In places, vines and trees provided a canopy that made for a dark tunnel. They had to use Simon's torch to ensure safe footing.

"While the locals use this road," Simon pointed out. "It is also used by the bridge and rail repair and maintenance crews so it's kept pretty much okay." As they walked, still holding hands, the countryside became alive. Pamela found that at night it became noisier than it would be during the daylight hours. The sounds though, were different. Moreporks, the local owls, called to each other.

"Isn't it bad luck to hear a Morepork?" asked Pamela.

"Hey," laughed Simon. "Aren't Christians not meant to be superstitious? There is a saying attributed to Maori, among others, that they are dead souls calling. There is more to it than that though. I think it is one of the most beautiful sounds in the world. It tells me that I am home. When I used to arrive back in New Zealand from overseas, I'd sit outside at night and listen to the Morepork calling. As far as I was, and am, concerned, they are welcoming me back to my home and asking me to stay. Silly eh?" Pamela squeezed his hand, reached up, and kissed him.

"No Simon," she said. "It's lovely. It's part of why I love you." They walked on, hearing life start to come alive as daylight arrived. They had been walking for nearly two hours but neither of them felt at all tired or worn out. Pamela was surprised that her condition allowed this but was thankful. Mind you, it was not hard. The track was flat and they were not pushing themselves. The darkness was pushed aside little bit by little bit. For a while, the shadows became darker but then Pamela found that she could make out the individual leaves on bushes more clearly, and then, as the first blush of red touched up the clouds, the dawn chorus started. The noise was unbelievable. The decibel count would have been high enough to have noise control arrive if it had been happening in a city. The birds sang their little hearts out. Pamela could understand their joy. What could be a more perfect example of God's work?

Whether is was just the relief of everything appearing normal or what, but Pamela did not want this intimate and close time to ever end. Then she noticed the landscape was changing. Gradually the bush became sparser. Areas of open ground began to appear. Where there had been a canopy of trees, leaves, bush or vine, they had given way to a gloriously clear sky. The morning star had lost its fight to be the diamond in the sky. The remaining few clouds had fled from the advancing day. It was as if a new world had been born. Like most city folk, Pamela had never experienced a country dawn. It was, she felt, awesome. Not only was the bush disappearing but also man was making his presence felt. Fences appeared. Water troughs dotted the paddocks and then Pamela could hear dogs. She looked up at Simon in silent questioning.

"That'll be Harry feeding them," he said.

"Do you think they'll be okay with me?"

"More than," said Simon. "Actually Edwina will be over the moon to meet my lady."

"Did she ever meet your other ladies?"

"Actually, no," advised Simon. "Harry and Edwina are Mum and Dad to Rupert. Rupert was their boy who served with me. The place is still nominally owned by Harry and Edwina but Rupert, their only child, runs it. It's a dry stock station of about five thousand acres making it a big outfit. A lot of it is rough terrain but it makes some good money. You'll like them all. It's Harry and Edwina's house that we're going to, but Rupert will be over later. He comes over every day, ostensibly to involve his parents in the running of the farm, but also to ensure that they are both okay. They are in their eighties now although you would never know it. Here it is, nearly five o'clock in the morning and they are up and about already."

By now, Pamela could see the cluster of buildings. Like so many country outfits, the roofs were painted red and the weatherboards white. There was a modest three bed-roomed house that had probably been built in the 1950's, along with a couple of sheds and a garage. Everything was neat and clean. The house was surrounded by lawn and an immaculate country garden. Shady trees provided shelter, but they did not dominate. Pamela and Simon opened a gate that gave access to a shingle road. They crossed a cattle stop and onto the driveway proper. This was concreted. The dogs were really barking now, drawing their owner's attention to the two strangers walking up to the house. The old man just stood quietly waiting for them to get closer. It was only when he recognised Simon, that he gestured to the four dogs to be quiet. They immediately fell silent and went back to worrying their biscuits. Pamela could see that he was elderly but he carrying his years well. His hair was snow white, but still thick and wavy. His skin was like leather and his blue eyes twinkled in a way that made Pamela feel drawn to him. He would only have been about five foot eight inches tall, and skinny as a rake, but he did have a presence about him.

"Simon," he said in acknowledgement, as he shook Simon's hand. It was as though it was quite normal for him to meet a couple on foot coming up his driveway at five o'clock in the morning. After shaking hands, they embraced briefly and then stood back.

"Harry," said Simon. "This is Pam." Pamela found those twinkling eyes turned upon her. Harrys face crinkled up as he smiled at her. She reached out her hand to shake his but he pushed it aside and hugged her.

"Hi Pam," he said. "Welcome to Sentinel Station. It's good to see you. I hope you're hungry. The Missus is in the process of cooking up a storm. I'd never be able to eat it all so come and give me a hand." He turned towards the house and as they approached, a chubby woman appeared at the doorway. She was a lot shorter than Harry but with the same thick white hair. To Pamela she looked exactly like a children's book drawing of a friendly grandmother. After the introductions, they were drawn into the house. There was no formality. The dining area was part of the kitchen but with a table able to seat about ten people with plenty of elbowroom. There had been a few building and appliance alterations, but not many. There was a dishwasher, and the old Aga oven, while still there, had been superseded by a thermo-wave oven and a microwave. Edwina fussed around and got them all seated at the table. It had been set for two but she quickly added extra plates and eating utensils. All the while, she kept up a running commentary on the weather, the state of the economy, how television had nothing worthwhile on it these days, and even went into the lives of the celebrities as laid out in the women's magazines. She injected a slice of normality into the whole situation, and by the time the toast, bacon, eggs and fried potatoes were put in front of them they were one big happy family. The cholesterol levels were astronomical but no one cared. The conversation got around to the reason Pamela and Simon were there. Simon laid out the full story. There were no gasps of horror, or the like, from the elderly couple. When told in Simon's basic style, the number of casualties indicated how horrific the carnage had been.

At the end of the telling, Edwina said, "So you're headed for the Monastery place now."

It was a statement, not a question. Simon and Pamela both nodded. Edwina continued. "So that would be about what, three hundred miles to the place?" Harry, Pamela and Simon agreed. "So," continued Edwina. "You'll be taking the Range Rover."

She took over the organisation. As she pointed out, the Rover was equipped with a GPS system so where ever it was left they would be able to locate it and pick it up in due course. While Harry and Simon talked over old times, Edwina took Pamela off with her and they fussed around in the kitchen, the garage, and the garden. All the while, as she prepared food for them to take and showed Pamela the garden, it was as though they were preparing for a picnic. At one stage though, while they were walking around the garden, Edwina drew Pamela down onto a wooden bench. With her hand still on Pamela's arm she said,

"You know that we would do anything for Simon. Has he told you how he saved Rupe?" Pamela shook her head.

"Not really," she said. "He just said that he had helped your son out at some stage. From his way of saying things, I presumed it had been pretty major and serious, but he never went into details. The actual violence of his past is something he keeps pretty much locked inside. I've seen some of it over the last few days, but he has never told me many of the details. He has only mentioned them casually in passing as it were." Edwina nodded.

"Yeah," she said. "One of those strong silent types. However that is not the way he really is. I guess you know that though?" It was a question. Pamela nodded.

"Oh yes," she said. "We've got past that. I know what he is really like, and we will do the full true confessions in due course, but at the moment we need to get this mess sorted out so we can get the time to do that."

"I am glad he has got you," stated Edwina. "While it may sound a little silly, you have grounded him. He's different this time. I can see the concern, love and feeling that he has for you. He has never had that before. It's not as if he hasn't shown his human side before, he has, but this time it is truly different. He normally comes here to recharge himself when he is close to breaking."

"Is he close to your son?" asked Pamela.

"Pretty much," advised Edwina. "But really the connection is with Harry and me. You see, Rupe is our only child. As he grew up he showed no interest in this place." Edwina indicated the land with a sweep of her hand. "Like a lot of parents we wanted the best for our son and as fortune would have it, we were able to provide it. Money was plentiful in those days with wool and meat prices the backbone of the economy. While Harry and I lived simply, we poured all that we could onto and into Rupe. The result, unfortunately, was a spoilt rotten brat. Rupe thought he knew best, and certainly better than us. He wasted his university time and got into all sorts of trouble. Eventually a deal was done between Rupe, the Police, and us that he would not be taken to Court over some silly thing if he joined the army. Rupe did so but disliked the discipline intensely. Somehow he ended up in a squad under Simon. I doubt he was Simon's favourite soldier. In due course Simon and his team ended up in some God forsaken African country in the middle of a war between that Country's Government and some rebels who called themselves Freedom fighters. As in the majority of those cases the only freedom they were after was the power which would give them freedom to do whatever they wanted to do to whomever they wanted. In the course of one particular fight, Rupe went off and done his own thing against the orders of Simon, and as a result was captured by the Freedom fighters. I am afraid Rupe found out that he was nothing at that stage. Those fiends broke him with their torture. All the time he was held by them Simon negotiated with the leaders, and eventually they agreed to a swap; Simon for Rupe. A leader was a better bargaining tool than a foot-soldier. By that stage, of course, they had broken Rupe and could get nothing more from him. He was surplus to requirements. Normally he would have just been shot and left but here was a person of rank offering himself in exchange for a broken soldier. Naturally they did the swap; Simon for Rupe. It was against all the rules and regulations for Simon to do that. Particularly in this instance, as Simon knew all the strategies and tactics in use. Once the Freedom fighters had that knowledge, they would have been able to effectively battle the Government forces and probably defeat them. In the end, Simon got a medal for it, as he was able to mislead the fighters with the result that the Government troops ambushed them and wiped them out. I am digressing though. Simon swapped himself for Rupe and he was subjected to the most horrible torture. He has never told us what they did to him, but Rupe has said what was done to him, so one can presume Simon suffered the same and worse. They would have broken his bones, given him electric shocks, beat him, starved him, locked him in a cage, buried him and done all sorts of things. Over that time, he never gave in, or gave away any information other than what he wanted them to believe. They thought that they were extracting information from him bit by bit but he was feeding it to them. In the end, he managed to escape. Again, the details are sketchy but he allegedly over-powered his captors and killed them with his bare hands. When he got back to his unit he was barely human, but acting on his information, the ambush was set up and the fighters annihilated. Simon and Rupe spent months together in rehabilitation and then both came back here. It took a long, long time for our son to become human again, but he did. That was all down to Simon as well. The 'shrinks', gave Rupe all sorts of pills and counselling, but it was Simon's practical work that finally got through. He completely rebuilt Rupe and turned him into such a fine young man; a man of whom we could all be proud. Once that miracle had been completed, Simon disappeared. We didn't see him again for years and years and then suddenly he started turning up for a few days here and there. He became like a second son to us, although he never really let his guard down. He always held something in reserve. As I said though, this time, with you, he seems more grounded.

"He lost his kids," said Pamela. "You knew that?"

"Eventually," nodded Edwina. "Now," She got to her feet and headed back into the house. "Let's get this show on the road. If I know anything, it's that he'll be champing at the bit to get going."

And so it proved. While Pamela and Edwina had been talking, Simon and Harry had been preparing the Range Rover. It was now parked outside the front door with the bonnet up and the oil and water being checked. As Pamela helped Edwina put the food, extra blankets and goodness only knows what else, into the back she noticed the .308 rifle, several boxes of ammunition and another army pack. This one was very old and battered. Within minutes, everything had been done and checked. Both couples kissed, shook hands and hugged as they said goodbye.

"Come back soon," said Harry.

"Indeed," said Simon as he let out the clutch. The Rover found its way out onto the shingle road and with a final toot of the horn, Simon and Pamela left Rupe's parents behind.

"Where does Rupert live?" asked Pamela.

"He's about half an hour away," replied Simon. "He has a house by the air strip. It is a pretty big station. Normally he would have come over and with you here, brought Kathy as well, but I asked Harry and Edwina to say nothing. I'd hate to involve even more people in this. I thought long and hard about coming here at all. In the end, I doubt that there will be a tie back to them. I sincerely hope there ain't anyway."

"So Rupe is married? Kathy is his wife?"

"Nope," said Simon shaking his head. "Daughter. His wife was killed in a hunting accident. What a hell of a life that whole family has lived. You wonder how they have survived all that has happened to them. They are a bit like you though; Churchy. They say that's what has held them together. If that is so then I reckon there must be something to it." Simon patted Pamela's knee and gave it a squeeze. "You just keep on talking to God and maybe he'll do the same for us. Heck, if he does that then maybe I'll even go along to Church with you. Mind you, he and I would have to have some pretty long talks for him to justify the chaos he has got going on in the world."

"Don't blame God," said Pamela. "He didn't do it. Poor God. He gets the blame for everything. Let's leave that for another time though. Tell me what we are up to at the moment."

Dust crept into the vehicle as they drove through farmland. There were no macadam roads and they sighted no other vehicles. From time to time, bush would creep down a hillside or spring from a gully to envelop them, but then they would break free into grass paddocks stretching as far as the eye could see. Gradually more buildings began to appear. First, they were hay sheds and then sheds with tractors and other implements in them .The occasional house appeared. Domestic animals began to compete with the rabbits and then became more dominant. Beef animals competed with sheep, then deer competed with goats. Gorse covered hills disappeared and fences intensified. Humans even reappeared. Some waved at the Rover obviously believing Harry was behind the wheel. Gravel then gave way to macadam. Milking cows began to appear as they left cowsheds and headed for their day paddocks, sometimes running for the sheer joy of an empty udder and the prospect of fresh clover. All this happened as Simon outlined his plan to Pamela.

"Okay. As Edwina said, this old girl (he patted the Range Rover steering wheel) has a security GPS system so we'll use it to get us reasonably close to the Tararuas, probably as far as the Otaki Forks. Once we get there, I'll park it up and in a few days time Rupe and Harry will come and pick it up. Actually, they will probably do it tomorrow. Originally, Harry wanted to come down with us, drop us off, and then return. A good idea actually, but I doubt that we would have been able to make him return. The old bugger would have got himself more involved and I would not want to have to try to protect him as well. You are the one who needs my attention. Anyway, to get back to things. Once the Rover is parked up, there is no tie back to Harry and Edwina. I have my old hunting rifle in the back and a few extra things that we might need. Rupe has always kept his hand in, so there are compasses, night vision gear, camouflage clothing, and some grenades. In the back of his mind he has this fear that one day his old demons may turn up and he wants to be ready for them. So, I've got all the gear we need. Once we leave the Rover, we will have a walk of about three to four days to the rendezvous point. That's the situation. Okay?"

Pamela nodded agreement, "Okay."

For a while, they travelled in silence. It was a companionable silence. No words were needed to express their feelings. Occasionally, one or the other would reach out and pat or touch the other. Gradually the rhythm got to Pamela and she dropped off to sleep. Simon kept an eye on his rear vision mirror but was unable to spot any surveillance. He allowed his mind to wander for the first time in a long while. Better than anyone, he knew what lay ahead. He marvelled at how he felt. In the old days, he would have relished the challenge of meeting and beating the enemy, but this time he found himself with reservations. He knew one of those reservations sat beside him making little noises in her sleep. While he was confident of bettering the enemy, for the first time in his life he felt a little flicker of doubt. In his mind he quickly ran through his intended plan but was unable to fault it. He compared it with previous occasions and again it compared favourably. He took out his little doubt again. He worried at it. He self analysed it. Finally, he decided that he was allowing his feelings, his love for Pamela and their unborn child, to cloud his better judgment. A case of heart over ruling the mind. He also suspected that his fall into alcoholism and depression had not helped. For the majority of his life he had always been on top of things. While he had taken enormous risks, most of them had been calculated to the n'th degree. Initially he had had to answer to nobody but himself. As a result he had become a form of hero to some. As he rose up in the command structure though, he had needed to change some of his tactics and factor into his calculations the result of his decisions upon others. While it had been all right for him to sally forth, that did not mean that he could take his troops into the same situation without having a good chance of success. So, as he increased in maturity, and rank, he became more calculating. His risk taking had decreased, but his success rate increased dramatically. He became a leader people wanted to follow. He was sought out for his advice and point of view. He became a hero. He had to admit that he had liked it. His ego was huge. Mind you, he had every reason to be like that. His success ratio was higher than any operative before him. From extracting agents and defectors from foreign climes, to wiping out guerillas in jungle warfare. He had citations, medals and awards galore to prove how good he really was. Governments from around the world sought out his advice and guidance via the New Zealand Government. While his name and actions were unknown to the ordinary citizenry, it was set up in blazing lights for the worlds decision makers. When he had met and married Elaine, he had taken the decision to step back from the daredevil stuff and play the part of the dutiful husband, and in due course, the dutiful father. Parenthood had changed him and he had taken huge delight in his daughters. By switching to the Police he had been able to satisfy his junkie need for action with his responsibility for family. Looking back it seemed as if his life had been almost idyllic. Then, out of the blue, came the deaths of Petra and Alison. He had known at the time that he needed to pull himself together but he had not been able to do so. As he drank himself into an alcoholic oblivion that he hoped would alleviate the pain, he knew deep down that the hurt would never disappear. Even now he could feel the rage and despair start to well up inside him. His glance at Pamela quietened that. Here was his last chance, he reckoned, to recover. Perhaps he was being selfish. Certainly, he was taking a risk letting Pamela go into an action situation, but again, based on a balance of probabilities, he was certain that she would be safe. As safe as she could be in the circumstances anyway. Her pregnancy guaranteed that. Besides, in a purely selfish way, she made him feel whole again. Putting aside all the descendant drama, he needed to free her, and himself, from the Nazarene group if they were to have any chance at a normal life. That had sent him on this mission. He had been deprived of the chance to grow old with his daughters and he was not about to let this second chance at life slip through his fingers without a monumental fight. Indeed, they had picked on the wrong guy this time. The rage inside him was cold and hard, but even more dangerous, given his control over it, and his background of dealing with situations like it. For a little while he allowed himself the luxury of wasteful hate, but then pulled himself back to the real world. Hate was something that clouded your judgment. It led to decisions based on feelings instead of logic. It led to death, not life. Pamela stirred and then sat up rubbing sleep from her eyes. Her hair was squashed on one side where her head had lain against the window. Like a little child she asked;

"Are we there yet?" Simon smiled and squeezed her thigh.

"Actually, lover, we are just about there. Give us another hour."

A row of blue hills disturbed the horizon.

"That's them up ahead isn't it?" asked Pamela. Simon nodded. Pamela pulled down the sun visor, and looking at herself in the mirror, pushed her hair around to even up its shape. She caught Simon looking at her quizzically and laughed.

"Pointless. I know," she laughed. "But a girl has to do what a girl has to do. Speaking of that. Could we stop for a pee. Please."

Simon pulled the Rover off the road by a clump of bushes and Pamela squatted behind them to relieve herself. This was happening more and more regularly now, and Simon knew from his experiences that it would continue. He was just thankful that Pamela's morning sickness had abated. She had not had it for sometime now, as far as he was aware. The last thing they needed was silence being broken by the sounds of retching.

Gradually the terrain gave way from flat, to undulating, to foothills. Once in the foothills, Simon turned off onto a gravel track. It did not deserve the title of road, although the AA sign indicated it to be 'Hebron Road No Exit.' Underneath that sign was another, pointing in the same direction, indicating Tararua Forest Park. A large billboard type sign showed the forest fire danger to be moderate. Hebron Road did not allow vehicles to pass each other. Probably, at some stage, it had been a logging truck track. For three miles the track wound among the foothills. It was a steady climb with the track clinging to the sides of the hills. Occasionally it dipped down into gully's but over all, the movement was uphill. Gorse, broom and scrub gave way to pine trees and then to native bush. The pines were quite scraggly however, and had obviously been overlooked prior to regeneration being given a free reign. The bird song changed also. From sparrows to Tui. The loud silence of the forest descended. Quail darted across the road. The forest canopy closed over them. The clear blue sky and the heat of the sun were relegated to their own areas as the forest claimed its right to be. Then suddenly, almost miraculously, they rounded a corner and descended into a clearing. There was actually a parking area with logs set into the ground to prevent you driving any further. There were two other four-wheel drive vehicles parked there and a motorcycle. The clearing contained a cabin built from corrugated iron, seemingly held together by moss. Simon killed the engine and the enveloping silence was almost physically heavy. With the forest canopy pushed back the sun was able to reach the area and the temperature climbed. Somehow the cabin managed to stay in the moss sheltering shade. A pipe led from the cabin roof guttering to a tank, obviously supplying rainwater for drinking and washing. A sign by the cabin door indicated the cost for using the cabin was $2 per night per person payable to the Department of Conservation. There was no indication how, or to whom, it was to be physically paid. Simon and Pamela stirred themselves and got out of the Land Rover. Simon unloaded their packs, his rifle and other armaments. Pamela went up the three wooden steps and pushed open the cabin door. It was spartan. The cabin was one large room. Three sides contained sets of wooden bunks with slats. No comfort. The bunks could sleep sixteen to twenty people. There was a fireplace against one wall with a window beside it. A table in the centre of the room could easily seat ten people and was surrounded by wooden forms. A sign, barely legible, told users to leave the cabin in the condition in which they found it. Another reminded users that they were in a National Forest Park and that no hunting was permitted. The fine for breaking that prohibition was $500. Simon propped his rifle up against the wall below that sign. He fussed around and within a few minutes had water boiling for a cup of tea. To Pamela it all seemed so unreal. Here they were, in the middle of no-where, sipping tea and getting ready to kill people. The contrast between peace and violent action was leaving her unbalanced. More and more though, she was beginning to understand the bond that existed between Ross, Ray, Simon and the rest of the team. It was because only someone who existed, or had existed, in the unreal world that they occupied could understand their feelings. They finished their mugs of tea. Simon showed Pamela the log book where those who used the cabin could list their destinations, estimated time of arrival at their destination and time of their departure from the cabin. In case of accidents, it gave Search and Rescue a starting point. The book listed the occupants of the vehicles and motorcycle. Their intended route was west of Simon and Pamela's intended course.

Chapter 37

Betrayal

Simon and Pamela headed out along a clearly defined trail. There were signposts indicating various tracks and destinations. It made you wonder how people could get lost. They headed along the McLennan track. From what she could remember of the maps she and Simon had studied, Pamela believed it ran parallel to the old monastery access track for some four miles before veering off in another direction. To Pamela it was like an exciting new adventure. She could have enjoyed it, but the thought of the danger and possible death associated with it, deprived her of that luxury. The track was wide enough for Simon and her to walk side by side. Here and there the Department of Conservation had cut steps, shored up sides, cut back branches and even built bridges. It really was a cruise. It could not be called a tramp. As they went, Simon pointed out various flora and fauna. He was very knowledgeable about the forest and its environs. There were edible berries, leaves and roots. There were some with medicinal properties. Simon explained how this forests inhabitants related to other forests around the world. His explanations opened up a new world to Pamela. Previously she had always enjoyed the forest as a place of quiet and solitude where you could spend time reconnecting with nature. Simon showed her an entirely different world. One inhabited by life and death. Everything was dependant upon everything else. Even the living were dependant upon the dead. The dead provided the nutrients and being of the new. The life cycle shown her by Simon appeared in stark contrast to that of her faith, based as it was, so she thought, upon ancient desert cultures. She mentioned this to Simon and his reply amazed her.

"This whole place," he said with a sweep of his hand, "is God as far as I am concerned. It is a living breathing God and we are part of that. To me, God is an experience, the whole basis of life. Okay, I know that sounds a bit corny and I am not explaining it very well. One day I will explain it to you properly. I don't doubt your beliefs or your certainty of them. I just think you, and others who call themselves Christians, limit yourselves too much. God, and his creation as you call it, is much bigger than you lot understand."

Pamela had to agree. In her mind, she knew that she did limit God. She limited him to a series of stories and rules. She was seeing now that God was so much more. Pamela did not have the time to dwell upon it though. Darkness was starting to make progress difficult. Although they were still on a well-defined track, it was no city footpath, and she was finding it hard to match the pace set by Simon. Even holding hands Pamela found herself slipping and her thighs were starting to ache. A chill was also starting to make itself felt. They entered a clearing. It was not much; about fifty feet across, but it allowed light into it. Simon set about organizing a meal. He used dry food he had in his pack and a little cooker. With some sustenance in her, and a warm drink, and massaged limbs, Pamela felt comforted and loved. She and Simon settled into their sleeping bags on a bed of leaves in the bush surrounding the clearing, and within minutes Pamela was gently snoring. For some time Simon lay looking up at the stars, then he willed himself to sleep, knowing that the days ahead would not allow him that luxury. Pamela slept the sleep of exhaustion. Both physically and mentally, she was being drained. There was some inner part of her though that kept her going, maintained her momentum. It was a combination of love for Simon and protectiveness for her unborn child. It allowed her to rise in the morning and follow Simon.

For two days, they threaded their way through the forest. After leaving the clearing, they also left the Department of Conservation track. Life became a whole lot harder. Where they had been able to walk side by side, and hold hands, they now found themselves able to do that only occasionally. The undergrowth became determined to stop them in their tracks. It would form loops and wait until they trod on them. It would then fasten onto their feet and throw them to the ground. On other occasions, it would ensnare their whole body determined to hold them in its embrace. Where previously they had scooted along at a good pace, they now dropped to yards an hour. It also hot, and sweat poured off them. That attracted insects and they seemed to be constantly batting away hordes of midges and other flying insects. Pamela found herself going through a lot of drinking water. Simon paced himself. Instead of things getting easier, they got even harder, particularly when they came up against a steep hillside. It became real hands and knees stuff. While the climb was not vertical, it seemed that way. When darkness claimed the earth they estimated that they had only covered about five miles that day; horizontally anyway. Pamela appeared close to exhaustion, and Simon was beginning to doubt her ability to last the distance. It was not her pregnancy that worried him; it was just her fitness and the mental strength need to continue. He treated her cuts and scratches, fed her, gave her some extra water and chocolate and settled her down for the night. She did not need the night sounds, or the wonders of the universe to lull her to sleep. It came instantly. She was awoken by Simon kissing her and giving her a mug of hot sweet tea. Talk about the nectar of the Gods! It was indeed of heaven.

Initially the day continued, like the previous one, with the undergrowth war continuing. After an hour though they found that the going became a little easier. They began to notice that each side of them were rotted tree trunks showing flat areas. Simon checked again with his compass and GPS, and said he believed that they had come upon the old track to the Monastery. While it was no longer a viable track, let alone a road, it did make the going easier. Unexpected holes still tripped them, but there was nothing like the previous day. Examination revealed the signs of previous use. The odd bit of iron lay on the ground, cast aside or fallen from whatever transport was carrying it to the Monastery. For the most part though, the only difference was a slightly unusual flatness of an area about three yards across and deep ruts in areas where it was obviously wet during the winter. While it had never lessened, or stopped, plentiful bird and wild life had returned and were encouraging them. Fantails flitted about them seeming to offer encouragement to the weary. Pamela knew they were meant to indicate restless spirits to Maori, but she viewed them as angels. They crossed several little streams and it was there that the indications of a previous track were most obvious. The slopes down to the water and up the other side showed man had been present making life easier for himself. On a couple of occasions there were areas where the banks had been shored up, and others where they had been cut back. While their progress was satisfactory, Simon did spend more time making sure that they did not leave much indication of their passing. It was not possible to move without disturbing anything, and of course Pamela, being untrained, did not help matters. It would, however, have required a well-trained tracker to pick up and follow the trail. They stopped and camped early that day. The sun had done its duty and was allowing the dusk to claim the sky as they ate. Simon had the map out and he showed Pamela where they were. He pointed out the higher hills shown on the map and then pointed them out to her around them. He showed her the route they had taken and she was surprised to see how far they had travelled. She was also quite chuffed at how well she felt. While she had never been a great one for physical exercise, she now found herself feeling particularly well. While she was still covered in cuts and scratches, they were not bothering her, and the muscles that had ached the previous day had obviously got the message and decided to just get on with life rather than moan about it. Simon pointed out the rendezvous point where they were to meet the others. Two more days at the most and they would be there. Sleep wrapped itself around them.

Something awoke Simon in that very dark pre-dawn time. He was uncertain what the sound had been but knew it was foreign to the forest. Again the sound came. It was the slightest of creaks. Normally it would have passed unnoticed, but Simon's automatic sensors had detected it. Such sounds were the difference between life and death. Simon lay still. He waited for the sound again. He wanted to place its location and distance as accurately as he could. It came. By his reckoning he placed it within twenty feet of them and to the east. He and Pamela had made their bed slightly off the old track on the western side so the noise was coming from the direction of the track. Probably on the track itself. Simon reached around Pamela and clamped a hand over her mouth. Her eyes flickered open immediately but she did not move. He realised she had also been lying awake after something had disturbed her. She nodded once when he raised a finger to her lips. Ever so slowly, and quietly, Simon rose and melted into the darkness. Then, Pamela felt his presence again. He pressed something into her hand and she felt the cold vinyl handle of a revolver. Again, she nodded. Again, the dark ghost of her lover faded. Step by careful step Simon moved towards the sound that had disturbed him. It came again and he froze momentarily. This time the sound was further north than it had previously been, and also Simon could hear another sound. It was a shuffle sound and it preceded the creak. He knew that sound. The creak was from the leather of a boot and the shuffle was the sole of the boot being moved backwards and forwards prior to putting it down to ensure it was not going to snap a twig or disturb anything that might make a sound. Simon cursed himself for not wearing his night vision goggles. He was even more furious not to have realised that there would be active patrols. The old track into the monastery was one of the weakest points of its security and he should have taken that into account. He did know it. That is why he and Pamela were using it. He should have been more careful though. Ever so slowly, and ever so quietly, Simon lowered himself to the ground in order to silhouette the patrol against whatever light was available. There were two of them. They were wearing night vision equipment, but they were focused on where they were going, and not checking off to the sides of the old track. It was a full quarter of an hour before they had passed far enough away for Simon to feel that he and Pamela were safe enough again; for the moment. Light had improved imperceptibly and Simon knew that the patrol would automatically increase its speed as that light strengthened. He returned to Pamela and lay down beside her again, signaling for silence. They lay holding each other until the crescendo of the dawn chorus was such that it would cover their conversation and movement. Simon made up a supplement drink from powder and water. It tasted like cardboard even though the label indicated it as chocolate. They also ate some pieces of real chocolate and dried fruit and nuts. Simon explained to Pamela what he had seen; two armed guards checking the track.

"So they know we are here?" asked Pamela. Simon shook his head.

"I don't think so. It was probably just a routine patrol protecting what they perceive to be their weakest point. I don't know that they are aware of us at all. I think that if they were, they would be operating differently. We'll see. Anyway, today we'll keep away from the track just in case."

Picking up their equipment, they headed off once again. Initially Pamela's legs and body ached but those aches quickly disappeared and she fell into the days rhythm. Her foot into his footprint, her hand taking the vine from his, her whole world focused on the next step. Not Simon though. His eyes, nose and ears were forever checking. Was that normal? That sound; was it consistent with what could be expected given where they were? The same with the forest smells. Were they normal? Is that the way that piece of wood would normally lay or had some one shifted it? Constantly he assessed and reassessed. They avoided any clearings. The going was not as easy as the day before but it was not excessively hard or difficult. Pamela found herself quite enjoying the tramp and Simon was happy with the progress they were making. From time to time, they heard aeroplanes overhead. Generally, they were high flying and Simon did not relate their presence as a threat. On a couple of occasions a helicopter spent some time in the area. It did not come close to Pamela and Simon and they were unable to sight it. Because they were judging upon sound alone it was impossible to even know the type of helicopter. Simon dismissed it as irrelevant to their threat level. Even so, he kept himself aware of it, knowing that if it came into their vicinity then it could be a threat. If it had heat seeking devices on board then he would have to take action with that in mind. That night they slept fitfully. Nothing disturbed their sleep and early the next morning they were on their way again. As with the previous day it was a hard but enjoyable tramp. Pamela realised that her fitness had improved out of sight. She was beginning to appreciate its benefits. She knew that six months previously this tramp would have been impossible for her, let alone when pregnant. Add to that the fact that she had been kidnapped, shot at and involved in an armed attack where people had been killed. She attempted to justify the killing by relating their situation back to the Old Testament of the bible, where God saved his people by repeatedly slaughtering thousands of the enemy. She knew that justification to be false. In the end she gave it up and concentrated upon living in the moment. She realised this was how Simon survived. He did not dwell on what had happened in the past. He planned, made his decisions, went for it. He did not keep going over and over things. He enjoyed the moments of peace, or whatever, and left his unconscious mind to alert him to anything he needed to know. In the late afternoon, they stopped to make a drink, and to consult their map. The rendezvous point they were making for was below a rock outcrop at the head of a valley. Simon positioned the map to align it with the compass and pointed out the various features they could see, and where those were indicated on the map. Their current position was on a rise to one side of that valley. Pamela could remember map reading from the Girl Guides but that had never come as alive as it now did. She could see how the map was a picture but simply drawn differently. They could clearly see the outcrop of rock that was the rendezvous point.

"It doesn't look far away does it," stated Pamela.

"I'd say we'll make it early tomorrow," said Simon. "By sight it looks close enough but there's quite a bit of dead land between us and there; land that you can't see. Like these hollows here and here." Simon pointed them out on the map. "Looking from here the ground appears to be flat, but in reality we have to go down to the bottom of each dip, across the bottom and back up again so it'll be quite a walk. Even so, we'll do it early tomorrow." Simon spent a bit more time looking at the map and then showed Pamela what he intended them to do. "We'll go down this slope and camp down there for the night. Tomorrow we'll follow the valley floor for about 2 miles and then I want to go up onto this spur and just check out the area before we do our final approach. Okay?"

Pamela nodded. They picked up their gear and within an hour were eating.

The night was restless for Simon. Pamela slept well. Normally he was not given to dreaming but this night was different. He had difficulty recalling them when dawn broke, but they had made him nervous.

The undergrowth was thick leading up to the spur, and instead of it being a quick journey, it was midday by the time they approached the spur. About a quarter of a mile away Simon sat down and motioned Pamela to do the same. They sat in silence. The life and sounds of the area enveloped them. She knew that he was waiting and listening for that incongruent note in the symphony. What Simon had not said was that such a stop would require a minimum of an hour, perhaps two hours to be really effective. If some one were in the area, and they were experts, such as a sniper, then even two hours would not reveal them unless they were slack. A sniper in an ambush could wait up to a fortnight in order to make one shot, so two hours would mean nothing. The bird songs settled in. Insects swarmed and the ground life strolled past, ignoring them except for the occasional cocked-head look. They repeated the exercise every few hundred yards until they were sitting below a rocky spur that gave a view clear across the valley to the rendezvous point. The view was quite breathtaking. Trees that had stood for hundreds of years surveyed neighbours that had only shifted in over the last few decades. Here and there English native trees struggled to make their presence felt. Wind, and the odd passerby, had obviously deposited the seed in a fertile pocket of soil. While they existed, the attitude of the natives to the newcomers was all too obvious.

"Oh Simon," whispered Pamela. "This truly is God's own country isn't it?"

"Indeed," replied Simon. "However, I have seen similar views in various other parts of the world. I know we push our clean green image but other places are just as beautiful.

"Now, in a few minutes we'll be joined by some of the others."

"What?" asked Pamela looking around. "They're here? How do you know that? Did you hear or see them?"

"I better not have," said Simon. "No, they have left the odd identification mark. Even if they hadn't, this is the place that any cautious person would use to survey where he was going. Look." Simon pointed to a branch on a tree. "See those broken leaves. Some are broken on top and some on the bottom. Even number top and bottom. That's not natural. On the way in, there were other signs as well. Branches arranged in certain ways, and other things. They all tell me that the troops are here."

Within a few minutes Tom appeared. Pamela nearly screamed but Simon had heard Toms warning sign and had alerted her to his presence. She was absolutely amazed how at one moment there were only some rocks and vegetation, and the next he was seated beside her. With hand signals, Tom lead them to an area about a quarter of a mile behind the spur. The team had made their Head Quarters in a natural cave. Because of the way it had been formed, the cave entrance was partially blocked with rock that provided both a sight and sound barrier. Inside the cave they found Ross and Ray. Bernie was out on guard duty. Alan Forsyth and Jack had not yet turned up. With the greetings over, they had a debrief covering their experiences from after the surveillance termination. In all cases they had made the journey to where they were without incident. Nobody had seen or heard from Jack or Forsyth, which they agreed was unusual. While none of them had visited the nominated rendezvous point, they knew that Forsyth and Jack would not be there.

"But why not," asked Pamela? "Surely that's where you should look. That's where we should all be. What if they are in trouble?"

"That's the point," explained Simon. Pamela looked puzzled. Tom took up the matter.

"Simon's right. The rendezvous point is down there." He nodded towards the valley. "But we've always used that as a general location. If any of us were put in a position where we had to reveal that point, then we could do so without fear of endangering anyone. We all knew that once we got to the general area we would seek an overview point and make that our rally site."

"But surely you could all select different sites," said Pamela? "Then what would happen? Perhaps Alan and Jacko are sitting somewhere around here wondering what has happened to us."

"It's possible, but unlikely," agreed Simon in a placating tone. "As we were coming in there were indications that the rest of us were in the area. As I showed you; leaves and branches in certain positions etc. They showed me that these fellows were here abouts. Agreed, I didn't know whom, or where, but I knew they were ours. It was just a question of waiting for contact and that's what we were doing when Tee found us."

"It all sounds pretty hit and miss to me" pouted Pamela. "I would have thought a top team would have been better than that."

"Yeah. Well," said Ray. "I reckon it's a fucking man thing. I'm on your side girl. Wankers, but there you are, at the end of the day it's worked for us but not for Alan and Jacko."

"And you've not thought to look around for them," asked Pamela?

"Oh yeah," muttered Ross. "We've done that. There's no sign, and that's not a good sign. Still, it's a bit early to worry about it all. Give them another day, and then, if they're not here we can start to worry. Come on Pam. Sit down over here. I'll look after you. Can't understand what you see in Simon."

They all laughed, Pamela included. From there on the team settled into what appeared to be an established routine. They checked their equipment, played cards, read and talked. Simon showed Pamela where the latrine was sited. Sitting back and watching she saw that they were like an intimate family. Every one of them knew automatically what they were going to be doing next. While occasionally there was a bit of grumbling, especially when it came to guard duty, it was all good-natured. Pamela could not detect any worry about Jack and Alan Forsyth so decided she must be a minority of one. She, likewise, put that worry to one side and joined in where she could. That night they ate well. They had a rabbit stew resulting from a couple of traps set by Tom. Simon pointed out that they normally would not eat any hot produce, as the cooking smell would draw attention to them. They decided though, as they were moving out the next day, they would risk it. Besides, Simon reckoned the wind would disperse any smell enough to confuse the enemy.

It was still dark when Pamela was roused from her sleep. Around her, she could hear and feel the team getting ready to move out. Simon helped her to her feet and led her by the hand out of the cave. Once outside Pamela was able to distinguish shadows, but dips in the ground were not so good. Simon slipped a set of night vision goggles over her head and the familiar fuzzy green outlines materialized. Tom led, with Bernie, Ross, Pamela and Simon following and Ray bringing up the rear. Step by careful step they left the cave area. It appeared to Pamela it was about 4 a.m. While the darkness stayed, their rate of travel was slow. While they occasionally spent some time going uphill, a similar amount of time was spent going down. Pamela surmised they were travelling at about the same overall level along a hillside. Gradually daylight introduced itself. Pamela confirmed her belief that they had been travelling along a hillside. The valley was a sea of white cloud as the mist showed itself reluctant to release its hold. As the morning progressed so did their rate of travel. So also did the heat. The sun burnt off the mist but the humidity climbed to keep Simon and his team company. Soon they were drenched with sweat and this attracted the sand flies and mosquitoes making life miserable. Pamela believed it was the worst she had felt in a long time. She found she had gone from being happy and almost carefree to thoroughly miserable. Her feelings were partly shared by the others. In the early afternoon, Simon called a halt. Up to this stage, the day's journey had been in silence. Directions had been given by sign, and thinking back, Pamela had to admire the fact that she had been as quiet as the rest. They had been like ghosts. They ate chocolate, nuts and raisins from their rations, and washed them down with water. Simon spread his map out on the ground and the team gathered around it. He pointed to a location, and Pamela saw the rest of the team note it and then look around at the terrain to confirm their position. Their nods confirmed Simon's belief. He then indicated another point and Pamela could see that it was their originally given assembly point. It was about a mile and a half away from where they were. Simon looked around at them all. He pointed to himself and Bernie, and then in the direction of the assembly point. With a sweep of his hand at the rest, he indicated that they were to stay where they were. He kissed and hugged Pamela, and then he and Bernie disappeared from sight. Under Tom's direction, the rest of them spread out and settled down. They ensured that they could all see at least one other member of the team but were separated as far as possible. When he positioned her, Tom whispered to Pamela that the idea was to ensure they all had cover from another team member, but that they were far enough apart not to both be taken by a hostile. Pamela found that she was in clear sight of both Ross and Tom so knew she was getting special attention.

Chapter 38

Simon and Bernie approached the assembly point with the greatest of caution. Half a mile out, they circled the point. In the past, all they would have had to worry about would have been trip wires, mines, and live bodies. Currently though, they knew they also had to be aware of listening devices, video devices and seismic devices. Those silent spies were usually operated by solar panels or batteries. Any movement would activate them and they would either transmit the information back to a base, or store it for later retrieval. In this case Simon believed that any such device would transmit back to a base in real time. Each step he and Bernie took was considered, thought out, and deliberate. Early on, they noted their own trademark indications of an even number of leaves in broken patterns. That told them that Jack and Alan Forsyth had been here. Simon was surprised by that discovery, as he had not thought that any member of the team would go near the designated assembly point. It was not the done thing. Simon could see the question mark in Bernie's eyes as well. Where the old access track approached the assembly point, they discovered a video device. Simon and Bernie had to admire the way it had been set up. Their acknowledgement of the expertise involved showed in their nods to each other. The camera itself had a wide angled lens and it cast its eye over the old track from a knot hole in a tree. It was only discovered when Bernie caught sight of an unusual reflection. It turned out to be light reflecting off the plastic casing of an infrared detector. They are just like those little gadgets in houses and garages that set off burglar alarms and lights. In this case, it was designed to start the camera recording. It was a stand-alone device, which transmitted back to the camera so there were no leads to see. It was a fluke that the reflection occurred. Simon and Bernie discovered four more detectors. They checked the approach to the rendezvous point along the old track and also for some distance each side of it. There were no marks or signs left by the installers. They had been professionals. Simon and Bernie withdrew from that area and approached from a different point. As evening settled so did Simon and Bernie. Like the rest of the team, they distanced themselves from each other but maintained sight until it became too dark. At that stage, they pulled on night vision gear. They were about 200 yards from the actual rendezvous point. Simon and Bernie believed it had been compromised, but needed to confirm their suspicions. The question was; why had Jack and Forsyth been there? Such was not the standard protocol used by the group. The cameras were another point. Was it just coincidence that they were there? They were covering the old track and it had to be admitted that the track was a weak point in the Monastery defences. Simon had identified it as such, so surely the experienced team guarding the Monastery would have seen it in the same light. Therefore, the presence of the cameras and Jack and Forsyth did not necessarily go hand in hand. What Simon was trying to establish now, was whether the two were just a coincidence, or if there was a more direct link. Simon and Bernie did not appear to move. Any casual observer would not have noticed any movement. They were though. That movement was only their heads. Even then it was so slow that it was hard to detect. Constantly they both scanned left and right noting everything in their line of sight. They both knew that if the area was compromised then there was probably an ambush in place. If so, then there would be shooters hidden in the vicinity, probably snipers. The big thing about snipers was their patience. Even so, they had to answer the call of nature, and Simon knew that would be actioned during the hours of darkness when they would feel safest. Even then, Simon knew, they would be lucky to sight him, as the sniper would know that moment was his weakest. Simon and Bernie hoped, almost against hope, that if it was an ambush that they would be able to pick up the snipers movement. Slowly the seconds became minutes and the minutes became hours. Left to right, right to left. Rabbits moved past. Opossums chewed contently on wild fruit. Hedgehogs snuffled at the humans and then waddled on finding nothing interesting about them. Quail, Weka, and Kiwi foraged for worms and grubs among the carpet of leaves. Life went on. Right to left, left to right. Stop. Simon noted peripheral movement. Unable to quickly go back to it, Simon tried to lock the position into his mind's eye. Slowly, slowly, back he turned. There, definite movement. Very slowly and deliberate. It was at the limit of sight. As Simon watched, the green, solid, but vague shape, moved from a prone position into a crouch. It was the call that could not be ignored. Simon knew that the faeces would be placed in a bag and later taken away by the sniper, but he had now been spotted. It was pure luck. It could have been that he may have been able to answer the call prone, or not at all that day, but luck, if you could call it that, was on their side. Slowly, ever so slowly, Simon moved his head towards Bernie. He had moved his towards Simon so both knew they had seen the same thing. Simon slowly raised his hand and lowered it again. They started to remove themselves from the area. Their movements were extremely slow. They had to assume that if there was one watcher, then there were probably more. As well, there were probably infrared cameras around so their movements had to be slow enough not to activate them. They had made the sighting at about 2 a.m. and it was 5 a.m. before they felt they were far enough away to be able to move freely. Neither said a word as they made their way back to where they knew the rest of the team would be. Daylight and their meeting back with the team arrived together. Pamela hugged Simon tightly. As they again ate their dry rations, Simon outlined what they had discovered. The team looked glum.

"What's wrong," asked Pamela in a puzzled voice? "Surely its good news isn't it? We know that Alan and Jacko are here somewhere. The leaves tell you that. We also know where the baddies are. Alan and Jacko must have seen what you saw and left the area. We just have to meet up with each other again, don't we?"

"If only," responded Simon. "No lover, there's something very wrong. To start with there is no way Alan and Jacko should have been there. We've already explained that to you. While it was designated as our assembly point, our standard procedure is to assemble nearby. It is something we have always done."

Pamela shook her head.

"No love," said Simon gently. "That's the way it is."

"So you're saying what," asked Pamela?

"We're saying that if Alan and Jacko were there, and I'm certain one of them was, then he was not there of his own free will."

There was a murmur of general agreement. Pamela looked around at them all. "You mean they've been captured?"

"Probably worse," said Bernie.

"Worse," echoed Pamela. "How could it be worse? What do you mean?"

"Calm down love," said Simon taking hold of her hand and giving it a squeeze. "What Bernie means is that this isn't a game. You know that. It's deadly serious. Deadly. Somehow, Jacko and Alan have been captured. They have been forced to reveal our assembly point. They have given the co-ordinates, but of course by not saying that we assemble some distance away, they have been able to alert us. It has been their way of telling us that they have been caught."

"Oh," said Pamela. "Oh my God. Are they going to be alright?"

"Let's hope so," said Simon. For a moment there was silence as the team acknowledged the reality of the situation.

"Actually," Ross broke the silence. "I think that there is another problem." They all turned to look at him. "I'll go along with what you have said. It's obvious that someone gave the hostiles that point. It could only have been Alan or Jacko. What worries me though are the signs; the broken leaves and branches. That means that Alan and/or Jacko were there. That makes it all wrong. All very wrong. I think we have a major problem." Nobody said anything while considering Ross's comments.

"You've a bloody good point," admitted Simon.

"What point? What does he mean," asked Pamela?

"Rosco means that we could have a traitor in our midst," said Simon. "That is what you're saying isn't it?" Ross nodded.

Pamela looked around. "A traitor? You're joking. How could you possibly know that? These are your friends. You know them. You've always relied on them. You've always said that. They must have been tortured or given truth serum or something. Surely."

"Slow down love, slow down," calmed Simon. "Let's look at this properly."

"How can we calm down," retorted Pamela. "You've known Alan and Jacko for ever. You've been in all sorts of situations with them. Your wives and girlfriends have loved and worked with them and now you're saying that they would betray all that? Heck, I don't know them as well as you lot do but I'd trust them. Look what they have done for us; Simon and me. I just don't see how you can go down that track." She turned to Simon. "Tell me how you could even think such a thing."

"Explain the leaves," said Ross.

"What about the leaves," asked Pamela?

"They are our signal. Nobody else's."

"So that shows that Jacko and Alan were there," said Pamela.

"Right," said Ross. "And that is the point. They were there."

Pamela turned towards Simon. He was nodding.

"What Rosco is trying to say is that either Alan or Jacko, or both, were at the assembly point. The broken leaves signal tell us that. We can accept that as genuine. One or both of them were there. They should not have been though. If the information was tortured out of them it would have been only the co-ordinates given. At that stage you would set up the ambush and surveillance. You wouldn't take your informants to the scene. What would that achieve? No, Roscoe's right. There's a major problem here."

"Oh," said Pamela.

"Oh indeed," replied Simon.

"So, you're saying what," asked Pamela.

"We're saying that one of them has betrayed us. One of them is a traitor," said Ross bluntly. A silence gathered while each of them examined Ross's statement. Pamela looked around at them all to find that there was an acceptance of Ross's statement.

"Oh my Goodness," said Pamela. "You really do think one of them is don't you?"

"I'm afraid so Pam," nodded Simon. "But there is good news and there is bad news as they say. The good news is that in all likelihood it is a traitor and not traitors. The bad news is that we don't know who is which. The broken leaves were a warning to us. Whoever broke them knew that we would be suspicious. They were telling us that they had been there, a violation, or no-no, of our operating technique. A way of them letting us know that the information had been given under duress. If they had just given away the co-ordinates then we would have probably walked into that ambush. The broken leaves alerted us to the fact that something unusual was happening. The point is was it Alan or Jacko?"

"Both Alan and Jacko know about the leaves thing do they," asked Pamela? They all nodded. "Oh my," gasped Pamela. "What a mess. So, they will know that we are here. They'll be looking for us and they'll be ready for us." Simon nodded.

"Indeed," he said.

"We're going to have to take the information given us by Jacko with a load of salt," pointed out Tom. "If it's him then can we really rely on what he said he picked up from his son?"

"What a bloody mess," said Bernie. "The whole thing's turning to shit."

Pamela looked up at him in alarm. Simon nodded.

"Yep," he agreed. "I'd have to say you're right. A bloody big pile of it."

"So what are we going to do," asked Pamela. "Perhaps we should just pack up and forget about it all. Maybe we should just go into hiding Simon." Simon shook his head.

"No way," growled Bernie. "This has become real personal. One of us has targeted our group. One of us is in real trouble. Three counting you two. What I am worried about though is that either Alan or Jacko is at the mercy of the other, and it is our sworn duty to assist the one in trouble; agreed?" They all nodded. Bernie continued, "The big thing is that both of them have so much information. Alan has been into this almost since the beginning, certainly before the majority of us. As such, he has been subject to each little snippet of information that has become available and he would have been able to slant whatever information he was giving out. If he's the leak, then I really think we are in the shit. Equally, if it is Jacko, then we could be walking into a bigger trap than we know. He's the one who has given us the surveillance information about this place. Okay, we've gathered some of the information from other sources but his is what we are acting upon. We may already be fucked and just haven't felt the pain yet. Hell, regardless of the care we have taken, we may be under satellite surveillance and all this sneaking around may be pointless."

Like puppets, they all nodded again. There was silence as they absorbed Bernie's assessment. Pamela looked at Simon. He nodded again.

"I would say you're right," said Simon. "It may be worse though. They could be working together."

"But surely the leaves were a warning weren't they," asked Pamela?

"Perhaps," said Simon. "The thing is, in this game, you have to check pretty deep and then triple check again. Those leaves could have been deliberately done by the traitor to make us think the other was warning us."

"That's all getting very tricky," said Pamela. "But why did they only do the leaf signal at the ambush place. Why didn't they do it where they should have, at the place where you met? Wouldn't that have been a better idea?"

"Don't know," said Simon. "My best bet would be that there is only the one traitor and some how they have convinced the other to check the given rendezvous point prior to taking him prisoner. Knowing that the whole thing was unusual, that person has broken the leaves as a warning to us. I know that sounds unusual but you've got to know spooks to understand," said Simon. "They twist and turn and double deal so much that most of the time they can't trust themselves. Certainly the site of the ambush was better than our real rendezvous point would have been.

"There is another point as well. If either, or both, Alan and Jacko have been got to, then one or more of us could have been as well." Pamela's left hand flew to her mouth. She looked round at the small group gathered in their camouflage gear and looking serious. They were all nodding agreement.

"Oh my God," Pamela reiterated. "Oh my God."

"Indeed," agreed Simon.

"So what do we do," asked Pamela.

"Well," replied Simon. "There ain't a lot we can do. As far as I am concerned, I intend to carry on. Too much has been invested in this to abandon it. Unfortunately, we are left with little concrete information. Can we trust the information given us by Alan and Jacko? Some of it we can. Regardless of who they are representing, they will be doing it as professionals. As such, they will be using the old 90/10 rule. 90% truth, 10% bullshit. Because of that, most of what we have been told will be truthful. So, what do we know? We know that we are not far from an old monastery. We believe it to be occupied by the Nazarene Order. We have plans of that building. We know we have been under surveillance and serious attack. We know that there are professionals in this immediate area. Those professionals are either after some one, or they are protecting something. If we take a worst case scenario, where both Alan and Jacko have betrayed us, then it means the occupants of the monastery know our numbers, our armaments and our timings. What can we alter?

"Our timings. Really that is all we can do. Our original plan was to meet around here and finalise our plan of attack. That means that our actual plan of attack is not known. We don't know it yet. Likewise, we can't trust the satellite photographs so we don't know if we are going up against a large force or some token effort. We also don't know if they will have set up another ambush. If it were me, I would have done so, but closer to the monastery.

"So, my suggestion is this. We speed things up. We'll attack tomorrow night, very late. Early the next morning really. We will go in together from the front. They will be expecting us to take our time. If they are as good as we think, their reasoning, once they don't sight us at the rendezvous point, will be that we have become aware of them and will alter our strategy. I think they will assume we'll be more cautious and undertake extensive surveillance before attacking. By going in straight away, we'll increase the element of surprise in our favour.

"How do you rate that?"

Simon looked around at the others. They were nodding.

"Sounds alright to me," said Bernie. "We could bugger around for days or weeks without achieving a thing. Yep, I go along with what you're saying. Let's just get in there and do it." The others nodded agreement.

"Okay," accepted Simon. "Now I've been tossing up how we proceed from here. This is a suicide mission. I can't describe it any other way. That's suicide for you lot anyway, maybe not for Pam and me. My concern is, do we travel as a group or separately as two man teams? I've gone for two man teams. As a group, we're vulnerable if one of us is a spy. Individually, we are opening ourselves up to be picked off one at a time. At least in pairs we can support and watch each other." Simon pulled out his map of the area. "Okay, you've got the co-ordinates. We'll assemble at these co-ordinates (Simon indicated an area about half a mile from the monastery) at 2300 hours tomorrow. From there we will attack at 0300 hours the following day. I'll issue the final orders at that time. Okay?" Again, they all nodded. They started to lift their packs ready to move out.

"Oh," added Simon. "Those times are it. There will be no deviation from them. If any of us don't make it to the rendezvous, the others carry on. Understood?"

"Got ya," agreed Bernie. They faded into the surrounding bush leaving Pamela and Simon alone.

"It's not good is it," Pamela asked Simon?

"No it's not lover," agreed Simon. "After all we've been through together, I find it pretty hard to believe any of us could have been turned. I know that sounds like a cliché, but hell. Still, I've always said every man has his price. Obviously Alan and/or Jacko's price has been reached.

"Okay, girl, let's go." He pulled Pamela upright. He hugged and kissed her. Holding her, he whispered in her ear. "I love you girl. No matter what, I love you heaps." With a final squeeze, he turned and he and Pamela were into the bush again. They travelled a bit quicker than they had previously done. Pamela found that she was able to keep up the pace, which secretly pleased her. They did not speak as they travelled. Both were occupied with their own thoughts. Today was different from those that had gone before. Action time was near. The big unknown was near. What had really happened to Alan Forsyth and Jack? Were they safe? Had either of them really turned against their comrades? If so, what had influenced them to do so? The thoughts went round and round providing no settled answer. They did not stop for a meal but ate a few handfuls of nuts and raisins, along with some chocolate, on the move.

As darkness fell, they paused. Pamela could feel her heart beating inside her rib cage. She knew it was no different to normal, but it felt different. She could also feel the beginnings of a churning in her stomach.

"Just take a few deep breaths and let them out slowly," advised Simon. "I know how you're feeling. It'll soon pass."

"Are we there," asked Pamela?

"Almost," nodded Simon.

"The others," asked Pamela?

"Yep," said Simon. "They'll be here already. Okay, here's what we'll do. We'll use these night vision goggles to start with. We'll go straight to the rendezvous point. It's close so we'll be there by 2100 hours. Okay, that's a couple of hours early but that's good. We're putting our heads into the lion's mouth here. If any of the others are traitors then we'll be picked up there. You and I are likely to be safe, so if we get the chance to go in early then we will, and the rest can organise their own efforts to rescue us based upon what they will have learnt from our capture. Understand?"

Pamela nodded. "I trust you Simon," she said. Simon took her into his arms again.

"I love you too Pam," he said. "I just wish this whole thing would go away and leave us in peace, but it's just not going to happen. I am sure your God will protect us. He always did in the bible didn't he?" Pamela nodded, not daring to voice the numerous times that the Old Testament followers had suffered defeat. She just hoped that they were under the protection of the New Testament God, although he often seemed indifferent as well. "Perhaps not indifferent," she thought to herself, not wanting to risk alienating him, or her. "Just busy looking after the rest of his or her creation."

"I'll say a little prayer," Pamela told Simon.

"Please do that," said Simon feeling a little embarrassed acknowledging an unknown, but paying homage to it.

Quietly they moved on until Simon signalled a stop. He gestured for Pamela to come up beside him. In the green glow of the goggles, she could see Bernie sitting with his back against a tree.

"That changes things a bit," whispered Simon to Pamela. "With Bernie already here then either he is a traitor waiting for us or he has guessed that I would have you and I go in early. Back to the original plan I guess."

Simon made a clicking noise in his throat and Pamela saw Bernie raise a hand. She and Simon joined him. They were in a shallow hollow about the size of an average living room. It would help to confine their voices and any noise they made. They were joined by Tom, who had been just behind them, and within minutes Ross and Ray also appeared after making the clicking signal to advise of their presence. Ross said that he and Ray had made a preliminary survey of the place. He described it as being the same as the photographs and plans they had seen. All four watchtowers were occupied with two people per tower. Each tower had three searchlights; one shining straight out into the bush, and one along the fence lines in each direction. They confirmed the clear area between the chain-linked fence and the bush, and that the main building was like a castle without turrets. Eleven chalets were confirmed spread in a semi circle around the main building with one out on its lonesome between the main gate and the castle.

"All in all," reported Ross, "the place is like a fucking fortress."

"Well its nothing less than we expected is it," said Simon. "Regardless of Alan and Jacko, the plans we had of the place gave us that information."

"My sources did indicate greatly increased communications activity," said Tom. "So all in all, I think we can expect them to be expecting us, and that they will be well prepared and well armed. While their surveillance ability earlier on was not very good, their gear was top notch. Also, we've got to acknowledge that we're bloody good; some of the best around. To date we've done okay. Here though we are on their home ground. I think it is going to be a very hard nut to crack."

"Do you reckon they'll buy a diversion," asked Ray.

"Hard to say," said Simon.

"Well, they would have to react to it," pointed out Tom, "just in case it was the real thing."

"How about you?" asked Ray of Simon. "Would you react?"

"I would commit to it," agreed Simon. "Not to a large degree, but I would commit. At the same time I'd make sure everyone else treated it as a heads up and paid a bit more attention to the vulnerable areas."

"So what we need to do is create a diversion followed up with another diversion, and then throw the whole bloody lot at them," said Bernie.

"Yep," nodded Simon. "That would do it."

"With six of us?" asked Pamela?

"With six of us," confirmed Simon.

"So how are we going to do that?" asked Pamela.

"Well," said Bernie. "They won't expect us to attack from the front. Normal thinking would be that we approach from the rear, so we'll make a feint at the side. I think that will need three of us. We'll lob a few grenades and shoot the place up a bit. We'll let them catch a glimpse of us in several different places to make it look as though there are quite a few of us. We'll also take out a few of the searchlights. That will commit a few of the troops and should also alert the others and give us an idea of their firepower.

"Once that's working I think a bit of movement and distraction from the rear would do the trick. That would confirm in their minds that the main attack will be coming from that direction. It's likely that they will then target the rear and we'll go in from the front. One of us should be able to do the rear as it'll only be a small diversion, and then they can join the rest of us at the front. The front team, as they go through the fence, will probably set off some type of alarm. Whether or not it will be noticed in the mayhem we won't know until the time comes. Pam and Simon, you'll have to be in that team. Once inside you'll have to take out the communications centre. That will disrupt their operation. The rest of us will follow in behind you and we'll blow the place to pieces. The more we can take down the better.

"Sound like a plan?"

"It's got as good a chance of succeeding as any I reckon," said Ray.

"So you're basically going to round everyone up and kill them," said Pamela.

"Well that's what they're trying to do to us," pointed out Tom.

"Yeah," agreed Ross.

"Hey," pointed out Pamela, "you're the ones who have done all the killing to date."

"Well you went along with it," pointed out Tom. "At the end of the day it's you and Simon they're after."

"Okay, okay," said Simon. "Calm down."

"Well has she got any better plan," asked Ross?

"Actually, I do," retorted Pamela.

"Okay, said Simon. "Let's hear it lover."

"Well, the whole idea here is to find out why they are really after us, and who and what they are. It's to find out that information and put an end to it. By going in and killing everyone, and blowing the place up, all we're going to do is ruin our chances of finding things out. A wholesale blowing up of the place isn't going to allow us to capture the leadership and the information we need extracted is it?"

There were reluctant head shakes from the group.

"So," continued Pamela, "here's what I reckon we do."

"This'll be good," said Tom to Ross.

"Okay," said Simon. "Let's hear it before we judge."

Pamela looked around at the group. They were hard men. They were used to using hard methods. They were good at doing what they did. Apart from Simon, she doubted if any of them had ever thought outside the square. As far as battle tactics were concerned they may have, but that would be as far as it went. She took a deep breath.

"I suggest Simon and I give ourselves up to them." She hurried on before anyone could say anything. "We're the safe ones. You've all said so. Well Simon is any way. By extension, we can assume I am. If I am wrong then I guess that I'll be the one to carry the can. If we give ourselves up it will give us access to the place. You can see that can't you? We've built our whole actions on the belief that they want to protect Simon, or at least not harm him. They will think that all their Christmas's have come at once if he goes up to them and says, 'here I am, I am all yours, and by the way here's my girlfriend who also happens to be pregnant with my child.'" How will they react to that? My guess is that they will put Simon into cotton wool. Initially it will be cotton wool with steel bars, but it'll blow them away. They will be pretty much uncertain about me, but I think they'll hold on to me for a while until they ascertain who and where I fit into things. If they decide that I am carrying a boy, then I guess we'll both be safe until he is born. If he is fine, then Simon will be in danger, but if it is a girl then it will be goodbye Pam. I hope, however, that that stage will not be reached. By giving ourselves up my idea is to buy both time and information. It'll enable you lot to adequately prepare an attack and it'll let us get all the information we can about Simon and the Nazarene order. How we will communicate that information to you I don't know, but I am sure hot-shot secret signal people like you will be able to figure out a way."

Pamela looked defiantly around the group. Bernie and Simon were looking fixedly at her. The rest were either looking at the ground or the forest around them. There was a protracted silence. Eventually Tom looked up from the ground.

"It's a plan," he agreed. "A bloody good plan." There were nods from all except Simon.

"It's too big a risk to take," he said. "It is all based on an assumption, the assumption that it's me they want and that they will not harm me. No, it's too risky. There's no guarantee about you. I can't allow that." Pamela looked at Simon.

"So, it's all about me now is it? What about your mates, don't they deserve better? You are willing to sacrifice them in a battle to satisfy your unguaranteed belief but you're not willing to bet on me. Sounds a bit dubious to me." The men's eyes switched from Pamela back to Simon.

"I don't . . . he started. "I didn't mean it like that."

"How did you mean it then," asked Pamela?

"Well," he paused. "Not like that." Everyone looked back at Pamela. She felt sorry for her lover and decided to rescue him.

"I know," she consoled him as she patted him on his arm. "You were doing your bit to protect me and yours. Logic says though, that my way's a good way. I'm not a tactics planner, or anything like that. I haven't thought long and hard about it. It just popped into my head. When I looked at it though it seemed a good idea. Our current beliefs support it. While I agree that there are risks, big risks, I think the odds favour us. On top of that, don't forget that there is another group out there somewhere who also seem to be protecting you. I don't think we should forget them, and we have done to date, because they've not seemed to be against us. How they could help, I don't know, but whenever you have been threatened, they always appear. That's just another plus in the equation as far as I'm concerned. So what do you really think? Pretty good for a little Christian girl who has slipped off her pedestal don't you reckon?" The eyes all slipped back to Simon but it was Bernie who spoke.

"Really I can't fault Pam's plan," he said quietly. "I have to take my hat off to you Pam. As you said, we've been so focused on destroying that we failed to think outside the square. I like it. There's a bit of fine-tuning to be done but I think it'll swing the advantage back to us. Based on our past actions they're not going to believe this change and it'll throw their plans into chaos."

"Thank you Bernie," responded Pamela.

"Okay," agreed Simon. "It's an idea. Do we all think it has possibilities?" He looked around at his men. In reply he got a series of nods and grunts indicating that while they did not like an outsider, and a female at that, putting forward strategy, perhaps in this instance she could be right. They entered into intensive discussions in order to fine-tune the new plan. The whispered conversation flowed back and forth but Simon had little input. After twenty minutes, he intervened.

"Right," he said. "I think we have covered it all. Here is what I reckon, based on what you have been saying. We'll change the 0300 hours attack. Instead, Pam and I will approach the main gate at 0900 hours. That way there will be less chance of panic and anyone shooting us. We will carry what we have: firearms and all. Okay, we know they will remove them from us, but perhaps they will believe that we are all that is left. Whether they will or not is another thing. Once inside we will reassess the situation. The rest of you will withdraw to an observation post covering all four sides of the place. By observation, you should be able to ascertain where we are being kept. As and when I am able, I will signal using our code. If I am not in a position to do that, then Pam will." Simon turned to Pamela. "The code is the same as you would use on a telephone with letters. You just hold up the required number of fingers, plus one, and the watchers figure out the letters. Simple. Once we have figured out the way things are, we will attempt to arrange things so you can gain entry covertly. If that is not possible, then we will arrange a diversion for when you attack. Finally, if it all turns to shit and we cannot communicate, then you must decide if you take it any further. If we get killed, and you can confirm our deaths, then I cannot see the point in you doing anything other than going home. If, on the other hand, we are held incommunicado, then I suggest five days from now at 0300 hours would be a good time to attack. The bottom line is that once we are inside, the whole deal is in your hands. Don't be premature though. If you can see us then things are going all right. If you can't, and there is an absence of signals, then it is up to you. Again, I would say 0300 hours in five days would probably be your limit. Sound okay?"

There were general nods of acceptance.

"Okay then," said Simon. "Pam and I will stay here for a while and then approach the gates at 0900 hours. The rest of you can fuck off now."

Bernie, Tom, Ross and Ray each stood up, hugged Pamela, shook hands with Simon, and simply vanished into the dark. Within a minute of Simon having told them to go, Pamela and he were alone. Suddenly the loneliness enveloped Pamela, and she clung to Simon. He pulled her down beside him so their backs were against a tree. The damp mouldy smell of the forest surrounded them. They just sat holding each other and letting the warmth of their bodies mingle. Pamela whispered to Simon.

"Do you think I was right? Is this the best way?"

Simon squeezed her. "I was really proud of you lover. It was good clever thinking and something that we should have picked up on a long time ago. You are right. We have been going at this thing all gung ho. It's almost as if having got over the drink problem and all, I have focused entirely on getting back to my early days and have forgotten all the investigative skills I've got. I have allowed anger to take over. I've been in revenge mode and that is not the way to do it. This is by far the best way. If I thought I could, I would do it alone. I would like to send you back out of this but I know that is a no-goer. As I have said, I should not have brought you into it, but the one thing I have learnt is that once something has happened, then it has happened, and there is rarely a chance to go back. Besides, I love having you here. I want and need you with me.

Pamela squeezed him tighter.

"Hey," she calmed. "We're right now. Okay, we could just get up and walk away but we both know they are not going to let that happen. If we do disappear, they will track us down and torture and kill us all. We know that. Your revenge action is understandable love. Your protection stance is understandable. In my belief system, we say that revenge belongs to God. That allows us to see outside the square of having to get even. Now that we are back on track, let's make sure that you do your investigative bit to the best of your ability. You will work this out love. Don't doubt yourself. Look after me and ours."

After that, no words seemed necessary. They sat in silence holding each other tight, lost in their own thoughts.

Almost too soon, the light fingers of dawn trickled through the trees and bush. Pamela and Simon helped each other to their feet and Pamela followed Simon as he headed towards the monastery. They came upon it very suddenly. One moment there was only bush and the next there was open space. They stepped back into the bush. They did not seem to have been noticed. The whole building was so incongruous. If it had been in Britain, it would have been known as some ones folly. It did resemble a large medieval castle. It was set dead centre in a fifty acre clearing. As per the photographs there was a chain wire perimeter fence situated several yards in from the surrounding bush. Guard towers were situated on all four sides. They were occupied with two people to a tower. From where they were, Pamela and Simon could see one lone chalet in front of them, and a crescent of other buildings behind the castle. While the original information had shown landscaped gardens with shrubs and trees, there was now a complete absence of them. Lawn was present but no cover existed. To Pamela and Simon it looked like a prisoner of war compound. There did not appear to be any entranceway through the fence. Slightly to one side of the front chalet there was a concrete pad that Simon took to be for helicopter landings. The castle structure dominated the compound. Its sheer walls and height (Simon put it at the equivalent of a three or four storey building) gave it the appearance of impregnability. He realised that any successful attack on the place would require great ingenuity. He did not doubt that he and his men could have done it, but having physically seen the place, he accepted that their chances of success would have been limited. Appearances can be deceptive, but in this case Simon was forced to accept that they were not.

Chapter 39

Enlightenment

At 0900 hours, holding hands, Simon and Pamela stepped out of the bush and walked towards the guard tower in front of them. The cleared area was mowed grass and it had been cut very low. They were watched by the guards in the tower who did not seem surprised to see them. About twenty yards from the tower, a disembodied voice told them to stop. They were then directed, by the voice, to a metal plate slightly to one side of where they stood. It had handrails on three sides and was about the size of an average six seater dining table. They stepped onto it, as directed, and it immediately began to descend. Simon was gob smacked. If this was the only type of entry into the place then it was indeed very secure. The platform could only take half a dozen people at a time, and probably had a security system that made it inoperable if more than a certain weight went on to it. That would limit the number of people using it to two or three at any one time. The guards continued to watch them in a bored manner. As their appearance had not surprised the guards, Simon guessed that they had been under security surveillance for some time. That made him apprehensive about the safety of Bernie and the team, but he put that to one side as he concentrated on what was happening to Pamela and him. The lift, for this is clearly what they were on, descended down a well that was lined with steel. It went down about twenty feet, in Simon's estimate, before stopping. In front of them was a small room. It was about four feet square, again limiting numbers. The room was bare except for inset lights and cameras. The lift rose back up once they stepped off it. The only way out of the room they now found themselves in was via steel rungs set against one wall. Those rungs gave entrance to a small manhole, again a limiting factor. It also made their entrance to a corridor on the other side of the manhole, somewhat undignified. They had at least made it safely, and in one piece, into the compound. A long corridor stretched out in front of them. The battleship grey of the walls and ceiling reminded Simon of Navy ships he had been on, and Pamela of war films. They walked hand in hand, watched by security cameras, until they reached a barred gate. The gate opened automatically as they approached giving them entry into a small room, again with solid metal walls. The gate closed behind them. There was a click and a speaker set into the ceiling spoke to them with a soft voice.

"Please remove all your clothes and put them, along with everything else you have, into the cupboard marked equipment." The voice was well modulated, and female. "Please do as you are told," it continued. Pamela and Simon obeyed. Once they had stripped, they opened the cupboard marked equipment. It gave access to a chute. Simon noted that for future reference. It was the first fault he had seen, if indeed it was a fault. Until he knew where it went he would not know if it was worth throwing a hand grenade down it. To one side of the cupboard were bright orange overalls. The voice suggested they don them before they went any further. Once they had dressed, the room started to ascend. There had been no indication, by way of movement, that the room was a lift. The ascent rate was average, and minutes later it stopped and one wall slid back. They stepped out into what could only be called the penthouse suite. Thick pile carpet spread before them. Comfortable lounge chairs and sofas gathered around coffee tables. A huge plasma television screen took up the majority of one wall. Soft relaxing music drifted from somewhere. A coffee percolator bubbled quietly away in a kitchenette area, and two trays of breakfast sat on a six-seater table.

"Not what I really expected," remarked Simon to Pamela. "Hello, anyone home?" The bubble of the percolator and the soft music were his only answer. Simon led Pamela over to the table.

"My motto is, eat when you can because you never know when you will get your next meal," he said to Pamela. They got stuck into bacon, eggs, hash browns, toast, marmalade and coffee. Earl Grey tea was also available with a selection of fruit juices.

"What is all this," asked Pamela, who periodically got up from the table and wandered around the room picking up ornaments and books?

There was a view from the windows but Simon guessed they could be covered with metal guards to stop any in-coming fire.

"I'd say it's the softening up bit," said Simon. "To start with they treat us all nice and friendly but once you don't go along with their ways, they take the old velvet glove off. Then they really get stuck into you."

"You think so," queried Pamela?

"I don't really know love. I'm sure we'll find out soon enough."

Although he could not see the surveillance cameras, Simon knew that they would be present and watching their every move. He was not mistaken. When they had finished their breakfast, a door slid back and Debra Winger walked into the room. She was accompanied by an older man wearing a Monk's habit. Simon nearly laughed out loud but he saw that Pamela was drawn to the monk.

"Clearly," he thought. "She did not see evil in disguise."

"Good morning Simon," said Winger. "Pam."

"Ah," said Simon. Turning to Pamela he said, "You remember Alan's second in command don't you? The traitor. Rarely trust a woman I say."

Winger had the decency to blush a little.

"There are things you don't understand," she retorted.

"As always," agreed Simon. "The first excuse is always that others do not understand. Please spare me the crap."

"Let's not get into a blame situation," said the monk who had accompanied Winger into the room. "We'll cover Debra's situation in due course." His voice was rather compelling, as was his demeanour. He was of average height, maybe a bit shorter. About 5" 8". His build was also average: neither too fat nor too thin. His nose could be called Patrician, but it was his eyes that were special. They were a very light blue, giving an unreal impression. It was almost as though they were coloured contact lenses. Simon had never seen such light coloured eyes before.

"Thank you Debra," said the Monk to Winger. "I don't think your presence is required at this time."

"Yes Father," acquiesced Winger. She left via the lift.

"Right," continued the Monk. "Let's start again shall we? My name is Paul Joseph. Paul Timothy Peter Joseph to be exact. My parents loved the Saints so went a bit overboard." Simon tried to place the accent but was unable to be certain. It sounded upper class English but with a bit of American thrown in along with the odd bit of Irish. If he had to guess, Simon would have said American born Irish educated at an English University.

"As is the custom in our Community, I'm not known by my real name. To all, I am Father Ryan. Shall we sit down?" So saying, Father Ryan sat down in one of the couch chairs leaving Pamela and Simon with little option but to follow suit. Simon admired the charismatic aura the man projected.

"I'm sorry we've met under such circumstances," continued Father Ryan. "But really you've made any standard approach very difficult."

"You could have tried a letter," retorted Simon. Father Ryan nodded with a wry smile.

"A pointless exercise I would think, don't you Simon?"

"Look," said Simon. "We've come to you, right. That's how open we are. Not only that, I've also brought my girlfriend with me. How more open than that can we be?"

"Don't take that tone with me," said Father Ryan sharply. "You're the ones who killed, no, murdered several innocent people in the city."

"People intent on killing us," interrupted Simon. "They were going to kill us. What did you expect us to do?"

"Please," interrupted Pamela. "Let's not get into a you did, we did situation."

"You're quite right Pamela," said Father Ryan. "I am sorry. It has been a stressful time lately."

"Stressful isn't the word," interrupted Simon. Pamela patted his arm.

"Hold on love," she admonished. "Look Mr. Ryan . . ."

"Father Ryan," interrupted Ryan.

"Mr. Ryan," said Pamela. "I've so far seen no evidence of God's love from the organisation you're associated with. All I've seen is kidnapping, shooting and killing. All Old Testament stuff. Nowhere have I seen any sign of New Testament love. Look at this place. All protected with razor wire, guns and things. Is that to keep people out, or your lot in?"

Ryan held up his hands as if in surrender.

"Look," he said. "I didn't want us to get off on the wrong foot but clearly we have. I admit we do have an extremely secure base here. I admit that we do, and have, employed secular staff to assist us, although the majority of them subscribe to our beliefs."

"You are the Order of the Nazarene?" asked Simon.

Ryan nodded. "Yes we are," he agreed.

"And the Masters Trust?"

"An overview and financial arm of the Order."

"So your belief is that somehow I am a descendant of Jesus and you want to establish my credentials, as it were, and bring about some sort of revival," asked Simon?

Ryan smiled. "Nothing could be further from the truth," he said. Pamela and Simon fell back in their chairs as though stunned.

"You've been reading too many books," continued Ryan.

Simon recovered first.

"But that is what Father Joe told us, and what my Dad believed. Now you're saying that's all wrong?"

"Yes," agreed Ryan.

"So you're going to set us right are you," asked Pamela?

"I hope to," said Ryan. "I know, Pamela, that you have at least an understanding of the Christian religion, but you'll have to bear with me if I cover a lot of familiar ground in an attempt to try and enlighten your friend Simon."

"You'll find that I know more than you think," interrupted Simon.

Ryan nodded.

"Doubtless," he continued. "Pamela, like all good Christian ladies, has tried to convert you to the cause, but she will only have given you the old line. The old false line. Let me see. She will have told you that all humans were sinners right from the time they were born. Something called original sin, right? Then, in due course, God sent his son, Jesus, to live among us human beings and then die for our sins as a sort of Judas goat. Right?" Simon nodded. Pamela said nothing. Ryan continued. "And as long as you believe all that, then when you die you will go to some place called heaven and live happily ever after as long as you've given heaps of money to the cause. Right?"

"You're demeaning it," burst out Pamela.

"Am I?" asked Ryan. "In a nut shell, Pamela, what I've said is the general Christian point of view. Some of you also believe that Jesus' mother gave birth hymen intactus. In other words, she remained a virgin with her hymen intact all her life, yet somehow gave birth out the normal channel."

"We Protestants don't all believe that," protested Pamela.

"But a lot do," argued Ryan. "Then there is the drinking of Jesus' blood and the eating of his body."

"Symbolic," said Pamela.

"A lot of people don't see it that way," retorted Ryan. "they see it as cannibalism."

"You're distorting things," said Pamela.

"Perhaps," agreed Ryan. "But all that I've said can be taken the wrong way. Oh, I don't doubt the sincerity of your beliefs, and there are millions of others in the same boat, but really . . ."

"I understand," interrupted Simon, "that these days things are a bit more liberal. Pam tells me that there is the belief that Jesus actually married and had children. That his descendants can be traced down to this day. That the Knights Templar held that information for years and then it became the property of some secret group. There are books about it as well."

"Of course," agreed Ryan. "Another red herring. More bullshit."

"You don't believe that?" asked Simon.

"No," said Ryan. Simon looked at Pamela. He looked back at Ryan.

"So you don't believe Jesus had descendants?"

"Oh, he may well have, but who really cares?" asked Ryan.

"I thought you cared," said Simon. "Isn't that what this is all about? Isn't the Order of the Nazarene about protecting Jesus' bloodline? Are you saying that my Dad was wrong? That what your predecessors told him was wrong? To put not to fine a point on it; that we are wrong? That I am not a descendant of Jesus?"

"You got it," agreed Ryan.

Simon sat back absolutely gob smacked. Pamela just stared at Ryan. Ryan sat complacently in his chair. Simon got up and started walking around the room.

"Then what is this all about? "asked Pamela. "Clearly you do have an interest in Simon and his relatives. You are not going to be able to say he is just the wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time. You, and others, have actually targeted him. He is important to you. Others believe you are protecting him, or covering for him, or something, because he is a direct descendant of our Lord. Are you telling me that your followers have been lied to?"

"People hear and believe what they want to hear and believe," said Ryan. He sat more upright in his chair, and then leaned forward. A look of intensity crossed his face. He continued, "A little misdirection never goes far astray either. However, you are right. We do have a great interest in Simon. The world does. I think it is timely and appropriate that we lay our cards on the table, so to speak. The Christian religion is a great religion. Clearly one of the three great ways of life. Over the years, its message has been twisted, perverted and misconstrued, and that's only by its leaders. Currently, in this Century, Christianity is on the wane, in what is jokingly called the civilized world. Its rise in the poorest nations, and the most populous, is increasing at a rate never before seen on this earth. Millions are turning to your Christ. The problem is that they are turning to the wrong man. They're looking for Jesus to save them. It's his cousin who is the true Christ, not Jesus."

"His cousin?" asked Pamela. "Who do you mean? The Baptist?"

"Yes," agreed Ryan now relaxing back into his chair. "The Baptist, John the Baptist."

"Who the hell is he?" asked Simon sitting back down in a chair. "I've never heard of him."

"Yes you have darling," responded Pamela. "He was the cousin of Jesus and his mother was Elizabeth, who was pregnant at the same time as Mary. She was also visited by angels who told her that her son would lead the way for someone greater than himself. When he grew up, according to the Bible, he lived on locusts and wild honey. He did lead a preaching ministry and baptised people in water. Hence his name, the Baptist. But, and it's a big but, he later baptised Jesus and that started Jesus' ministry. According to the Bible, John the Baptist asked Jesus why he should Baptise him when he, meaning Jesus, was the greater of them. John was later beheaded for objecting to Herod's marriage to his brother Philip's wife, Herodias."

"You know your Bible," said Ryan? "And if you read it, knowing what I am going to tell you, then you will see what you are meant to see. John the Baptist had a huge following and after he was beheaded what happened to him?"

"I'm not sure," said Pamela.

"His followers took his body and put it in a tomb. Sound familiar?"

"But at all times John the Baptist pointed away from himself," protested Pamela. "He knew he was not the One."

"You've got to remember," continued Ryan. "That there were several candidates in the Holy Lands at Jesus' time who were potential Messiahs. Most had quite big followings, but the Baptists following was huge. Even the Pharisees leaned towards him. As I have said, knowing what I have now told you, go and read the gospels again. When Jesus was baptised by John, and God sent down a dove and said, "This is my son in whom I am well pleased", he was talking about John, not Jesus."

"But John says something about the fact that he was not fit to wash the feet of Jesus," protested Pamela.

"The same way he's said, in the Bible, to have had his disciples ask Jesus if he, Jesus, was the Messiah. I know that it is all pretty confusing but the lineage from King David comes down to the Baptist. He was at least born in Bethlehem while there really is some doubt as to whether or not Jesus was.

"Look, we could go on like this for days. While you are here, you will have access to our library and to scholarly analysis about both Jesus and John. I suggest we postpone any further Jesus and John debate until then."

"So," interrupted Simon rising to his feet. "The big question is still, why me? Where do I fit into all this? Where does my family fit? Why was Dad told he was a descendant of Jesus? Why do you call yourself the Order of the Nazarene? Why kill my kids? Don't you dare tell me that all this happened because of some argument over two silly people living 2,000 years ago."

"Sit down Simon," ordered Ryan. "Sit down and listen. Listen real good." For all his affability there was steel in Ryan's voice. Simon sat down beside Pamela. She took his hand and squeezed it.

"At this stage," said Ryan. "I am not going into all the details that will convince or satisfy you. That may come later." He placed his elbows on the armrests of his chair and clasped his hands under his chin. "Everything goes back to Abraham," he began. "There was a thriving civilization at Ur but Abraham got the word from God to travel to what is now known as the Holy Land. From there he founded the nation of Israel. You can read all of that in the Jewish Books; the first five books of the Old Testament. It is generally agreed by historians that those books contain an accurate history of the Jews. Okay, there is a bit of controversy over Genesis and how life began and all that, with a couple of versions of the beginning. I don't think that matters. Arguing about them is only nit picking. Everything goes along normally for the Jewish nation, with its ups and downs, and wars and such, until we come to the birth of Jesus. This is where things went off the rocks a bit. As I have already pointed out, there were several prophet healers and workers of miracles operating in the Holy Lands at that time. John the Baptist had the largest following by far, and appeared to fit the description that appears in Isaiah. It is interesting to note that John did not preach life after death. Mind you, the Sadducees didn't either. Such a belief was a late arrival on the Jewish scene. Many other belief systems preached it but not the Jews. Then along comes Jesus. Remember, he was a cousin of John. While Jesus did have a bit of a following, it was nothing like that of John. John even had the ear of Herod. John was set up to be the next really big thing. He fitted the profile. Jesus and his followers were jealous of John and there are indications of that in the Bible. Suffice to say, once John was jailed, Jesus' side of the family saw a golden opportunity and seized it. Even so, it was no big thing. Jesus only did the same as any other healer and alleged prophet did. Once John was beheaded, his followers, in general, switched their allegiance, to Jesus. Low and behold, eventually Jesus went the same way as John. It was only after his death that Jesus came to prominence. It was an idea hatched by Jesus' female followers. As always, behind every successful man you will find a pushy woman. From that stage on, the Jesus myth was born. Meanwhile John's true followers continued with their beliefs. They did not consider John as the Messiah, but believed that such would come from his line."

"So you are saying I am a descendant of this John the Baptist," pointed out Simon.

"Yes," said Ryan. "Putting it simply, that is who you are."

"And where do you hope to go with that scenario," asked Pamela?

"The world is in turmoil," stated Ryan. "I think that both of you would agree that is a given. It is our belief that the Jesus faith has contributed to that turmoil. Once the world understands the way a group of first century women manipulated their man, it will understand the reason for its current state. A state that was inevitable, given the basis of deceit upon which it was built. Why do you think the Asian races are doing so well? Its not due to Jesus and the Christian belief. No, they are founded on a solid basis that extends back thousands of years further than Christianity. If, however, the Jews had followed the Baptist then it all would have been so much different."

"You're mad," said Pamela.

"Why?" asked Ryan. "Consider the Roman historian Josephus. He barely mentions Jesus. As a matter of fact, he really is uncertain if Jesus Christ did exist. Scholars are quite divided on that matter. On the other hand, the Baptist is mentioned in great detail. Josephus actually speculates that he was probably of the Essene Sect. I would say that has some credence, bearing in mind that he lived a life withdrawn from Jewish society. I do not believe that though. There are, however, currently Essene descendant believers in this world, and they also have an interest in Simon."

"Nutters," broke in Simon. "You're fucking nutters. Get real; this is the twenty first Century. We are in some tin pot little country down at the bottom of the world. Shit, it's hardly a religious country. They used to call themselves God's Own but they've given that the heave ho and would now be one of the most secular places in the world. And you are going to what? Launch a new world leader from here. Spare me."

"That is exactly what we are going to do," stated Ryan. "In this country there are strong mystical and psychic intersections. Even a Dali Llama designate came from here.

"While you are here you will have the time and chance to delve into your own background and find yourself. You will be convinced." Ryan stood up.

"Enough for now I think," he said. "Debra will show you around and set you up in your quarters. We will talk again later."

"And you'll justify all the killing then I suppose," said Pamela.

"Unfortunate collateral damage," said Ryan.

Pamela looked at Simon, expecting him to react violently. Instead, he stayed slumped in the chair. Ryan left via the lift and Winger reappeared. Again, Simon did not react. When Winger told them to follow her, Simon did so, automatically, but dully.

They were given the grand tour. The part they were in was the Penthouse floor of the complex. The complex was three stories high with a lift giving access from the underground entrance. Actually, the only way to gain entrance to the Monastery was via underground access. The three stories of visible building were just rooms for visitors, and what appeared to be interview rooms. The major portion of the complex was underground, and its size four times that visible. The helipad was hydraulically operated to descend, and under the main tower was a huge hanger, capable of holding three helicopters. Both the hanger entrance, and the personnel entrance, were guarded with blast proof doors. The underground area was 'L' shaped, but separated from the central tower by hundreds of tons of concrete. It was two levels deep, and extended beyond the fence, and under the bush line. There were two escape tunnels that Winger said exited into the bush. Although he did not say it, the complex reminded Simon of the Waihope Communication base in New Zealand's South Island. It was part of a Western Intelligence Alliance intercepting world wide communications. People were unaware of the underground complex there as well. While Pamela was amazed at the size of the place, it merely confirmed for Simon that they were dealing with a huge, well-funded organisation. He did not doubt that some of the underground area had been built by the Government when they used it, but it had also been extended since then. The communications and surveillance equipment was so extensive, and current, that it blew Simon away. For the first time Simon realised he was fighting an enemy as well funded as any Government in the world, and better than many. They saw numerous other people working there. The majority were in a dark olive green uniform that could easily have been mistaken for a branch of the armed forces. Simon acknowledged that in reality they probably were. The odd face was familiar, and Simon noted, with a sickening feeling, that they were from Investigations Limited. Neither Simon nor Pamela responded to Winger as she pointed out the various parts of the complex. They learnt that the chalets in the grounds housed the majority of the staff, and that some areas were designated Top Secret with extremely limited access. The place had more doors controlled by swipe cards than a ship has watertight doors. Simon and Pamela were shown where they were to be accommodated. It was a self-contained suite with cooking facilities. It was at the end of a corridor, as far from the main complex as it was possible to get; two floors below ground level. Off the passage to the suite, there were other rooms. One was a library complete with a DVD player and study tables. Winger said that they had unlimited access to the library. Two other doors off the corridor were closed and they were not enlightened as to what was behind them. A retina scan lock ensured that they would not be able to leave their particular area. Winger indicated a telephone in their lounge and advised that should they need anything they only had to pick it up as it was monitored twenty-four seven. She left. Simon and Pamela were like automatons. Shell shocked as well. Both sat slumped in chairs in 'their' lounge. Pamela was the first to recover some semblance of normality. She went to the kitchen and made cups of instant coffee. Taking them back into the lounge, she sat beside Simon.

"Here you are hero," she said. "Get over it. We wanted to know what we were up against and now we know. It seems huge, but the bigger they are, the harder they fall. That's the saying isn't it?"

Simon sipped at his coffee.

"Thanks lover," he said. "There's no brandy to go in it is there?"

"Probably," she responded. "But you're not getting any. We're not going back down that track. Now come on. Pull yourself together. Not only have you got me and ours to look after, you've also got Bernie and the crew out there."

At the mention of Bernie, Simon seemed to snap out of whatever funk he was in.

"You're right," he agreed. "Let's get with the program."

He led the way to the bedroom and in the wardrobe they found uniforms similar to those worn by the other personnel. He turned on the shower, stripped, and to Pamela's amazement, asked her to join him. She did not object. While in the shower, he pulled her close to him and spoke softly in her ear.

"This place will be full of microphones and cameras. We will be watched constantly. There will be an operator watching just us the whole time. Everything will be recorded and analysed. Even in here. I just hope that the sound of the water will make it difficult for them to decipher what we are saying. As we go, we will work out a system to indicate things to ourselves, but in the meantime take your lead from me. Okay?"

Pamela squeezed him to show she understood. "But I mentioned the team just now," she whispered.

Simon nodded and whispered back. "I know, but they know they are here somewhere so that doesn't matter too much."

Once out of the shower, they dressed in the provided clothes they had found, and were unsurprised to find that they fitted. They familiarized themselves with their new accommodation and found there was no radio, or television access. In the library they found that while there were a few general books, it was in the main devoted to religion, and in particular, a complete record of the Order of the Nazarene. They realised that they had hit pay dirt. Some of the writing they were unable to understand. It was in Greek, Hebrew or Aramaic. Whatever it was, it meant nothing to Simon or Pamela. Other parts of it were long and involved discourses on various aspects of religious life. In one book there was a long lineage of 'begats' justifying the belief that John the Baptist was directly descended from King David. As with Jesus, a lot of the writing referred back to Isaiah and other books of the Torah. Simon showed the list to Pamela.

She shrugged. "I couldn't really follow the lineage of Jesus listed in the Bible so this is all gobble-de-gook to me. It would need an Old Testament expert to check it out, and even then I doubt if they would be able to do it. Mind you, this is all frighteningly well researched. I doubt that they would miss out something as basic as a name. I know that the lineage in the Bible is a bit convoluted, quite often involving, the female line and concubines."

"It looks impressive," replied Simon. "As an outsider with no religious leanings, or training, it looks kosher."

"To me also," agreed Pamela.

"There's one thing missing though," pointed out Simon.

Pamela nodded. "The lineage down to the present." Simon nodded.

"Without that, there's a big hole blown in this whole thing. Doubtless, it will be somewhere. I can't imagine them missing out something so basic. We possibly just haven't come across it yet."

"So what do we do now," asked Pamela?

"Let's take a couple or so of these books each, and go and have some tea. I'm hungry and my watch says it's about 6 p.m. or 1800 hours."

Pamela found that the pantry was well stocked, and within minutes she had a meal cooking. No one had come through the sealed doors into their area and they could not be opened by Simon. After putting the meal on to cook, Pamela joined Simon in the lounge. He was reading one of the books he had taken from the library. Pamela flicked through one of the others and then touched Simon's arm and pointed to the page she was looking at. Simon followed her finger as it pointed to certain words. Her voice said one thing, her fingers another.

"Look at this. This is interesting," she said aloud. Her fingers indicated the words Alan and friends. Simon nodded.

"Yeah," he said. "It says something similar here." He flicked through some of the pages of his book. "Yes, here we are. Look." His fingers indicated the words aware and later. Pamela nodded.

"I reckon it'll be a long night, don't you," she asked?

"Oh I don't know," replied Simon. "We aren't going to be able to go anywhere so we might as well make the most of it. These people obviously have a plan for us, and doubtless we will be made aware of it. I suggest we go along with them." Simon spoke slightly louder while looking around at the ceiling and walls. "You all hear that? Let me know if want us to speak a bit louder won't you." Returning to his normal voice, he said to Pamela, "This place will be bugged. If it was used by the Government for de-briefing, everything will also be recorded. Just go along with it." He raised his voice again. "Don't think that we're going to reveal anything of interest to you though."

Pamela went back to her cooking and Simon to his reading. Within the hour they sat down to a meal of roast lamb, mint sauce, potatoes, green peas, and gravy. They ate with great gusto.

"This really is some place," said Pamela. "I mean, it's a really big complex and then to be able to run it like a city must really be something. Think sewerage, cooking smells and all the rest."

Simon nodded his agreement. "There has been big money spent on this. Okay, a lot would have been in place, but even so you are right, it is some place." They finished their meal and sat back down to do some serious study.

As they lay in bed that night, still having had no more contact with their captors, if that is what they were, Pamela turned to Simon.

"Will this room be bugged," she queried?

"Oh yes," said Simon. "And there will be infrared cameras."

"Grubby little bastards," protested Pamela.

"Indeed," agreed Simon. "Well, I've got to say that from what I have read there has been some pretty serious study done by a number of people."

Simon could feel Pamela nod her head.

"It's really like reading text books isn't it?" she said. "You can just see and feel the work they have put in. Okay, I know quite a bit about Christianity, well I thought I did, but the work done here is impressive. I've always known that there were a lot of other books and manuscripts out there that were not included in the Bible, and it has always been a bone of contention to me that a group of old men many years ago decided what would and would not be included in it. It has been said they chose those books that were based on eyewitness accounts, but in this day and age that is being disputed. Let's face it, Matthew, Mark, and Luke are all based on an account by a person nobody knows. He is called 'Q' by scholars. That is short for Quelle, the German word for source. Those choosing the books had their own agenda of course; pushing Jesus. What I have seen, and read tonight, is another group of men, again pushing their agenda; John the Baptist. Obviously the Jesus debate has acquired a lot of scholarly writing over two thousand years, but from what I have seen tonight, the Baptist supporters have not done too badly either. Not that much, if any of it, is out there in the public domain however."

This time it was Pamela who could sense Simon nodding.

"I obviously don't know as much about it as you do," he said. "From what I have read though, there was originally a group of dedicated followers of this Baptist person. Once he was killed by the Herod person, his followers fractured a bit. Some joined the Jesus movement, but another lot stuck together and had a following as large as Jesus had. However, the Jesus group went on a publicity drive and opened up their membership while the Baptist people remained 'in house' as it were. There you have it. The world ended up with the Jesus belief while the Baptist belief became a sort of secret society. That society, however, remained consistent throughout the years. What did interest me though, was the number of senior Christian writers who went along with the Baptist movement even while being front men for Christianity."

"And the money," interrupted Pamela. "There is so much money involved. There have been some huge millionaires, no, billionaires, involved."

"A lot of Jews," pointed out Simon.

"Oh don't go down that anti-Semitic path," protested Pamela. "Of course there would be Jews. That's the same with Christianity. That's where it all started."

"Oh well," said Simon. "So we know a lot more now don't we? The Order of the Nazarene is an ancient and honourable order that follows the beliefs of John the Baptist. The Vatican sanctions the order, believing that it is Christian, but all the while it has its own agenda. The agenda is that John the Baptist is a true prophet of God pointing the way. That list of 'begats', if it is true, does trace a lineage down through the ages. Somewhere it will end up with me. All in all though, how much reliance can we place on it? Even if it is all true, why all the killing around me? Surely, the original Baptist fellow wasn't into that sort of thing. Or was he?"

Pamela cuddled into Simon. "I don't know darling," she said. "Maybe we will find out a bit more tomorrow. In the meantime, I am very tired. Can we go to sleep?"

"Lets," agreed Simon.

They fell asleep but were troubled by dreams with wild men dressed in animal skins and eating locusts and honey while hiding in a forest that surrounded a large castle. Their night was not particularly restful, but they awoke of their own accord at about 7.30 a.m. according to the clock in their prison, and Simon's watch. They had breakfast. As they were finishing up with their coffee, Father Ryan arrived.

"I hope you slept well," he said as he helped himself to a coffee.

"Only as well as a prisoner can," responded Simon.

"Come now," said Ryan. "There is no need for that."

"There isn't?" asked Simon. "Fine. We'll be off then. I am sure you'll be more than happy to read about yourself in the national press."

"Okay," agreed Ryan. "We are not going to let you walk out just like that."

"I didn't think so," replied Simon.

"What is the purpose of all this?" interrupted Pamela. "If we accept that Simon is descended from the Baptist, and that you want to re-establish his role, then what is it you actually want of him? You took his father and tried to brainwash him but that didn't work. Do you think it'll work with Simon?"

"We did have hopes," admitted Ryan. "But they fell over due to his slack moral fortitude."

"So you can't have a sinner," shot back Pamela. "Jesus had no trouble with them. Actually he liked them."

"Look where that got him," pointed out Ryan.

"Just get on with it and tell us you fucking wanker," shouted Simon. "Don't keep going on with all that crap all the time."

Ryan shook his head. "You're going to have to learn a bit of patience and control," he said. "Okay, grab yourselves another coffee and let's talk."

With refilled mugs, they sat in the lounge area. It appeared all very civilized; like a visit from the vicar.

"Now," said Ryan. "Where to begin."

"I've always found that the beginning works for me," said Simon.

Ryan gently shook his head. "Let's accept that you understand John the Baptist is our beginning and that we have traced and verified his lineage. Okay, maybe that does not prove or verify anything for you at this stage, but take it from me the proof does exist. You will come to see that in due course. The Baptist pointed the way to some one greater than he, and we are still awaiting that Messiah. The writings indicate they will come from the line of the Baptist. Over time we have thought that various off spring were he, but we have always been disappointed and let down. Initially it was a simple matter keeping track of the descendants, but on a few occasions some of them were prolific, and produced multiple children. The female lines we were able to ignore. That is part of the Jesus problem of course. He traced his descent via the female line at stages. The Baptist is via the true male line."

"Thank God for that," interrupted Pamela.

"Do not mock, Pam," said Ryan. "It is important. In Simon's father, we finally thought that we were able to re-establish the line the way it should have been. Up until then it had grown wide and scattered. To keep track of everyone was an enormous task. At one stage there were thousands of male descendants across the world."

"All white of course," said Pamela.

"No," said Ryan. "Colour is not important. In a few cases, marriage took in African and Asian links. As you can imagine, it took a big organisation to keep track of everyone. Where possible, we used our members in secular organisations like the Police, Military, and the Government to help us keep tabs on our main men. Eventually though, we had to look for a site to establish our own Headquarters and organisation. We chose New Zealand because of its remoteness, the availability of land, and the fact that one lineage was so strong via Simon's ancestors. For a while we were at Cross Creek but then these facilities became available."

"And the Auckland farm house," said Simon.

"Oh yes," agreed Ryan. "We do have several smaller satellite operations, but for now this is our home."

"And all the staff," asked Simon, "They're right into all this religious stuff are they?"

"The majority are. It's a bit like any big organisation. There is a need for experts in various areas so yes; we do have a few non-believers. In most cases, however, they do end up coming round to our way of thinking."

"You brainwash them," protested Pamela.

"Nonsense my dear," said Ryan. "Everyone has their own free will. Surely, you have seen your fundamental Christians waving their arms about. Are you telling me that they have been brainwashed? They are no different from us."

"Do you have services, like hymns and sermons and things," queried Pamela.

"Naturally," replied Ryan. "As set out in your Bible. The Baptist used to preach to people as well as baptise them. We also have writings from his followers as well as the Torah, which you use; the first five books of the Old Testament. We also heal because the Baptist was a healer. Over the centuries, we have had our prophets, writers and theologians. The thing, with your Christian lot, is that you think everything ended when Jesus died: That there were no more prophets. As he said, 'there are none so blind as they that cannot see.'"

"Let's get back to the guts of the matter shall we?" broke in Simon. "Why kill my family? What harm were my wife and daughters doing to you and your organisation? What harm were those poor prostitutes doing?"

"Oh very well then," sighed Ryan. "This had to come I suppose. It's a long story."

"Then make it fucking short," said Simon quietly.

"Your father and you were, and are, at the end of the strongest male descent line. It is not the only male descent line, but the strongest. The decision was taken some time ago, before my time, to concentrate all our efforts on your line. We believe that your line carry genes of immortality, healing and miracles. It is our bound duty to ensure that those gifts from God are not wasted and frittered away. Your father did not waste his. He was our greatest hope. He promised so much, but in the end it was not to be. I believe he was pushed too far too fast. Those charged with his care tried to right hundreds of years of dissipation in a time frame that could not be met. We understand that it will take several generations to bring the Baptist line back to all it is meant to be. Intensive study and care will be needed. Nurture will be the name of the game. You were never as promising as your father was. Oh no, nowhere near. He was truly magnificent. Even after we let him go he continued to live within the bounds of what we believe to be acceptable practices. We knew he would try to pass on to you his version of events, so we tried desperately to find a book or something that he intended to give to you, but we failed. You found it in the cave on the Rimutakas didn't you? Yes, I thought so. That was his version of events though. He was not with us long enough to see the full picture. You will. We will show it all to you. If you don't understand, then your son will."

"My son?" interrupted Simon. Ryan nodded and indicated Pamela with his hand. Simon looked at Pamela.

"Did you know you're carrying a boy?"

Pamela shook her head. "No," she said. "The girls and I went to have it checked when we were at the apartments, but never got the chance to follow up on it. Other events took precedence. The scan was hard to read and the operator said that it would need an expert to interpret it."

Ryan nodded. "Our expert confirms it as a boy. Congratulations."

"I see," said Simon. "So everything changes now doesn't it?"

"What do you mean?" asked Pamela. "Please tell me you are happy with a son. Isn't it what you wanted? Doesn't every man want a son?"

Simon pulled Pamela to him. "Of course it is love. It's just a surprise to find out this way."

He looked over at Ryan who sat with a smirk on his face. A smirk that said, 'Gotcha now.'

Simon reasoned that once his son was born they would have no need for him. He was not worried that he was now close to expendable, but he was worried about Pamela. Once their baby was born, there was even less use for her.

"How accurate is your work in relation to my genealogy?" Simon asked. "Like, is there any DNA link that you were able to establish for example?"

"Yes there is."

"So, unlike the Jesus followers, you actually have a body. A body you can actually point to and say, 'those are the bones of John the Baptist.'" Ryan nodded. Simon continued. "And you are the only people in the whole wide world who know where?"

"No," said Ryan. "The Vatican is fully aware of where the Baptist is. There are also other branches of our belief, those following less solid lines of descent, who know where he lays."

"And these others, do they know what you are up to?"

"Oh yes," acknowledged Ryan. "Generally we keep each other advised of progress. We all make use of each other from time to time. Islam also has a watching brief. We have seen them around you from time to time. Our biggest problems are the American fundamentalists actually. It is even funny in a way. The Southern Baptists are really 'anti' even though they hold the Baptist's name. You are in serious danger from them. Several times we have had to rescue you from their intentions."

"No," protested Pamela. "This is not all for real. Christians do not go around killing people."

"My dear girl," said Ryan. "You live in such a dream world. I agree that the average pew occupier doesn't, but Christianity is a really cut throat industry. There is huge money to be made out there in the business, and there are many leaders anxious to protect their share, and others waiting to increase their share, of the cake."

"So now we get to the point don't we," argued Simon. "Once again it is the mighty dollar."

"Partly," agreed Ryan.

"Money is the root of all evil," said Simon.

"Actually," interrupted Pamela. "It is the love of money, not the money itself."

"So what do you intend for my, make that our, son," queried Simon? "I suppose you are going to do what you tried to do with Dad."

Ryan nodded. "That is our intention. We want to re-establish the Messiah line. Admittedly there is the possibility that your son may not be the actual Messiah, but we need to ensure that if he is, that he has the chance to carry out his destiny, and if he isn't, that he has every chance to pass on his knowledge and ability to his heirs."

"Provided they are male," said Simon.

"That is a given," acknowledged Ryan.

"So you have had my daughters killed simply because they were female," said Simon. "As such they would taint the lineage. Elaine was a good woman. Surely she and I may have had a son in due course."

"No way," said Ryan. "Her reproductive organs were damaged. There was no way she was ever going to breed normally again. Anyway, the lineage should be via the first born son."

"And those others with whom I was involved from time to time?" asked Simon. "Even the ones who were not pregnant?"

"Tainted," said Ryan. "Tainted or with female offspring."

"You're a monster," protested Pamela. "Who are you that you can sit there and make those decisions?"

"I am who I am," said Ryan.

"So if I was carrying a female child I would not be here now," said Pamela. "I would have been tainted or inferior and have been killed."

"You actually have a reasonable heritage," said Ryan. "As such you may have been given a second chance."

"But the girl child would have died," pointed out Simon.

"In all probability," acknowledged Ryan. "Although a sister to the Messiah could possibly be acceptable in some circumstances. It would drag in a few extra believers."

"And if I die without any male off spring," queried Simon.

"We will be obtaining sperm and DNA samples from you to ensure that even after you have gone we will have the ability to continue your line."

"Unbelievable," cried Pamela. "Can you not see how your beliefs will struggle against Christianity? Christianity is so, so ethical and right. You, though, accept murder and deceit."

"Rather like the Christian Crusaders wouldn't you say," pointed out Ryan.

"So," said Simon. "As long as we are willing to accept all that you have told us, and are happy to spend our time under your umbrella, you will pretty much leave us alone and let us get on with it." Ryan nodded. Simon continued. "And all the staff here know who I am? They know that I am of John the Baptists line?" Ryan nodded again. "Then are you not afraid that I will be able to lead an uprising. Miraculously find my heritage and claim my rightful place pointing the way to the Messiah. After all, if I am who you say I am, and based on what Dad said, I am probably capable of performing the odd miracle as well. Doubtless I could make the majority see the light as it were."

"I doubt it," said Ryan. "While all that you say is possible, the people here are like the Royal Guard. While they know and believe, they also accept that you are under the influence of Satan and struggling. They see their role as a heroic one to rescue you from the forces of darkness."

"They are all nutters," exclaimed Simon.

"Your words, not mine," replied Ryan.

"I cannot accept what you propose," said Simon. "You are holding Pam and I prisoners. As such I am almost duty bound to escape, or at least keep attempting to."

"Of course you would see it that way," acknowledged Ryan. "You are so immature. While it would be nice to think you would change, and accept your position, we always knew that you would not. Your own words show us that you cannot be trusted. Even if you were to act all pious and nice, we will know it is an act won't we?

"I have no doubt that you will try and escape but do not expect to succeed. Your mates on the outside are under surveillance. Oh don't look surprised. We have always known where you were and whom you were with. Even now we know where your mates Ray, or Sunshine as you call him, and Co. are. In due course we will pick them up. I must admit you did take us by surprise when you took out the surveillance teams. They were a bit hastily put together though. We didn't expect to have to do that. We thought that we would be able to capture you at Alan's place, or even at the Farmhouse before that. We did slightly under estimate you but we have got your measure now."

"So Alan's the traitor," sighed Simon.

"No," said Ryan. "Alan is a believer. He was trying to get you into a position whereby you would head in the direction you were meant to be going, so that all this nonsense could be avoided."

"What about Jacko then?" asked Pamela. "What have you done to him?"

"Oh, he is here," said Ryan. "We will let him join you shortly. I doubt he'll be any greater nuisance with you than he is currently being."

"If you hurt him," threatened Simon. "You will pay."

Ryan held up his hands. "Please save me from the dramatics," he said. "We both know there is nothing you can do so do not waste your efforts."

"Do the rest of your movement, worldwide, know that we have given ourselves up?" asked Pamela.

"Oh yes," said Ryan. "Our leaders worldwide are en-route to here as we speak. We all want to witness the birth of a new era; the birth of he who will lead the world in preparation for the coming of the Messiah."

"You really are mad," said Pamela.

Ryan stood up. "Well," he said. "I think this has been a nice little chat, don't you? In the meantime, I have things to do to prepare for my arriving guests. Enjoy yourselves, and perhaps you may even see your way to converting to the cause." He smiled and left them.

Chapter 40

"Is that all true do you think?" asked Pamela holding tight to Simon's hand.

"I don't know about it being true, but he and they certainly believe it," said Simon. "At least we know where we stand.

"This is going to require some considerable thought. In the meantime, let's get the dishes done, have a shower and all that."

The domesticity of doing the dishes brought some measure of normality to them. They tried to put the over whelming size of the problem to one side. To do that, they discussed where they would live when life returned to normal. What type of house they would have. What type of vehicle. How it would probably be best to grow their own vegetables as in this day and age of genetic modification and pollution you never really knew what you were getting. Simon really did not care all that much, but he knew that Pamela needed to have sense of normality to hold on to. How much normality there was in genetic modification he did not know, but doubted there was much. With the dishes out of the way, Pamela did their personal washing. Again, Simon marvelled at the sheer size and complexity of their prison. The technology that allowed such a complex to exist underground without advertising its presence, spoke volumes with regard to finance and expertise. If he had not realised it before, Simon could now appreciate the odds against him. A weaker man would have caved in. As it was, Simon could feel crushing depression not far away. On the other hand, Pamela seemed to have grown in strength. Okay, she still had her moments, but behind them, Simon could sense she had a resolve that was stronger than his. He thought it could possibly be her maternal instincts kicking in, or perhaps it related to her belief in her God. Whatever it was, Simon knew that he could rely on her, and that she would supply him with support, and more.

With the domestic chores out of the way, they both went back to the library. Simon picked up his reading on John the Baptist in an effort to be able to argue with Ryan, while Pamela browsed. She picked books at random, glanced through them and then returned them to the shelves. Sometimes she would put a book beside her chair, and at other times, she would put them back but not in their original order. Any watcher trying to keep track of which books she was looking at, or had in the pile beside her, would be confused. From time to time, she would also take a book over to Simon and point certain things out to him, and then either put the book back on the shelves, or add it to the pile beside her chair. This continued for nearly three hours. During that time, Pamela made several cups of coffee and then Simon became involved in shifting books and putting them back. Some books went into the bedroom before being put back on the shelves. The activity gave the appearance of being random, but a close analysis of what was going on would have shown that it was the same book they kept looking at and studying. It related to the history of the castle. What Simon and Pamela had discovered, were stories about hidden rooms and tunnels. There were no actual maps or diagrams, but there were various histories written about the early days of the castle, and also of various people of political interest who had spent time within its walls. Some had escaped, and it was their stories, or stories about them, that interested Pamela and Simon. By analyzing them, and the security measures put in place, or changed as time went on, they were able to establish possible weak points in the security. Two main points emerged. One was the sewage disposal, and the other a tunnel. The story concerning the escape via the sewerage outlet was quite gross, and anyway had occurred before the days of the current system so they doubted that would be a viable option. The second was a tunnel system. Again, this was in the early days. To dig a tunnel these days would not be possible without detection. The most basic requirement of getting rid of the dirt would be impossible. Like all good escape stories, the originals had tunnelled some three to four hundred yards underground and emerged in bush. They had been recaptured and the tunnel sealed off. Simon and Pamela wondered if it still existed. That possibility was enough to give them both a lift. When he was first shown the stories by Pamela, Simon immediately realised that the tunnel probably still existed. If it did not, there had to be some alternative means of escape for the group's leaders if the place ever did come under serious attack. Simon reasoned, that like all despots, the leaders would have an alternative means of escape secret from the minions. Pamela and Simon were so excited, that the sudden presence of guards startled them. Pamela and Simon were escorted from their 'flat' and taken back up to the penthouse area. They were given coffee and biscuits and sandwiches were available. Simon asked what was going on but no replies were forthcoming.

"What do you reckon," asked Pamela when they were alone?

"No idea," grunted Simon. "Best bet, they're going through the books to try and establish what we were looking at."

The door opened and Alan Forsyth walked in. Nausea rose up in Simon's throat and he could taste the bile. The urge to beat the man to a pulp was almost overwhelming, but Simon also realised the futility of such an exercise. Instead, he laughed aloud. Both Pamela and Forsyth looked at him in amazement.

"It's alright," said Simon. "I just think you are converting me Pam. This slime ball walks in here and all I can think of is 'love your enemy'. And let's face it Alan, you would be the Judas of all Judas'". Sorry, I don't have thirty pieces of silver so that you can go off and kill yourself."

Always his elegant self, Forsyth sat down unperturbed.

"This," he said, "I take it, is when you expect me to say that you don't understand me and all that stuff. You should know me better than that though. You want to sit down? No? Oh well, no worries. Regardless of what you think or feel about me there are some things you both need to know. First of all Jacko is well. As Father Ryan said, he will join you shortly. There is no need to keep you separate. Also, I've got to say Pam that with a bit more training you would be a pretty good agent. When I had my attention drawn to the book shuffle I realised you had found something to interest you. While everyone else was highly confused, Debra and I went back to the beginning of the tapes and kept our eyes on the first book you showed Simon. We followed the pattern and have checked the one that interested you. Come now, there's no need for the long faces. We have nothing to hide. Of course there are escape routes. You would have realised this Simon. I will show you them later. Realise though, escape via them is not possible; codes, security devices and all that you know." Alan Forsyth shrugged his shoulders. "Still," he continued. "It is good to know that you have not lost your abilities.

"Now, down to business."

"We have no business with you," retorted Simon.

"Oh come on Simon," smiled Forsyth. "Don't forget your training and all that. Remember the Stockholm syndrome. You are meant to come to like and sympathise with your captors."

"Yeah right," said Simon.

"You have caused us a great deal of anguish Simon," continued Forsyth, ignoring the response. "Father Ryan has given you the reason for our interest in you and when I first heard about it I have to say that my interest was piqued. Like many, I realise our entire civilization is founded on Christian values. Some try to deny it but we accept that they are also confused about night and day. Then I became aware of the ancient order of the Templar's and all that. It was actually for a client who wanted the information."

Simon asked him. "So how long have you believed the unbelievable Alan? Who put you on to it?"

"It is not unbelievable. It is soundly based. Like a lot of people, I had heard and read about the Crusades of Christendom and of the Knights Templar and their treasure. About ten years ago, I was retained by a well-known industrial millionaire to make enquiries into the rumours of a Jesus dynasty like Baigent and Company allege. Being as good as I am, I uncovered the Order of the Nazarene, and I have never looked back. When you actually came to me for assistance, it just made it all so much easier. Instead of having to keep a surreptitious eye on you, I was able to do so openly without you knowing."

"I'll bet taking the client's money helped as well."

"Eventually he joined the cause."

"Yeah. I'll bet both his money and mine helped though."

"Simon, Simon. You really have no idea of the size of this organisation. Nor its power and reach. Presidents and Kings and all that."

"I am sure," said Simon. "They will all be putting their bit in, just in case. Just in case there is something in it and they will have a head start. Nothing new there."

"Sadly you are right," agreed Forsyth. "But that will change once we present them with your heirs.

"On the face of it, it did appear that Baigent and Co. knew of something. Obviously the best practice technique was to infiltrate the descendant organisation, so I arranged for an undercover agent to penetrate the Masons. Not your run of the mill group in downtown Timaru, although one had to start there."

"Timaru?" Pamela raised her eyebrows.

"Not quite," he smiled. "Just an example."

Despite himself Simon found he was sitting down and listening carefully. Alan Forsyth continued. "To cut a long story short, I found the Order of the Nazarene. We, that is mankind, has been conned. Christianity is based upon a fraudulent premise. Consider that you have hundreds, maybe thousands, of stories and books out there about things hidden in the archives of the Vatican, hinting at all possible scenarios with the truth actually there. Are those people in the Roman Catholic Church aware of the truth? Are they deliberately suppressing the truth? Oh yes indeed. Not the average pew sitter, of course, but the leadership are. Okay, they believe, or feel, there is little difference between Jesus and John the Baptist and perhaps generally that could be accepted, but when you break it down to its basics, and think it through, you realise Christendom cannot survive. The world structure cannot survive. A system supposedly based upon truth, love and forgiveness, would be shown to actually be based upon lies, hatred and grudges."

"So your purpose is to expose that. To bring down civilization as we know it?" queried Simon.

"Certainly not," said Forsyth. "Although we do intend to expose it. Let's face it; the world has become what it really is. That is a system based, as I said, upon lies, hatred and grudges. Nations are warring against each other. There are famines and all sorts of disasters taking place. Evil is everywhere. No, that system, that way of life, has to be shown up for what it is. When we do that though, we will show an alternative. We will show how John the Baptist is the true son of God. We will show how Christianity conned the world by entering into a power alliance with the Roman Empire. We will show the way they butchered and killed and lied throughout history, and then we will provide them with their true Saviour, John the Baptist."

"The true Saviour," said Simon.

"Yes," said Alan Forsyth.

"Also based upon murder, lies and treachery," said Pamela.

"Maybe we've had to do the odd thing that we are not proud of," conceded Forsyth. "But they were only done to protect mankind."

"God save me," said Pamela. "You are mad. Can't you see that you sound just like Hitler? If you have studied and investigated this thing like you say you have then surely you can see the parallel."

"Pam," soothed Forsyth. "You are of this world. We are not. Calm down, study and understand what I have said. You will see the truth once you do. You will, however, have to step outside the world you currently know."

Pamela looked at Simon. "You are right," she said. "He is a nutter."

Simon nodded and said, "If all that you say is true, then why all the secrecy? Why aren't you all out there doing good and pointing the way?"

"Because the world is not ready for the truth," said Forsyth. "We would be wiped out if we proclaimed the truth at this stage. Surely, you can see that? The current system is one of greed and self, self, self. If that is threatened, then the world will turn upon the threat and eliminate it. No, we have to wait for the right time, and be able to provide a real, live alternative. That is what we are all about. Can't you see the need for secrecy? Simon, Pam, we are the worlds only chance. Your baby is the world's only chance. Pam, you are the real Mary."

"Mary?"

"The mother of the Messiah!"

"Oh. Oh, I see."

"Okay, I can see you will need some time to assimilate all of this, but once you really do, then you will become one of us. I know what I sound like, but because of our past, and for the sake of the world's future, I am bound to put this before you. Come on Simon. You know me. I do not get conned. This is the real thing."

"And it is better than Christianity?" asked Pamela.

"Naturally. It is based upon the truth, not a fraud."

"Trust?" queried Simon.

"I know where this is going," said Forsyth. "Of course trust, but at times trust is not enough. Nor is it the right course. If you are moving an endangered lion species from one area to another, you cannot trust that it will not attack you. It does not understand. We cannot let you go for the same reason. You do not understand that we are doing this for your own good, and for the future of the world."

"Indeed," said Simon.

Alan Forsyth stood up. "Trust me, you will see in due course," he said. "I realise that this has all come out of the blue, and I believe it was handled wrongly, but that was out of my control. We do not want you to consider yourselves prisoners here, but for your own good, and that of the world, you need to be kept within our safety net. Your parents, Pam, have been told that you are safe and well and are having a well-earned rest at a private retreat. They are glad to know that you have come to your senses. As far as you are concerned Simon, the word is that you have checked yourself into rehab. Most do not believe it."

"There are enemies out there though aren't there?" asked Simon.

"What do you mean?" asked Forsyth.

"The attack on your Headquarters while we were there."

"Actually, no. We were going to take you from there and bring you here, and again at the South Auckland Operations Centre, but things did not quite go according to plan so we aborted those operations."

"I don't think so," retorted Simon. "The attack on your place was a situation that was outside your control. You were worried. Who were they?"

"You're right of course," admitted Forsyth. "We did intend to keep you once we got you both down into the Safe Room but that bloody Donahue, a loose cannon if ever there was one, was up to something. He was playing us off against some other group. I suspect that half-wit Essene or Zealot group. They were hanging around outside, and for you to have disappeared from inside my place would have caused us too many problems with them."

"And the kidnapping of Pam and the happenings at the Weeks farm with the Priest?"

"We did hope that by taking Pamela we would be able to get you into a situation whereby persuasion, or leverage, could be applied. Unfortunately you acted somewhat differently than we envisaged.

"Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do. Jacko is waiting for you down in your quarters. On the way I will show you around, including the escape routes."

"You killed Donahue didn't you?"

"Collateral damage. He was becoming a nuisance."

"And the priest from the farm, you killed him also didn't you?"

"Bull-shit Simon. You're letting your imagination run away from you."

"Things just aren't going as well as you would like Alan, regardless of what you say."

"Forget it Simon. Your mind games won't work on me. Come on, back to your flat."

As Forsyth led the way out of the penthouse area, he showed them where they had originally entered the complex. He explained that the underground walkway they had used was part of the original tunnel dug during the escapes many moons ago. He also showed them the safety exits that had been put in place in case they were unable to leave by normal means. One was from the passage to the quarters being used by Pamela and Simon, and another at the next level up. He explained that the doors were operated by fire detectors, calibrated to decide if the fires were controllable, and that there were over-ride systems. As they approached 'their' area Simon and Pamela were told by Forsyth that apart from replacing the books in the correct sequence, nothing else had been touched. He also gave them a small key to switch on the computer in the library to assist them in their library and historical quests. He bade them farewell at their passage and two guards escorted them the rest of the distance.

Jack was waiting for them in the kitchen area. He had the kettle on. He and Pamela embraced each other. Both had tears in their eyes. They held each other for so long that Simon was obliged to say, "She's mine Jacko."

They all laughed and Simon and Jack shook hands looking into each other's eyes and silently acknowledging their relationship.

"You look okay," observed Simon.

"Yeah," acknowledged Jack. "Nothing like that time in the Balkans."

"Bugger eh," stated Simon.

"Oh yeah, and double yeah," admitted Jack. "I didn't even see it coming. I mean, normally you'd get some sort of feeling. A signal of some sort, but there was nothing. We stopped for the night and he took the first watch. I got some kip and woke to find I was handcuffed and the place was full of the enemy; enemy Alan was directing. Just for a bit, I thought he might have been acting some kind of role, but no. I left trace signals, and all the rest, but presume he made sure the area was swept clean. You probably never picked them up." Jack shook his head in wonder and bafflement.

"We did get the signals you left, but of course did not know whether it was you or Alan," said Simon.

"Of course this whole place is wired and videoed," Jack continued. "You know that eh? It's been going on for sometime from what I have learnt. Whenever Forsyth gave us a device it was traceable." Pamela and Simon nodded. Jack carried on, "All this religious stuff has got me. He really seems to believe it. He's even convinced me to a degree. At least I was treated okay. Well, they didn't have to extract any information did they? I had willing given up everything I had."

"Hadn't we all," agreed Simon.

"I suppose," added Jack. "Even so I felt bad about it all. Just the waiting, knowing that you were going to be walking into a trap was not good.

"Still, what about you two? What about the rest of the troops? I have to say that you two just walking in threw them a bit here. There were plenty of meetings trying to figure out the whys and wherefores of that. So, can you tell me why?"

"Of course," said Pamela. "We decided . . ."

"Not really," interrupted Simon. "Not at this stage Jacko."

"What do you mean," asked Pamela?

"We don't know if this is the old Jacko or a new Jacko," pointed out Simon.

"Rubbish," exploded Pamela. "Of course it's the old Jacko. How could you even think such a thing?"

"Because I can," said Simon. "This is still all serious stuff Pam. We don't know how they may have messed with Jacko."

"I do not believe this," said Pamela.

"Do believe it," said Jack. "Simon is right. I won't take it personally. I know why he is doing it and would do the same if the roles were reversed."

"Well I think it is stupid. Men playing silly little games. Give me a woman's logic any old time."

"Like Winger?" asked Simon.

Pamela pulled a face and stuck her tongue out at him.

With a coffee each, they sat in the lounge, and Simon and Pamela updated Jack on all that they could; all that their captors would know anyway, including the escape tunnels. In return, Jack briefed them on the personnel he had seen, the weapons they carried and the general layout of the place. He confirmed what they knew; the complex underground was on two levels, not counting the tower, and they were presently on the lowest level. There were bombproof doors leading from the hanger to the lower level. A communications complex in the main tower was duplicated in what was termed 'the bunker,' which was the underground complex, and one of the chalets. He had kept his eyes open for any areas that might lead to an escape, or for a way to communicate with the outside world, but nothing had presented itself. While all the occupants were friendly enough, that was where it ended. They did not seem capable of being shifted from their beliefs to anything else.

"All in all," finished Jack. "I really cannot see where we can go from here. I am all out of ideas."

"Okay," nodded Simon. "I think we are all pretty much of the same opinion."

As he finished they heard an explosion followed by the sounds of small arms fire.

"Hullo," exclaimed Jack. "Sounds like the cavalry."

"Could be," agreed Simon.

They both leapt for the door but it was locked. Not only was it locked, but also a metal barrier had descended from somewhere to seal the quarters off entirely. They could hear a siren wailing up and down just like the air raids warnings in old war movies. In addition a revolving red light had commenced throwing itself around their quarters.

"Do you think it's Bernie and them?" asked Pamela.

"Unknown Pam," said Simon. He went to her and held her hand. It was shaking. He pulled her close and held her tight.

"How can you be so calm about it all," she sobbed.

"I'm not really," Simon replied. "It's just that we can't do anything. We are locked in here. We don't know if it is actually anything to do with us. It could just be a training thing, or a drill like a fire drill."

More explosions. Simon and Jack looked at each other.

"Grenades," said Simon. Jack nodded.

"It's not a drill," stated Pamela.

"Don't know," pointed out Simon. "Even if the place is under attack, it doesn't mean that it is our boys. It could be one of those other groups that Forsyth and Ryan mentioned. Unfortunately, all we can do is sit here and wait."

It lasted about three quarters of an hour. From quite fierce gun fire it deteriorated to sporadic fire, then increased, and then faded away again. Finally, it stopped altogether. The revolving red light stopped. The wailing siren fell silent. They heard the solid steel barrier over the door start to retract. Simon and Jack ran towards the door as it burst open. Three armed men confronted them. Behind them, two more held someone between them. Simon and Jack stopped as the guns trained on them. The held person was let go and he crumpled to the floor. The armed team withdrew. The door closed.

Simon and Jack ran forward. Simon tried the door while Jack examined the crumpled form. The door was unyielding. Simon joined Jack.

"Not one of ours," grunted Jack.

"Yes and no," agreed Simon. "I know him. It's Rupe, Harry and Edwina's son."

"Oh no," cried Pamela. "Is he okay? Will he be alright?"

"He's alive okay," said Jack as he checked for injuries.

"I think he will make it," agreed Simon as Rupe groaned. Once they had him settled on the couch, he started to come around. Pamela was sitting beside him cleaning blood and dirt off his face when his eyes opened. They were the same startling blue as his fathers. He did not say anything; he just let Pamela do her thing.

"You're Pam?" he eventually asked. "Simon's woman."

Pamela nodded but continued her ministrations. She called out to Jack and Simon. "He's with us."

Simon and Jack joined Pamela. Simon and Rupe shook hands.

"Hi Rupe," said Simon. "Hanging in are we?"

"Simon," acknowledged Rupe. He looked at Jack. "And you must be Jacko." Jack acknowledged the truth in the statement.

Simon continued. "How come you are here? Are the rest with you? Are they alright? What happened?"

"It's a long story," said Rupe. "It's not got a happy ending."

"Well," said Jack. "We've got a lot of time to hear it. We ain't going nowhere at the moment."

"Not now," admonished Pamela. "Let's get him attended to and then he can tell us the story." She shooed Simon and Jack out into the kitchen to make a drink while she took Rupe through to the bathroom.

She made him undress. "I've seen it all before," she said when Rupe objected. "Better actually," she continued when he was undressed. She helped him into the shower and once he was dry applied medication to cuts, scratches and bullet grazes. She noted old scars and wounds that she presumed had resulted from the capture that Edwina had mentioned. Once she had got him clothed, they rejoined Simon and Jack. There was a steaming mug of coffee awaiting Rupe. He could taste a liberal dose of whiskey in it.

"The place is bugged I take it?" asked Rupe. Simon nodded. "How much do they know?" he continued.

"Pretty much everything," replied Simon.

"I don't think there will be any problem you telling us how you got in here," said Jack. "They probably know anyway. They seem to have been aware of the team."

"Well," said Rupe taking a significant swig of his coffee. "We came along to pick up the Rover. Dad dropped me off and left. At that stage, the plan was for me to head back home with the Range Rover but then I got to thinking about the old days, and things, so decided to try to join you. Mum and Dad had said you mentioned the old Monastery so I headed in that direction. I had a .308 with me. Heaven help me but I was back in the role immediately. It wasn't long before I found a couple of patrols. When I approached, they told me that they were part of an army exercise and that live ammunition was in use. They escorted me back to the vehicle and ensured I drove away. If I had been some 'civvy', I probably would have bought it, but there was no way they were regular army. Wrong weapons, wrong approach, and wrong attitude. The whole scenario reeked. Some way down the road, I left the Rover and headed back. This time I took care to avoid the patrols, and there were a few of them. When I reached the monastery, I did a perimeter check. While doing that I was caught by Bernie."

"How do you know Bernie?" interrupted Jack.

"Rupe, Bernie and I have worked together," said Simon.

"Oh, okay," said Jacko.

Rupe continued. "He took me back to the rest of the troops. He told me what had happened and that they were waiting for some form of communication from you. We kept making all sorts of plans for taking the place but our surveillance showed it to be a major outfit. There are several flights daily with different helicopters, and the number of troops in and around the place is quite staggering.

"Can I have another please?" Rupe looked into his empty mug.

"Stronger?" asked Pamela.

"Same as," said Rupe. With another mug, he continued. "It was by accident that we located the shaft they have as an escape route. With the helicopters being taken down underground, we surmised that there was quite an underground component to the place. Putting two and two together we realised that there would have to be ventilation shafts and such. Bernie was the one who decided there would have to be an escape tunnel. That seemed logical, so we systematically searched the Monastery surrounds. Sunshine literally fell into it. After a couple of days with no communication from you, we decided to see what you were up to. They must have some detection systems in the tunnel, although we took great care to check and didn't see any. We were some way along the shaft when it was closed behind us with steel bars. With no way of going back, we did what we had to do. There was no way we were going to win or even achieve parity. I was knocked out early with this head crease. As a result, I don't have a clue as to how it went. When I came around everyone in our team was dead. I'm sorry Simon." Rupe stopped, unable to go on.

"Oh dear God," said Pamela. Simon and Jack looked at each other. That look said it all.

"I'm sorry," said Rupe again. "They picked me up and brought me here. We failed Simon. We made a mess of it all."

Pamela went and sat beside Rupe and put her arms round him and held him while he cried. She soothed him like a baby, rubbing his back and murmuring "There, there, it's going to be alright". Simon and Jack sat and looked at one another. One after the other they got to their feet and walked around aimlessly. Simon washed the coffee mugs. Jack dried them. Pamela left Rupe once he calmed down a bit and she made some more mugs of coffee and got out some biscuits. They all sat in silence. Eventually Simon took a deep breath and spoke.

"Okay," he said. "There is little we can do about them now. We have to look ahead. Pam, you bring Rupe up to date on what we know about this place and those in it will you? Jacko, you and I need to do some serious thinking. Okay, this is all being listened to, but the reality is that they do not think we are going to meekly roll over and let them tickle our bellies. Especially not now. This is war and it is our solemn duty to escape and/or make life extremely difficult for the enemy. I need you all to think. That includes you Pam love. Maybe prayer in your case. Let's come up with a plan, some sort of plan. Do you understand? We have to avenge our loss, regardless of what your honest beliefs are Pam. Okay, let's get to it."

They all adopted different ways. Simon had Jack draw him a diagram of the way he had been brought into the complex by Alan Forsyth. He also had him detail the surroundings of the monastery and the trails used by them. He dug out the history books he and Pamela had read concerning the monastery's history. Between them all, they drew a current schematic of the monastery and the underground complex. By taking into account the whereabouts of the toilets and bathrooms, they were able to make informed guesses about the sewerage disposal drains. As the men became more and more involved in their schemes, Pamela sought refuge in a corner with a bible and notebook. For two days, they laboured. Early on the third day, they got together in one of the bedrooms. They turned the stereo system up loud and banged pots and pans together in an attempt to thwart the listening devices.

Simon spoke. "Okay then. The only way we will be able to do anything is with the assistance of someone here in the complex. Each of us needs to make a conscious effort to cultivate associations with the Order of the Nazarene people. They will know what we are doing but will be unable to resist the chance to convert us to their way. Keep in mind the details we have learnt about this place, just in case an opportunity presents itself. Be aware. If any of us gets the chance to escape, we must take it. Do not get all heroic, and stay to be with the rest of us. Take the chance. Get out and get help."

The stereo fell silent and the lights went out. They were in darkness.

"Oh, oh," said Simon. "Here we go."

Chapter 41

A Plan

The corridor door opened and security personnel entered. They secured Simon and Jack with handcuffs and escorted them and Pamela back to the tower. Rupert was left behind. This time they were not taken to the penthouse area. It was a functional office. A desk was slanted to give a view out to the helipad and the bush beyond. There was a computer terminal on the desk and several filing cabinets were along one wall. There was no seating except for one chair behind the desk. Sitting on it was Father Ryan. He looked over Pamela, Simon and Jack.

"We have done more than enough to accommodate you but you continue to abuse our hospitality. I thought that once you had lost your friends in their ill-advised rescue attempt you would come to your senses, but clearly I was wrong."

"You are a murderer," spat out Pamela. "How can you live with yourself with all that blood on your hands?"

"Oh dear," said Ryan. "How very dramatic. I can live very well thank-you Pamela. We were only defending ourselves, which is quite biblical. However, we are not here to debate anything. The prime purpose is to ensure the safe birth of your child. Failure in that area may render Simon important once again. Maybe with you, maybe not. You, Jack, and the other fellow Rupert, are entirely expendable. Due to obvious necessity, we are going to have to separate all four of you until the baby is born. That's it. Take them away."

Jack, Pamela, and Simon were ushered out of the room by the guards. While they followed the normal route down to the underground complex, this time they crossed the hanger floor. They went through a door that gave access to an area where there were several cells. They were old style cells with solid doors and peepholes, but modern locks. Rupert was already locked in one. They were put in separate cells. Those occupied by Jack, Simon and Rupert were basic. There was a straw mattress and a toilet bucket. Pamela fared better, with a proper bed, toilet, shower and armchair. She also had coffee and tea making facilities. The cells were so solid, that while they were adjacent to each other, no communication was possible. They were fed regularly. They saw each other when they exercised together, in the hanger, for an hour each day. For Simon, Jack and Rupert, the experience was nothing new. They had done this on many occasions in the past when missions had gone wrong. For Pamela, however, it was quite traumatic. Initially she cried a lot. Then she became dependant on the hour of exercise when she would spend most of it clinging to Simon. Over a period of a fortnight, however, Simon calmed her down and got her focused upon her faith. Simon knew she was in danger of loosing her mind if she dwelt on their situation. Once she got over the initial shock, and established a routine, she became aware of herself in a new way. While there were books relating to John the Baptist in her 'room', she spurned them and resorted to bringing to mind biblical verses that she had memorised in the past, at Sunday school and Bible classes. She spent hours in prayer. She found herself living the way she supposed Monks and Nuns in monasteries lived. Gradually she felt a great calmness envelop her. She had experienced similar feelings before but never to this degree. She found herself being visited by people, but she knew they were not physical beings. Never-the-less, they talked with her. They comforted her and assured her that both she and the baby would be well. She tried to engage in conversation with the women who brought her meals, but they would not speak a word with, or to, her. Pamela began to blossom. She radiated calmness and good health. She developed a presence that Jack, Simon and Rupert noticed. While their mental health held up, through discipline and training, they were in awe of hers. Pamela explained to them her belief that Jesus and his angels were ministering to her. Initially Simon thought that she was heading for a mental break-down, but as the days went past he came to realise that she did indeed have 'something.'

"You know," said Simon to her during an exercise period. "I reckon they have got it all wrong. You are the descendant. They should be focusing on you. They are way off base with me. Perhaps I am from John the Baptist, but seeing you now, one has to believe you come from Jesus Christ himself."

Pamela spent a large amount of her time in prayer and meditation. Simon, Jack and Rupert spent theirs thinking and observing. It did them little good. No opportunity arose for them to attack a guard.

A month passed. Pamela's belly continued to grow, and occasionally she could feel the baby move. While Pamela's health remained good, Simon felt his starting to slip. He knew that he was in danger of becoming depressed. No matter how positive he tried to become, a sense of helplessness was creeping over him. He tried to concentrate using all the techniques he knew. He mentally placed himself in calm, peaceful, happy places but they quickly reverted to the cell where he was. He tried repeating the mantra, 'Every day in every way I'm closer to freedom.' He would then feel the cell close round him. The darkness would descend. It was the same impenetrable darkness he used to feel in his drinking days. An all-enveloping darkness that had a physical element to it. A darkness that pressed down on his mind. He no longer cared about food or his body. He withdrew from his normal conversations with the others. When Pamela hugged him he would cling to her and cry. Bewildered by his despair, Pamela decided that the only way she could help him was by walking her talk. She told him stories from the bible. Stories of war and fighting. Stories of King David when he was hiding from his enemies and how he never lost faith in his belief that his God was with him. While Simon knew what she was doing, he was just unable to connect. It seemed beyond Pamela to reach him until she took him back to his Alcoholics Anonymous days. The twelve step plan. A belief in a higher power. The ability to change the things he could change and discern the difference between them and those that he could not change. She prayed constantly for him. Day after day passed with no discernable difference until one day he was his old self again.

"I can't really explain it," he said to Pamela. "I know what you have been trying to do; actually doing. It's just that I have not been able to reach out and grab what you have been giving. Last night though it all changed. I was crying myself to sleep when I suddenly felt the weight lift off me. I swear to God that there was this man in the cell with me. He sat down cross-legged on the floor and told me that he had come to see me in answer to your prayers. He would not allow me to talk. I doubt that I could have anyway. It is not every day that you find a person has materialized in your room. That was the only way he could have been there. The door was still locked. He told me that he had a plan for you and that I was part of that plan. He told me to have faith and then he faded away.

"I have got to say Pam, that ever since, I have been uncertain if it actually physically happened, or I just imagined the whole thing. Regardless though, he was right. There is a plan and we need to get with it." Simon pulled her close to him.

"I am sorry love," he said. "These past weeks must have been incredibly hard on you."

They both cried and cried until they were dragged apart by the guards and thrown back into their cells. Rupert and Jack were both amazed at the change in Simon from then on. He started to lose his gaunt look and put back on some of his weight. Within three weeks he was back to his old self and doing his exercises with vigor.

Over the weeks the guards had become used to handling Simon, Pamela, Rupert and Jack. The routine became boring. Two of them would enter each cell after making sure that the occupant was as far away from the door as possible. They would then handcuff them, and walk behind them to the hanger door. One would stand behind them while the other keyed in the code to open the door. That guard would then step through the door and stand to one side while Simon, Rupert or Jack stepped through with the other guard behind them. They would then be uncuffed, and left to walk, talk and exercise within the confines of the hanger. In due course Pamela, escorted by two guards, would join them. That made eight guards and four prisoners. Normally, nobody else was present in the hanger during the exercise period, although occasionally there would be a helicopter pushed to one side. When the hour was over, Pamela would be taken back to her room first and then the others would reverse the arrival routine. The routine never varied, the guards never varied. With this scenario in his mind, Simon found that his new lease on life viewed it with renewed hope. He formulated a plan. He told Pamela and the others that he had an idea but that he did not want to discuss it at that stage. He did tell Pamela that in three days time, when she was brought into the hanger, he wanted her to stumble and fall when she came through the hanger door. During the next two days, while exercising in the hanger, Simon would immediately head off on a walk that took him on a circumnavigation of the hanger. One guard would follow behind him and the other would start in the opposite direction. They would all meet on the far side of the hanger and pass each other until they arrived back at the beginning. When Rupert and Jack entered the hanger, they followed the same routine. By the time Pamela arrived in the hanger, Simon, Rupert, Jack, and their six guards would be at the three o'clock and nine o'clock positions relative to the entry door. When Pamela arrived, she would wait for Simon to arrive back at the hanger door, and then join him on the walk. On the third morning, the normal routine was followed. Once Simon was in the hanger, he set off on his walk. When Rupert and Jack arrived, they did the same. This time though, Simon walked faster, and by the time Pamela and her guards entered the hanger, Simon was directly opposite them. Jack and Rupert were at either end of the hanger, one having started off clockwise, while the other went anti-clockwise. As she came through the door, Pamela stumbled and fell to the ground. As she fell, she cried out in apparent pain. All the guards in the hanger looked across at her. With their attention diverted, Simon took off. He ran across the hanger towards Pamela and her guards. Pamela's guards had their backs to him as they attended to Pamela. By the time Simon's guards realised what he was doing, he was half way across the hanger floor. One of his guards called out, but they were not unduly alarmed. They merely took it that Simon was anxious about his girlfriend. The guards were so intent on Pamela that before they knew what was happening, Simon had relieved them of the revolvers they carried. Rupert and Jack's guards were likewise concentrated upon the Pamela scene. Seizing the opportunity, Rupert and Jack attacked their guards and got possession their revolvers. The whole exercise had taken less than thirty seconds. Simon and Pamela stood against one wall with a revolver each. In front of them, Pamela's two guards stood with their hands raised. Jack and Rupert stood at opposite sides of the hanger with revolvers upon their guards who had also raised their hands in surrender. Simon's two guards stood opposite Simon and Pamela with their revolvers drawn, but did not know what they should do. Simon made the two guards with him and Pamela, sit down cross-legged facing away from him. He gestured for Rupert and Jack to bring their guards over, and they followed the same process. Simon spoke to his two guards on the opposite side of the hanger.

"Okay guys," he said clearly. "Let's keep real cool about all this. There is no need for anyone to get hurt here. Don't make any heroic moves or I will shoot you. Make no mistake about that. Now, place your weapons on the ground and take five paces forward from them."

The guards looked at each other, shrugged, and put their revolvers at their feet. As they started to step forward, one of them made a grab for his revolver. Simon shot him through the head. Pam winced. One of the guards in front of Pamela decided to make his move but then felt the pressure of Rupert's revolver on his neck. He changed his mind. The sound of the gunshot was still reverberating when revolving red lights lit up the hanger. A siren started to wail, just like when Rupert and the team had been caught in the tunnel. None of it distracted Simon, Rupert or Jack. They secured the guards with their own handcuffs, and gathered all the weapons together. A loudspeaker system clicked on and a disembodied voice spoke from it.

"This is a pointless exercise. You cannot possibly escape from here. Put your weapons down and we will act as though none of this has happened. Do you understand?"

"Ignore them," said Simon. "Quickly now. Rupe, there is Avgas fuel in those drums over there. Spill it along with every other inflammable liquid you can find. Jack, throw rags and anything else that will burn amongst the fuel."

Rupert and Jack jumped to it. It required both of them to tip the drums onto their sides. Avgas is difficult to ignite but its fumes soon filled the hanger. Jack found kerosene, turpentine and methylated spirits as well. They made separate puddles with those fuels and ensured that anything flammable lay soaking in their midst. Working quickly, they also fashioned some crude Molotov cocktails with bottles and rags.

The speaker system continued to advise them of the futility of their actions. Within ten minutes, Jack and Rupert had finished their tasks and rejoined Simon and Pamela.

"What now, oh great one," asked Jack. His eyes were sparkling. He had a new lease on life. He had searched the guards and found three disposable lighters. He placed them with the Molotov cocktails.

"We need to keep them on the back foot if we can," said Simon. "Those hanger doors leading to the helicopter lift look blast proof. I would say that there is little chance of getting through them. That leaves the door leading back to the underground complex and the lift to the central tower. Check if they are operable, and if they are, block the doors in the open position."

Jack and Rupert hurried off.

"Do you know what you are doing?" asked Pamela quietly.

"Not fully," replied Simon. "Something will develop. You wait and see."

Rupert and Jack both returned and reported that both doors were closed and that they had been unable to open them.

The speaker clicked back to life. This time the voice was Alan Forsyth's.

"Okay Simon, well done old son, but really this is where it ends. Surely, you don't think we would not have anticipated something like this. You are trapped. While you have been quite inventive, all you have achieved is to irritate me. Now put down your weapons and give up. We will pretend that this has never happened."

"Fuck off," yelled Jack.

"There is no need for that type of language Jacko," continued Alan Forsyth. "There is a lovely young lady present. Please modify your language. You have got three minutes Simon and then we will come in and get you."

The speaker clicked off. Jack, Rupert, and Pamela looked questioningly at Simon.

"Don't worry," he counselled. "As we have known all along there's little chance that they will risk serious injury to me. To ensure that the cards remain in our favour, you must always stay close to Pam and me. That way they will be less likely to shoot at you and risk killing either of us. Understand?"

Rupert and Jack nodded.

"So what's the next step?" asked Jack.

"I reckon that they will be forced to come down to us," said Simon, "or they will feed gas into the place to knock us out."

Pamela looked alarmed while Rupert and Jack nodded.

"Don't worry," calmed Simon. "We will deal with it okay.

"Now, what I want you to do is place a guard in front of each of the ventilation shafts. Tie their feet so they can't wander off. Better still, handcuff them to the grills. That way they will be the first to cop any gas fed through the system and give us some early warning."

One at a time the guards were led to the three ventilation shafts and handcuffed to the covering grills. Once the final guard was handcuffed, Simon's team gathered together against the wall furthest from the lift doors. Almost immediately, one of the guards slumped down. The pain on his shoulder joint must have been excruciating but gas had clearly knocked him unconscious.

"Okay," said Simon. "Light and throw those Molotov cocktails."

"But what about us," asked Pamela?

"It's a risky game but I reckon we will win," said Simon. "They are pumping in gas to disable us. By lighting the fuel, we force them to make the next decision. If they let it burn they run the risk that we will either be burnt to death or killed by the toxic smoke. Let's see who wins."

Rupert and Jack lit the Molotov cocktails and threw them over into the Avgas area. By the time the inflammables had ignited, the other guards handcuffed to the ventilation shaft grills had succumbed to the gas. Thick toxic smoke started to fill the hanger. It caught in their throats and both the guards who had not been used at the grills, and Simon's team, began coughing. Next, the fire sprinklers activated and water added to the mix. While it dampened down the flames, it did not extinguish the smoldering fires as many of them were out of reach of the sprinkler systems. Just when it seemed as if Pamela could take no more, the sprinklers turned off and the fumes began thinning.

"They have had to turn the extractors on again," said Simon. "Get ready for an assault."

Simon, Pamela, Rupert and Jack positioned themselves against the hanger wall opposite the tower entrance, with the guards in a row between them and the entrance. Sure enough. As soon as the worst of the fumes had evaporated, the doors from the tower block opened and Alan Forsyth, Father Ryan and a squad of ten heavily armed and helmeted guards, entered the hanger. They formed a single line half way across the hanger on either side of Forsyth and Father Ryan. Several other armed personnel, including Debra Winger, also came into the hanger as obvious backup in the hope that sheer numbers would overwhelm the group.

Alan Forsyth spoke first.

"Well done Simon. As I have already said, you have done well with what you have. Let us be brutally frank though. You have a few firearms and a few worthless guards. That is the sum total on your side. We have a lot more people and a lot more firepower. We could just overwhelm you with numbers. Okay, we would lose a few staff. Possibly quite a few. I will give you that. In the end, though, we would win. So let's be realistic shall we? Put down your weapons and let's talk sensibly.

"Okay, I admit that we have not handled this very well, but let's face it. As far as we are concerned, you are the reason for our being. You are too important for us to risk anything-serious happening to either Pamela or yourself. For the same reason, however, you are so important that we cannot risk you being back out in the world; not without guarantees."

Simon interrupted.

"Don't bullshit us Alan. You would never let us back outside this place. Don't even pretend it. I don't believe it, and neither do the rest of the people in this place."

"You are wrong Simon," said Father Ryan. "As Pamela's baby is a boy, then I agree we want to bring him up to be all he can be. As such though, he will have to experience the outside world. We would be more than keen to reach some accommodation whereby we share him."

"He'll not be a sandwich," gasped Pamela. "He is not going to be pulled in different ways and shared."

"Not good old son," responded Simon, shaking his head. "You're not Solomon are you?"

"Perhaps Father Ryan has not made himself clear," stated Alan Forsyth. "It would not be like that. Any involvement we have regarding your son would be subject to your agreement."

"Here's my agreement," screamed Pamela. "No, no, no. Is that clear enough. The boy is mine. Simon's and mine. Not yours. He stays with us."

"Life is not that simple Pam," sighed Forsyth. "While I did not want to point this out, you leave me no choice. You are dispensable Pam. Totally dispensable. At one word from me, you will be taken out. In case you do not understand the idiom, 'take you out' means to kill you. Okay, we would risk loosing the baby. As it's a boy then we would do all we could to save him. We have a full medical team standing by. At the end of the day though, it is Simon we want and need. Your call."

Pamela looked at Simon.

"Does that sound right?" she asked.

Everyone focused upon Simon. He nodded. "Oh yes," he said. "That sounds like the sort of thing that they would do."

"So all this is for nothing?" she asked. "This is where it all ends? I thought you had a plan. Trust me, you said. There is a way. Well now is the time Simon. What is the plan?"

Silence fell in the hanger. Even the creaking and groaning of a building and its contents ceased. The world appeared to be holding its breath.

"Well Simon," taunted Forsyth. "What is your plan?"

Chapter 42

Simon raised his revolver to his head and placed the muzzle between his ear and eye.

"This is my plan," he said. "Me for my team or I die."

Pamela made a lunge for Simon but Rupert and Jack grabbed her before she could touch him.

"Let him be lassie," said Jack. "He knows what he is doing."

"Now let's not be stupid Simon," said Forsyth. "What do you think you can achieve? As I have pointed out there is nowhere for you to go. Give it up hero."

"Listen to me, and listen carefully," said Simon. "I will say this only once. I am the one you want. At the end of the day no one else matters to you lot. None of your people, none of my people. Perhaps I am a descendant of John the Baptist. If I am, then I am also related to Jesus. As you well know both of them had a different worldview to most, but what they did have was a compassion for others. They loved people. I also happen to love people and those people are Pam, Jack and Rupe.

"You will let them go.

"Once I have confirmation that they are safe and well, I will place myself in your hands and live what ever life, or way, you want."

Silence rang around the hanger.

"Grandstanding Simon," said Forsyth. "Good, but still grandstanding. You won't kill yourself, not in front of Pam. You haven't thought this through old son.

"Put the gun down and let's sort something out in a civilized manner."

"You have got three minutes to agree and to start things moving," replied Simon. "Three minutes from now."

Still keeping the gun to his head Simon motioned his team to him. Pamela attempted to rush to him but Jack and Rupert kept a firm hold on her.

"Let me go," demanded Pamela attempting to free herself.

"It's for your own good, and the good of Simon," said Jack. "If you get too close to him you'll only get in the way. If he looses his concentration, and the gun wavers, they'll be on us in a flash.

"He's doing well."

They gathered in front of Simon forming a bit of a barrier between him and the opposition. Simon smiled at Pamela.

"Keep positive love," he said. "We'll get out of this. Now listen to me. The idea is for you three to get away from here. You have to find somewhere safe and you have to make sure that there is no way that this lot can catch up with you, or identify you. Once you are in that position, I will need a signal from you. What do you suggest?"

"Probably the best way would be via letter," said Jack. "In that letter there would need to be a code word known only to you and Pam. Sound okay?"

"Sounds good to me," agreed Simon. "Send the letter to Browne Jones Elder, those solicitors at Waipukarau." He turned to Ryan. "Did you hear that? Browne Jones Elder. They still act for you I suppose?"

Ryan nodded.

Simon continued. "The three minutes is up. Do I have your answer?"

Alan Forsyth interrupted. "Look Simon let's not get all carried away here. I mean what I have said. We can come to an arrangement."

Before anyone could comprehend what was happening Simon lowered his revolver and shot Father Ryan in his left shoulder. Immediately he returned the revolver to his head. In the stunned silence that followed Simon spoke again.

"I am not pissing around here. Get that piece of shit attended to so that he doesn't die of blood loss. At the same time I want every one in this place down here in the hanger. That includes medical staff and pilots."

It took thirty minutes to assemble the personnel. Once that was completed Simon spoke to Jack.

"I want adequate clothing and supplies for you, Pam and Rupe. Get everything you need to get away from here. You had better get some cash as well. You shouldn't need firearms other than basic ones for food etc. Nobody will be shooting at you. Once you have all that, come back here and suit up. Take Winger to help you."

Jack and Winger left the hanger. A long silence ensued. During it Simon, Pamela and Rupert stood close to each other, but did not touch. Twenty minutes later Jack and Winger returned to the hanger. They had a couple of trolleys with them loaded with camping and other equipment. It took another half an hour before Jack, Pamela and Rupert were kitted out and ready to leave.

Simon called them close to him and spoke softly. "It is quite possible that there is recording equipment running that may be able to hear what I am saying so you may have to read between the lines. I need you all to accept what I have said. They will not touch me. You will have to make sure that you are not followed by any of this shit. They are good, but I expect you to be better. Rupe, you have the job of settling Pam once you are free. Your job Jacko, is to ensure that there is no way this lot can ever find Rupe or Pam. Understand?" Rupert and Jack nodded. Simon continued, "At this stage I cannot tell you how I will make contact with you after you are safe. It may take some time to arrange so do not expect me to turn up any time soon.

"Look after our babe Pam darling. I love you more than I can say. More than words can say. I am sorry that I got you into this but I'll make it up to you in due course. I promise.

"The code phrase for the letter, Pam, will be 'Sons of Thunder.' Understand?"

Pamela nodded. Simon continued, "At some stage you must go to the storage place I have shown you, and put a written account of all that has taken place with the stuff that is already there. Do you understand what I am getting at?" Again, Pamela nodded.

"Okay," said Simon. "Let's get this show on the road.

"Alan, get my people out to the front gate. Have Winger go with them and they are to wait until I give the okay before they go through it.

"While that is being done, you and I will go upstairs to where we can see them off. Let's move it."

Tears flowed freely from Pamela while she searched the tower block with her eyes in an attempt to locate which window hid Simon. Rupert's arm sought to comfort her but all it did was move in rhythm with her heaving sobs. A nearby 'walkie-talkie' unit crackled and Winger turned to Jack.

"Okay," she said. "Simon says that you can go; and good fucking riddance as far as I am concerned." Jack gave her a one fingered salute and led Rupert and Pamela towards the bush line. They had been offered a Jeep but declined believing it would probably have been bugged in some way. Winger and her crew disappeared below ground. The surrounding bush reached out eagerly and drew the small group into its shelter and protection.

For an hour Simon stood staring out the tower window at the exact spot where Pamela had disappeared. He doubted that he would ever see her again and said a silent prayer to her God asking that he, she, or it, protect her and keep her, and their son, safe.

At the end of the hour Simon picked up the small bag he had brought with him from the hanger. It contained some of the arms that Jack had gathered. He threw a few extra items in from an office he passed on his way back down to the rooms he and Pamela had shared. Once inside he shut the door on Forsyth, Winger and the rest of their team. He took the masking tape he had acquired and taped up the lenses of all the security cameras that he could find. He was aware that there may be some pin-hole ones that he could not find, but accepted that as a risk he must take. He then rigged hand grenades and other explosives at the point of entry to the rooms from the tunnel, and also the air intakes and other vents that he could find. He also included makeshift alarms with cooking pot lids etc. Finally, he set explosives around the perimeter of the bedroom. When he had finished, he reasoned, it would be impossible for anyone to surprise and over power him. It would also allow him to sleep without fear of being surprised. It was now a case of waiting.

Again, Simon was reduced to a routine. He would awake, do his exercises, shower, and then spend the day reading books from the library, all within the confines of the flat. Days drifted into weeks. Food was passed through the door while Simon kept the gun to his head. One month passed by, then another. Simon, Forsyth and Father Ryan were becoming edgy. All three were worried that something untoward may have happened. Simon acknowledged the possibility that the Order of the Nazarene may have captured Pamela and company, and the Order worried that Simon believed they had captured her and were holding her prisoner somewhere.

Ten weeks after leaving the Monastery a letter was received from Browne Jones Elder. It was a covering letter with another sealed envelope inside it addressed to Simon. The covering letter was addressed to the Order of the Nazarene advising that the enclosed envelope had been received and was being passed on unopened. The covering letter went on to advise that Browne Jones Elder could not be held responsible in any way for the contents etc.

Simon accepted the letter from Forsyth, excluded him from the flat, and sat down to read.

Sweetest Simon,

You are husband Simon to me, and now father to John, a most handsome and bonny son. I know that he was not expected this soon, but it happened. Both of us are well.

After leaving you we spent many days travelling and checking and rechecking to make sure we were not followed. We did not see any one but you know how tricky it can be. When we were reasonably sure we were free we contacted my Mum and Dad and arranged for finances to be made available for us. You can be assured they are untraceable. Then, through contacts of James, a friend of Jacko's, we obtained new identities and have set everything up for you to join us. For obvious reasons I cannot tell you more apart from saying that when you are free you should check the place we talked about where you will find our contact details.

I love you my sweet dearest more than words can say. You are constantly in my prayers.

All our love and kisses

Your wife and son.

X X X X X X X

Simon wiped the tears from his eyes. The rest of the day he spent reading and re-reading the letter. He accepted it as genuine due to the names James and John being in the letter; a reference to the disciples James and John, the sons of Zebedee, known as the Sons of Thunder.

The next day Simon spent the morning tidying up the flat and checking his protective explosives before inviting Forsyth and Ryan to visit. Simon sat in a chair facing them.

"So," said Simon. It appears we have reached the stage where we must move on to the next step."

"You accept that the letter is genuine," stated Father Ryan.

"Indeed," agreed Simon.

"So let's get down to work shall we," said Ryan. "You agreed that if we kept our part of the bargain, then you would do whatever we required of you."

"Yes I did," confirmed Simon. "I suppose you have a long list."

"We do," confirmed Forsyth.

"Just before I begin my life of servitude," protested Simon. "Let me just straighten out a few things. If I am to be this shining light that you want, what about the under age sex and murder I am accused of, and all the other problems that point towards me and mine."

"Fabricated," said Father Ryan.

"Fabricated, just like Donohue said," repeated Simon.

"Entirely," affirmed Forsyth.

"So Yarmouth and her unborn baby were expendable; collateral damage. Is that what you are saying?"

"Partly," agreed Father Ryan. "She was used to set you up but the killing was not part of the entrapment. We had previously used Yarmouth for other matters and one of the agents became involved with her. When he saw her with you he thought she had thrown him to one side. He went to her after you had been there. An argument ensured and he killed her. As an experienced agent he was able to cleanse the scene almost to the point of him being unidentifiable. Fortunately for you, his presence was not entirely eliminated and that has allowed the Police to clear you. The additional semen in Yarmouth was his and he was discovered dead only a few weeks ago and linked to the murder. Also, further investigations of the scene showed that the cardigan found in your car must have been planted there because it was present in the initial crime scene photographs. You have been cleared of all wrong doing, although you have not been able to be located by the Police so that you can be informed of that small development."

"And of course Robinson and his crew now know what her true age is and that the birth certificate information they obtained was incorrect," said Simon.

"She was actually eighteen years of age but looked quite a bit younger," said Forsyth. "Also she was not pregnant. Robinson simply added that little lie for his own reasons. So, see, no crime committed."

"You cannot get any slimier can you," asked Simon?

"Now there you go, getting all emotional over things," said Ryan. "Everything we did, and everything done by one of the other groups, were designed to ensure your safety and well being."

"Other groups?" asked Simon.

"Yes, well," said Forsyth. "As well as us looking out for you there are a couple of other parties out there interested in you. As we have said, one of them is tied back to the Essene Sects and there is also some fundamental Roman Catholic group charging around the place."

"And they are as off their rockers as you lot are," asked Simon?

"They are mostly a strange lot," said Ryan. "The fact that they bugged your place, and Yarmouth's should tell you that."

"Nutty as fruit cakes," confirmed Forsyth. "Still, from time to time they have proved useful, even if generally they have adopted a watching role. Mind you Simon, at Pigeon Bush they did attack our team for some unknown reason, which made me a little pissed off. However, now that we have you, they have approached us and assumed an oversight role to ensure that no harm befalls you."

"And it was one of them shot me in the Park?"

"An unfortunate misunderstanding," murmured Ryan.

"There was a woman out the front of your place Alan when we ended up in the safe room. Did you ever ascertain who she was?"

"A person who was part of what we now call our Overview Team. They ensure that actions undertaken by us are in line with our beliefs," explained Forsyth. "She was keeping an eye on the one we called Drummond whom you attacked. He was an informant of ours and we just needed to be certain he was not double crossing us at all."

"But you are all together now," confirmed Simon.

"Oh yes," agreed Father Ryan. "Our beliefs differ in some areas but we all want you to come to no harm. As we have said, we are not alone in our beliefs concerning your Divinity."

"I see," admitted Simon. "So you're telling me that Rome is going along with the idea that John the Baptist is the 'main man', and not Jesus Christ? Bullshit."

"I didn't say that," pointed out Father Ryan. "They have just adopted a role that allows them to keep an eye on us. We are letting them do that at this stage."

"And the crosses and vials of water and all that left at the various scenes?

"A little bit of misdirection. We were not ready at that stage, and still aren't generally, to announce ourselves to the world."

"And what about the small matter of the Auckland chaos where we had to terminate some of your agents and the killing of all those prostitutes?"

"The Government has advised that the Anti-terrorist squad and the Police thwarted a fundamentalist Muslim group with links to Al Queada that was attempting to assassinate the Governor General. The prostitutes had to be cleansed."

"Everything tidied up nice and neat eh?" agreed Simon.

"We think so," agreed Father Ryan.

"And Donohue, collateral damage?"

"There was a risk that he would derail the whole thing. He was what could be termed a Vatican Agent. He was a bit confused as to where various peoples loyalties lay, and of course he was passing information to you that we would rather he did not. Some of it was misdirection from us but we had no direct control over him. As you realise, if the Vatican really knew what we are about, then things could be a little bit difficult. In due course we'll reveal our full agenda but now is not the right time," said Ryan.

"Ditto the Priest we captured out at the farm," asked Simon.

"No," said Forsyth. "He was one of us. He didn't die, that was just a little bit of misinformation for your benefit."

"And my daughters?"

"Not good for your image I'm afraid. One only produced females and the other was indulging in corrupt sexual practices," advised Father Ryan.

"Why all this stuff though? Why didn't you try to talk with me, explain things to me. Why try and frame me for murder and all that stuff? Tell me why."

"We needed to get you into a compliant position where you could be made to depend upon us," Father Ryan said.

Forsyth interrupted. "Look we'll give you the whole story in due course. You've got your letter, you know that your slut and bastard are alive and safe, so let's get on with this whole thing shall we?"

"Sure," said Simon. "let's."

So saying Simon pulled a hand grenade from beneath his jacket. He removed the pin and held it in his left hand. He then pulled his revolver from where it was tucked into the small of his back.

"Now come on Simon," protested Forsyth. "Don't do anything silly. You gave us your word remember. You are a man of your word aren't you? We kept our side of the bargain. You keep yours."

"You seem to have mistaken me for some one who gives a shit about what you think," said Simon. "For all I know you may well have some knowledge of where Pam is, or ways of finding where she is. I can't take that risk. Likewise I can't take the risk of you or yours getting hold of my body and extracting semen to test tube breed a clone. I am unsure of you being able to use my DNA, but even if you can the time taken will enable Pam and our son to get to a stage in life where they will be able to fight you."

Simon raised the revolver and shot Ryan and Forsyth before they realised what was happening. The door to the flat burst open and Winger stood framed in the door. She was unarmed. She looked at the bodies of Ryan and Forsyth lying on the floor. She then looked up at Simon. He shrugged his shoulders.

"I didn't for a moment believe a word they said," stated Simon. "They couldn't even lie straight in bed. I doubt you can either."

So saying he let the grenade catch open and clutched it to his chest. Winger turned to flee but was too slow. The blast from the grenade seriously damaged Simon but then the other explosives around the flat detonated as well to ensure his body recovery would be difficult if not impossible. Winger was pushed aside by the explosion, which then tore along the passage seeking oxygen for its survival. Along the way it latched onto various humans, pieces of furniture and cabling. With bewildering speed it reached the hanger and with a rapacious hunger descended upon the aviation fuel and other petroleum products. Air sucked down from the ventilation system feed the flames until the entire complex exploded. With nowhere to go it went upwards destroying the entire monastery. Subsidiary eruptions occurred when other explosives were found.

About twenty people survived the explosion and they were in various states of shock and injury.

Secondary fires raged in the surrounding bush.

A plume of smoke hung over the area to a height sufficient to be seen in several towns some miles away. The forest fire service called in assistance from all around the country and fought the fire, initially from the air with monsoon buckets, and latterly from ground level. They were unable to do more than put out what fires they could reach. Once they ascertained that nobody was alive in the gaping crater left in the ground, they contented themselves with a watching brief.

Subsequent enquiries by both fire safety experts and Police forensic investigators concluded that indeed a huge explosion had been the cause of the fire but were unable to take the matter any further.

Some arrests were made from those who did survive and the Police ended their enquiries by arresting and charging them with the manufacture of home made bombs. There was some suggestion that the bombs being made were for use either by some overseas terrorist organisation or for some republican movement opposed to New Zealand's links to the British monarchy.

Experts in body identification from New Zealand and overseas were unable to identify more than fifteen remains. None of those named were Det. Sgt. Simon Allan.

Epilogue

The couple approaching the Bank were nondescript. Nothing stood out that would cause any one to take notice of them. She would have been somewhere in her early fifties, as far as age went, and he would be in his late teens or early twenties. There was a vague similarity in their looks that confirmed them as mother and son.

Twenty or so years had passed since she had last been there. Nothing seemed to have changed since the day she had placed her story with the folder and books that already occupied the safe deposit box. Many times she had been tempted to remove the items and destroy them but she denied herself that comfort, believing that her son was entitled to learn about the father he had never known.

She lead the way to the safety deposit boxes. Reaching inside her handbag she handed a key to her son.

"There you are Simon Junior," said the boy's mother. "Read what you find and then we'll sit down and talk."

Unnoticed by either of them, a red light was shining through a small pinhole in a nearby box. As Simon Junior opened the safety deposit box, the red light changed to green and a hidden camera commenced recording.

THE END

About Jim Payton

Jim Payton lives in Masterton, New Zealand with his wife. Their five children have all left home (thank goodness), and they have 12 Grand children. Jim has lead a varied life prior to retiring which included time as a Royal New Zealand Air Force Avionics fitter, a Detective in the New Zealand Police, several years as a Licensed Private Investigator, a carver of Greenstone (Pounamu, to New Zealand Maori), and nearly every other occupation you could think of if you put your mind to it.

The towns, cities and places mentioned in this story are real, although I have taken liberties with certain buildings and premises. Cross Creek, Pigeon Bush and Featherston are areas known to me from childhood and are worth a visit to view the Fell Engine and also to walk over the Rimutaka Rail Incline.

Connect with Jim Payton

Jim can be contacted and followed at;

Website

http://www.jimpayton.co.nz

Blog

http://www.pilgrimjim08.blogspot.co.nz

Jim@pilgrimjim08

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Other books by Jim Payton

Ripples

A book of short stories, for reading to children, based upon Christian and moral principles.
