

2014

The Year of the Horse

### By Liliane Parkinson

### Smashwords Edition

### Copyright 2012 Liliane Parkinson

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

### Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

### ISBN 978-0-473-21004-5

### For Neil

### With grateful thanks and all my love

### CHAPTER 1

His thoughts were tangled. His body felt heavy in the saggy bed, weighed down by a sense of impending doom. He prised his eyelids apart. Rough specks scraped his eyes. He raised his head and checked the room. It was unfamiliar. He could see the faint outline of a gap in the drapes. Daybreak was coming. Where was he? His tongue felt thick and furry, his mouth dry. His head throbbed. He lay still and tried to remember. Never in his nineteen years had he felt any separation between spirit and flesh. He'd been whole but at that moment he was split. Slowly images flickered, random at first and from above he observed his brain marshalling them. Then he felt himself drop, his body shuddered and he remembered the party.

He staggered out of bed and into the bathroom, splashed cold water over his face, rinsed his mouth and glowered at himself in the mirror. The hung-over image glared back. It took a moment before he caught sight of the pink gown hanging on the back of the door. He turned in shock and stared at it. The girl at the party had worn it. She'd leaned on him, the lace of her bra distracting him then when he'd dragged his eyes away she'd smiled and he was lost. How had it got here? He battered his sluggish brain to attention. In trepidation he walked out of the bathroom and through the bedroom into the lounge.

He stopped, rooted to the spot trying to take in the scene before him. It was a struggle to control his frenetic thoughts. She was slumped on the sofa like a rag doll. Although he'd never set eyes on them before he identified the items scattered around. Their purpose seemed obvious to him. The small pile of white powder on silver foil reinforced his guess. Fine particles dusted the surface of the coffee table. He dragged his eyes away and looked again at the girl. There was something seriously wrong with her.

It took him all his willpower to get closer, to touch her shoulder. As if burned he snatched his hand back. She was so cold! Immediately he knew she was dead. He couldn't grasp the full horror, he looked frantically around the room for some sign of normality, but nothing was familiar. He stumbled back to the bedroom. What could he do? His glance fell on the phone and Brady's face swam into his mind. Without another coherent thought, he rang his roommate. After what seemed an age the ringing stopped and a sleepy voice answered.

"Hi?"

"It's me, George."

"Ah the ladies man. You're a sly one you are. Who was that glamour puss I saw clutching your arm as you-

"Brady stop! Listen! It's a nightmare. I don't know what to do."

"Okay, okay. Slow down and start at the beginning."

"I just woke up. I don't know where I am or how I got here. In the other room, the lounge she's lying there. I think she's dead."

"Whoa. Who's dead?"

"The girl I met at the party - I think she overdosed. She's so cold and white."

"Where are you? At her house or-"

"I'm in a bedroom. It looks like a hotel."

"Okay look for the services directory. There should be one in the lounge or maybe in the bedroom. That should give you a clue."

"Wait I'll have a look." George muttered to himself as he searched for the directory. "It's the Princess on the corner of Seventh Avenue and Kingston Rd."

"Now listen carefully George. Stay where you are and don't answer the door until you hear three knocks followed by another two. That'll be me. I won't be long."

George returned the handset to its cradle paralysed by fear. He saw his life, his future in tatters. The quarter of an hour seemed an eternity, broken at last by a soft rat-a-tat. George crept fearfully to the door. He was in too much shock to even glance at the girl.

"Who's there?" His vocal cords were tightly strung and his voice sounded tortured.

"Brady."

George unlocked the door and Brady came in holding up a tattered "Do Not Disturb" sign.

"Smart thinking buddy," he grinned. George stared back blankly. He didn't recall the sign. Brady stared at the body and the drugs. His grin vanished. "God, George you have got yourself into a mess!" Briskly he assumed command. "Come on buddy I'll get you home."

The next George knew, was that it was morning again and he was in familiar surroundings. The minute he stirred, Brady woke, raised himself on one arm and scowled at George. He did not bother to hide his scorn.

"Your secret's safe with me. Forget last night ever happened," he said in a flat voice then he rolled over ending the conversation. After stewing over his unasked questions and finding no answers George got up, careful not to disturb Brady. His stomach churned. It felt empty and unsettled as if he hadn't eaten for ages.

"APW Promotes In-house _._

Californian News March 2001.

The appointment committee of APW (Alleviating Poverty Worldwide) recommended that the cords look within its ranks for a new CEO and the board has approved the appointments of Wesley Smithson as its CEO and Brady Ambler as Vice Chairman. A spokesperson described it as giving the organisation stability and direction without disruption.

Mr Smithson has been with APW for many years and Brady Ambler joined the organisation more recently. In recent years the two men have been jointly responsible for fund raising and supporter relations. They are a highly successful team and the organisation credits its current high profile and growing supporter base directly to them. Under its new captains, APW will continue to grow and effect change in the world.

_The board praised the retiring CEO..._ "

### CHAPTER 2

For a moment his world shuddered. The announcement cut deep. Brady looked up to see that Wesley too was astonished. His eyes were wide and his expression would have made Brady laugh aloud if he hadn't felt numb. It took only a moment before he rose to his feet, pumped Wesley's hand energetically and slapped him on the back, hiding his reaction in a torrent of words.

"Congratulations Wes. Well done. You deserve it. That's one for the books eh? I suppose you knew all along?"

"No no I can't believe it. Are you sure this isn't a mistake?"

Brady's sentiments exactly. He bent down to retrieve a couple of cold beers from the office fridge. By the time he turned he had regained control of himself.

"Here Wes this is something we have to celebrate," and he shoved a cold bottle into Wesley's hand. "Cheers." His bottle clashed against Wesley's and he lifted it to his mouth and poured it down his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. Wesley took a gulp.

"I'm so glad you're my SIC. We're a good pair, you and I. Course our roles could have been reversed. At least you'll keep me on my toes. I know that and I also know you'll be supportive. I think we can make a difference to the way things are run, don't you?"

"Sure Wes. It'll be exciting. Time the organisation was in younger hands. I'm sure you'll want to ring your parents with the news. Go on, I'll leave you to it. They'll be so proud!"

It was later alone in his condo that he'd brooded over the Board's decision. He was convinced that he was far more talented and able. Why had he been overlooked? He stood at the window glaring out over the night city. Lights glittered in the blackness as they'd done every other night but tonight their magic failed to penetrate his bitter resentment.

Hell, he hadn't had the same opportunities as Wesley but at least he'd made something of himself. He resented Wesley's small town origins and happy family life. He'd met Charles Smithson, a pushy insurance salesman and his wife Grace, a dowdy teacher and he couldn't stand them. He knew their type; pious hypocrites like the church sluts who'd visited his mom when his pop had been killed. He seethed when he remembered how they'd looked down their sanctimonious noses at him and his sister Candy. When things got bad they'd just stopped coming, left them to flounder. He was careful not to let his disgust show because these same people were the ones who so generously supported the work of APW. He felt vindicated every time he coerced them to get out their cheque books and add an extra zero.

Anyway, he argued to himself, Wesley wasn't such a success despite those high and mighty ideals he claimed to follow. A divorcee whose marriage hadn't lasted even three years, and now he was married to his job and rang his parents every week. What a fool! Brady was proud of his social skills. He waltzed into relationships and when things turned serious he skated out. He knew he couldn't trust anyone and certainly not a broad. Not if he wanted to get ahead. The two women in his life had proved that.

Take his mother, revulsion twisted his face just thinking of her, she had no backbone, no moral fibre and she'd fallen apart almost from the moment that unstable load had fallen onto his father and crushed him. Had she always been so weak? He couldn't think back that far. He could hardly recall his father yet just thinking of him brought back the sickly sweet scent of the flowers and carried him back to those dreadful days they'd been cooped up inside, the curtains at half-mast. He and Candy had answered the door and the phone, made interminable cups of tea and coffee for countless black wraiths with their stilted, jilted conversations and long barren sigh-filled silences. Most of all he remembered endlessly washing dishes while his Mom sat listless and weepy in the lounge, incapable of action, almost buried in flowers. After the funeral they'd thrown the dying flowers into the trash can and quickly realised their Mom couldn't cope. Some days she never got out of bed but they'd managed okay, he reminded himself, that was until his sister disappeared. He hated the way she'd left him like that, not that it was her fault but it damn well wasn't his. Mom thought otherwise.

Wesley never had to deal with crap like that, he thought bitterly. The echo of his mother's taunts sounded in his ears and he saw again her dry scratchy eyelids, her red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes glaring at him as she tipped up the bottle of vodka. Wet drops collected on her jaw line and fell onto her shirt. He'd watched in disgust as saliva dribble escaped from the corner of her mouth and then her eyes had skittered frantically away. She'd made such a weird sound when she suddenly collapsed. It was as if he'd got his secret wish and he promptly felt guilty. She was too heavy to lift and he loathed the spongy feel of her body, the acrid sweaty smell of her. School first aid lessons kicked in as he gingerly pulled and pushed her into the recovery position before dragging the blanket off the bed and covering her. The hostile intensity of his reaction had shocked him. He repeated to himself that he loved her and tried hard to ignore the truth that he didn't, that he wished her dead. Hours later his mother came to, dragged herself back to bed and finished the vodka. A week later they found Candy's body.

This time he had to face the loss alone. Not many people came to her funeral, just a few of her friends and his buddy Chuck's parents. It seemed to Brady that he was the only one who really cared, even the priest seemed indifferent. He'd rushed through the service and it was over before Brady felt he'd had time to grieve.

The next day he'd done what he had to. He hadn't thought twice. Wesley would never have had the guts and anyway, he rationalized, it was what Mom was really asking for, what she would have asked him to do if she'd been sober for long enough. Her life was shit and she was better dead. The official verdict was suicide. That suited him. No-one suspected the truth. He was convinced he'd made the right choice, done the right thing! Without her to hold him back things had started to look up.

He screwed his eyes tight to shut out the images and focussed on Wesley. What did they see in him, he wondered? Perhaps it was just that he'd been with APW longer. When Brady joined up in 1999, Wesley was already an established employee with responsibilities. Sure he was a natural at winning over supporters, especially those who were both influential and wealthy but it was Brady who extracted the money. Yes. That was it, a reward for serving time. Of course it was the wrong decision and he wouldn't forget the insult. One day he would exact revenge. He determined to hide his bitter disappointment but his resentment smouldered and he began to concoct ways to get back at the Board for their oversight.

The Board was pleased with its decisions. The unexpected promotion of Wesley and Brady seemed perfectly natural. Members were agreed that Wesley Smithson would make a charismatic CEO and that Brady Ambler's ambitions would ensure that the organisation continued to grow and prosper in the new millennium. Harnessing such talents would undoubtedly mean that donations and gifts continued to be used at the cliff face and not frittered on expensive employment consultants. They looked forward with boundless confidence. Then 9/11 came and nothing was the same.

Like everyone in America, Brady remembered that day, what he was doing and who he was with. Charles Smithson rang to tell his son to turn on the TV and Wesley's urgent shouts had alerted him. Together they'd watched as the horrific moments of impact exploded right there in their office. The images of the collapsing WTC towers, the clouds of dust and smoke played and replayed on every channel while their disbelieving incomprehension, shock and outrage grew as the death toll rose. The whole country felt it personally, interpreting this attack on American soil as a declaration of war.

"No-one deserves to die like this."

Wesley had muttered over and over, clearly sickened and horrified at the sheer number of innocent victims. Brady nodded silently.

"How can we make things right? Is it our fault?"

Brady didn't know. He shrugged impotently. Wesley asked the same questions of anyone who would listen.

"Are we responsible because we've failed to remedy poverty and oppression? Is this our punishment for being American and using too many resources? Is this God's work or the devil's?"

People usually shook their heads. Wesley didn't like the idea that the devil had real power any more than they did. Still the question had to be asked. Cause and effect seemed a more plausible theory even though he preferred to believe that things always happened for a purpose and according to God's will. He continued to search for answers.

"Do others see our culture as lazy and decadent? If so I agree with them. Too many of us are driven by greed and self-indulgence. We have to make changes."

Brady listened to the discussions, nodded as if in agreement but kept his thoughts to himself. He let others vent their opinions and prejudices. He didn't want to reveal that he felt a grudging respect for the masterminds who had been audacious enough to conceive and accomplish the unthinkable, or give voice to the dark fascination it held for him.

In the fallout months, donations faltered and many humanitarian organisations went under. APW survived. It was all thanks to him, thought Brady smugly, that they became ever more successful, established and reputable. Still, he mused, it was undeniable; that event, that day, changed people's perceptions and world view. Someone falls and someone else rises. The weak stumble and are trampled, the strong survive stronger. That was how things worked so Brady had watched and schemed. He began to lay the framework for what was to become The Chosen Way.

"We need a paradigm shift. It's the only answer." Wesley muttered incessantly. Then he mumbled, "Someone needs to take charge and change things."

This was the moment Brady had been waiting for. He had a gift with words. Ofttimes he used his gift to separate people from their money now he used it to craft a fine and noble vision, golden words which inspired Wesley.

"Wes you're right. That someone should be you. You can do this, I know. You've a God-given gift to see issues clearly. Your life experience has given you insight and wisdom. I'm convinced that this is your time."

"My time? Don't kid me Brady. What can I do? It takes more than one person to change the way the world thinks. Nobody can do this on their own."

"Sure but we need a leader. You can lead. You're the obvious choice, the logical choice. You're the head of ESAP. Everyone respects and trusts you. They'll listen to you and I'm right behind you. I'll help you start something new, something so new it will revolutionise everything."

"What are you suggesting?"

"We both know things need to change."

"Yes?"

"You can visualise outcomes. You've talked about reforming the world, removing barriers, creating societies organised for the good of all; where all men are brothers working together in unity and tolerance. You should concentrate on developing a sound vision and I'll see to the details. I believe that it's your God given mission. You were born for this."

Brady watched his words resonate in Wesley's mind and fan his growing belief in his calling. It was not hard, for Wesley longed for a better world. He could see the possibilities, envisage the reality and was secretly flattered by the idea of being its creator. Wesley was such a pushover Brady thought with contempt. He smiled and continued to spin his persuasive trap.

"You stand at the end of a long line of great reformers and like them, you will surround yourself with talented and supportive friends. Together we'll start a bloodless revolution and change the world. Just trust in your God. Listen to your inner voice," Brady counselled. "Don't worry about how. The devil's in the detail. Leave that to me," he said with a laugh.

"New Understanding Offers Hope _._

APW Newsletter Winter 2002.

The definition of poverty is having $1.25 or less to live on a day and this is the fate of millions unless we can effect meaningful change. CEO Wesley Smithson has identified two key constraints preventing us from addressing these issues. He argues that while people continue to view the global economy in terms of a pyramid we will fail despite our best endeavours.

He calls this the Pyramid Constraint because the pyramid shape blinkers us all. Whenever anyone talks about wealth redistribution we fear that it will disadvantage us. We see ourselves, our families, friends and communities, trapped in a churning whirlpool sucking us down.

Wesley Smithson refutes this. He holds to the doctrine of abundance and believes that the world has enough resources for the basic needs of every one of its citizens. He challenges us to see things differently.

His inspiration is the diamond; a simple, elegant and multifaceted shape. Picture the wide girdle. It represents those living in comfortable, sustainable, self-sufficiency, the middle class so to speak. Each facet represents a region and no region has more poverty or wealth than any other. In this model there are less people below the poverty line and less at the very top. There is no whirlpool effect here, it's an upward movement and the only downward one will have no effect on the lifestyle of the uber-rich. It is our CEO's belief that actively narrowing the gap between very rich and the very poor will minimise his second constraint.

The WAG Constraint - war and greed. Take this grim statistic. The UN aid target is set at 0.7% of GDP. Few countries meet this target which is frequently infinitesimal compared with their military budgets. This is a staggering crime of neglect for which future generations will pay dearly and our CEO..."

### CHAPTER 3

With their ideas defined, Wesley used every opportunity to tell others. His listeners found it easy to trust him and were carried along by his fervour and his visionary ideas. In the heady excitement of the moment it was enough to believe in him, to know that together they stood at the forefront of progress. With Wesley leading and Brady encouraging, they felt as if they were in a small cutter driven along by a divine wind.

Carefully they chose an inner circle from amongst their growing support base. The people selected were influential, committed and wealthy. Similarly gripped by a sense of urgency, a sense that time was running out, they believed they were living in the last days. It was perfect timing. The Chosen Way was launched without fanfare.

The majority who heard Wesley, theoretically approved the idea that global wealth needed to be redistributed but gave little more than lipservice to the tenet that basic human rights applied equally to the poorest peasant in central Africa or India as to the richest billionaire in America or Europe. They recognised that redistribution was unlikely to happen while powerful lobby groups and regional governments protected their own interests but they felt no urgency to change the status quo. A minority realised that Wesley's message contained a radical edge; a revolutionary call which would turn the global markets upside down. His message rang true and captured their imagination. Brady drew them in and many found their niche in the new movement. None-the-less, the establishment derided his ideas, labelling him a hopeless idealist, an impossible dreamer and discounted his influence. Some stuck labels on him calling him a socialist, or worse a neo-communist. He hid his anger at their arrogant blindness, countering their attacks in a reasonable and rational tone as if batting at an annoying insect and quoted the Bishop of Corum.

'When I give food to the poor, they call me a saint. When I ask why the poor have no food, they call me a communist.'

"One size doesn't fit all," Brady reminded him when listeners failed to catch his enthusiasm but Wesley would shake his head clenching his jaw muscles with determination. He'd inherited his mother's Quaker values. His heart ached desperately for the multitude of hopeless souls, his neighbours in a world which seemed to be shrinking rapidly. What happened in one place was no longer isolated and contained but like a virus it spread. As he meditated on these things, he believed he heard God speak to him. Wesley was convinced that like the disciple Andrew, he was following his Lord's voice. While he wrestled to understand what his higher calling meant, Brady distilled his ever more radical ideas into actions.

"New Goals For World Charity _._

Newsweek March 2003

One of America's leading aid organisations APW, 'Alleviating Poverty Worldwide', has recently announced a change in direction. 2003 will see it rebranded as ESAP, 'Economic Solutions Alleviating Poverty'. According to its CEO Wesley Smithson, it will concentrate its resources on some of the poorest nations in the world, and its programs on achieving the UN Millennium Goals. It will cooperate with nationals in selected African countries to improve GDP and to facilitate self-determination for their people. This, Mr Smithson declared, is in direct contrast to its current focus as a supplier of emergency relief. All its efforts will now be concentrated on addressing the root causes of poverty and inequality.

He likened the new projects to building strong and stable foundations.

" _I am confident that we will achieve our goals and bring hope and autonomy to millions currently living in poverty's shadow," he said._

Brady Ambler has been appointed Strategic Director with overall responsibility for its implementation...."

### CHAPTER 4

Brady was pleased at the way Wesley had played into his hands. Yes, he admitted to himself, it was probably a good thing that he was not the CEO after all. It suited him to be SIC. Let Wesley focus on the larger picture, as long as he was left to work on his own. He'd encouraged Wesley to delegate, suggesting that all those nitty-gritty tasks were somehow below him and thankfully the inner circle had supported him. They'd made it clear that Wesley needed to focus purely on outcomes and inspire them all with his leadership. Neither Wesley nor any of the inner circle, thought Brady complacently, realised that he had a somewhat different agenda.

With a new name he had even more opportunities before him. APW had many offshoots, each a potential springboard. Donors often failed to realise that they were supporting one organisation and only the most determined researchers ever traced the network of links connecting them to each other.

These offshoots all adhered to the traditional tenets of welfare and good works. They operated independently within a region and culture, becoming closely identified with a specific need from amongst a myriad of equally desperate causes. Each offshoot focussed its activities and structure to suit the people it served and APW was thus able to widen its support networks, appealing to different interests and agendas, accessing niche funds and extending its influence. Brady quietly exploited these organisations to build support for The Chosen Way.

Wesley toured the third world. At each project and program he identified leaders who were looking for radical answers to the overwhelming need they grappled to meet every day. Inspired by his persuasive charisma many believed his promises and committed themselves to his dream. Thus each cell started life with one leader. This Cell Master was trained and directed by Brady and it was his or her role to recruit Defenders from amongst their spheres of influence.

Each cell was small, no more than six Defenders. When the full complement was committed to the cell and each other the leader started afresh. Most of those invited to become Defenders saw the choices before them with brutal clarity. As they participated in auxiliary programs they were trained and educated and insidiously turned. Their hope for a better life was nurtured and encouraged, but it remained tantalisingly beyond them until they took that final step. Once fully committed and inducted into a cell, their escape from poverty and oppression was assured or so it seemed but they would never be completely free. Dazzled by the opportunities on offer they rarely noticed.

### CHAPTER 5

Frank Thompson still couldn't quite believe it. Wesley Smithson had invited him, Frank, to become involved in ESAP's new top secret venture.

Frank and his volunteer helpers had feared the worst when they'd been informed that ESAP's CEO intended to visit Bogotá on a fact-finding mission. It was so unexpected that despite the official reasons given, they convinced themselves that ESAP was planned to cut their funding. It was their greatest fear, for without American donations they would be unable to continue their essential programs.

He had arrived in Colombia as a volunteer to work with orphaned and homeless kids and he never left. In Bogotá, that brash, pulsing, vibrant, chaotic city he found his raison d'être and when his term expired he stayed on, for he could see the small differences he'd made; small in the eyes of the world but utterly life-changing for those he'd helped. He was seduced by their appreciation and respect. It gave his life purpose.

Now he was determined not to give up without a fight and prepared a full program for Wesley's visit. He escorted his visitor around the city, explained their programs and the economic and cultural influences which affected their work. With each passing hour he had lost his fears and gained in confidence for it quickly became obvious that Wesley was impressed both by their dedication and their results. ESAP was not going to desert the work of AOL (Americans Offering Life) in Bogotá.

Naturally Wesley spoke about his new projects in Africa and explained his theories and vision and Frank found himself captivated by his guest's passion and charisma. In Wesley's company he felt revitalised, energised and inspired. He'd tried to communicate this but still he'd been unprepared when those magnetic blue eyes had locked with his.

"Do you believe in our struggle for a more equal society?" Wesley had asked. Frank nodded vigorously. Wesley continued, "Are you willing to do anything necessary to see this come about?" Again Frank nodded. Wesley smiled and Frank felt warm approval wash over him. He was held by those compelling eyes. "Would you like to be part of our pilot program and work to eliminate the gap between rich and poor? Take a moment to think before you answer."

Frank found his voice and said clearly "I don't need to think about it. I'd willingly spend my whole life to see poverty eliminated, so my answer is a resounding yes."

"Frank, you've no idea how good it feels to hear you say that. Not everyone has the courage to commit themselves so wholeheartedly. We would be real privileged, if you chose to join with us.

"One thing, I must ask that you keep this to yourself for the time being. It's vitally important that we get things established and proven before we spread the word. Not everything we are trying will work and it protects those like you who get involved. Should a project fail, your reputation will not be destroyed." Frank nodded his agreement. "I'll arrange for Brady Ambler to visit Bogotá in the next couple of weeks and explain the details to you. He's a great details man and I trust him completely. You'll report directly to him. Are you happy with these arrangements?" Awestruck Frank could only nod.

"Rest assured that your work here in Bogotá will continue and that we will endeavour to increase your funding. You have a huge need and I can see that you allocate your limited resources both carefully and wisely. I am most impressed with what you have achieved. Well done my friend. With hard work, dedication and persuasion, we will change the way the world treats its poor and marginalised peoples."

Just under two weeks later, Brady checked into The Charleston in the heart of Bogotá's business district. The Hotel shuttle was waiting when he landed. It carried him in smooth, air-conditioned comfort into the centre of the city. He'd booked a Junior Suite and as he looked about him he was pleased with his choice. The facilities reflected the hotel's five star rating and he knew he would be comfortable here encircled by the privacy and luxury he craved. It was worth every dollar. It was a shame, he thought, that he could not meet Frank in one of The Charleston's elegant conference rooms but he'd had done his research and he knew that Frank had no time for extravagance.

Brady would give him what he expected. He had booked a conference room in a two star hotel close to Frank's office. Brady knew that appearances were important and while he was recruiting he needed to make the right impression, let Frank think that he shared his frugal ways.

The next morning he dressed carefully in new Wal-Mart jeans, open-neck T, and dark sneakers. He looked at his image in the mirror with distaste. A middle-class nobody stared back at him, gone was the smart executive look he normally cultivated. At least the clothes were new but still they looked cheap. He took off his watch and picked up a battered canvas satchel containing cheap biro pens and a writing pad made from recycled paper. "I wouldn't buy a used car from you," he sneered at his image.

Outside, he flagged down a taxi and arrived at Hotel Parks half an hour before the meeting was due to start. The building was somewhat forbidding. An austere façade faced the street and the lobby was cramped. He blended in perfectly and made his way to the front desk. The manager wore a permanent frown and looked harassed. His jacket was shiny at the elbows and needed a spruce-up. Brady's nostrils flared with distaste as he breathed in the stale smell of boiled vegetables, cigarette smoke and years of slipshod cleaning.

The meeting room was basic but adequate and, Brady thought cynically, the threadbare carpet would reassure Frank that money was not being frittered needlessly. He shut the door and switched on the ancient air conditioner. It rattled noisily into life and he held his hand under it for a few moments. Instead of cool refreshing air it pumped out warmth. His finger stabbed the off switch viciously. Reluctantly the rattle subsided. He glared at the grill. No air had been pumped through it for a long time for it was covered in fine spider silk. A knock interrupted his grim fixation on the offending unit. Frank had arrived. He masked his irritation with a bright smile and opened the door.

Brady was confident that he knew how to secure Frank's involvement. He had no doubt that the man would be a useful agent for he was dedicated, driven and honest. In Brady's experience, honest men were easy to hoodwink. They took things at face value and their honesty attracted others. The locals respected Frank and his charity work produced results. Wesley had the right instinct. Frank would make a perfect CM (Cell Master) for The Chosen Way cells which they planned to establish in Bogotá.

Three days later Brady left Bogotá with Frank's signed affiliation document in his briefcase. He was satisfied that his investment in discomfort and inconvenience in that down-at-heel hotel had paid off. Frank clearly understood how the cell structure should work. He had not raised any objections to the requirements for absolute secrecy or total obedience. He could see the merits in the autonomous cell structure and the importance of building strong bonds. He had already identified the first likely Defenders and Brady knew he would leave the establishment of cells in good hands.

Best of all Brady and Frank had found common ground and he would build on that personal relationship over the coming years. It was obvious that Frank worshipped Wesley and would do anything he asked. Yes, Brady told himself as he scratched his arm and then his leg, controlling Frank will be a piece of cake, easier than scratching the itch between his shoulders.

He'd picked up a flea somewhere. It had probably found him, he mused, the moment he entered the lobby of that dump masquerading as a hotel. He'd woken every morning covered in new bites, as if a whole family of fleas had stowed away and were now making themselves at home in the luxurious bed of his Junior Suite. Bedbugs and fleas seemed to be an unavoidable part of the third world. They made him feel dirty and he determined to ditch his superstore garb in the first clothing bin he passed.

Frank felt his head would burst. He'd absorbed so much energy from Brady. Now, for the first time in a long while he felt that anything was possible. He considered the children who had passed through his programs. Most kept contact with him long after they found work and continued to offer support and encouragement. There were several he would invite to become a Defender.

He knew that many Colombians considered him an affable enigma. His sincerity was not in doubt but many secretly wondered why he bothered. In their minds the poor were always there and it was a thankless battle, one he could never win. Frank knew it was never ending yet it was not thankless. Those he helped never forgot where they'd come from or who had rescued them.

Amongst his current crop of children there was one who stood out from them all, Fernando Garcia. Fernando was bright and AOL supported his studies at the university but what really set him apart was his single minded determination to succeed. He would make an ideal Defender. There were others too; enough to form several cells. It was an exciting thought and his brain fizzed with elation. Brady had warned him not to get ahead of himself and go too fast.

"Slow and sure and no regrets. Build a solid foundation and the rest will happen," he'd said. "We're thinking long term and don't want anyone to burn out, especially someone as well-placed and enthusiastic as you." Frank remembered the warning and was flattered by Brady's compliments.

### CHAPTER 6

Despite the frontier culture, the gang loyalties and the drug traffickers Frank felt more at home in Bogotá than in New York or Chicago. Since Wesley and Brady had visited and he'd brought together the first cells Frank had experienced a deeper sense of contentment. He felt as if he had found a loving, warm and caring family, filled with people who shared the same ideals as he did, who worked to achieve the same goals. The passing years did nothing to dim his passion. He was proud to be part of a select number, a cell master, one among many and he believed it when they said that he was living on the cusp of change. It was coming and he had a vital role to play in furthering the cause. He was convinced that he couldn't have hoped for a better or more inspirational leader than Wesley.

Frank's phone buzzed briefly. A text had arrived from Fernando. Frank smiled as he read it. A world of new opportunities was opening up and Fernando deserved this break. Frank felt immensely proud of his protégé's achievements. So much had happened since he first spotted the boy and his sister.

It was during the rainy season and it had been wet and cold for days at a stretch. Muddy pools flooded the low lying and badly drained slum areas of Bogotá. Rivulets of brown water poured off the hills and ran down the streets. Frank was kept busy. It was the perfect time to hand out food and entice homeless kids into the shelters. Their boltholes in the city's drains and culverts were now raging rivers and most found it a struggle to stay dry. Like bees to jam they gravitated towards the aid stations.

Frank had seen the two kids hanging close. They were no different to the scores of other dirty, barefoot strays, two shifting shadows and yet he'd noticed them. Quite what made them memorable he couldn't say. For several days they'd been watchful and wary, appearing then disappearing into the anonymity of the crowded streets, as chary as the deer he'd once stalked at home. The boy sussed out what was on offer looking for a trap, keeping his escape routes open. The girl stayed close, instinctively following his unspoken lead. As they learned to feel safe, they'd come closer, accepting food only to vanish into the crowds. Frank had spent time with them, slowly winning their trust and drawing them into the program. They never talked about their past or how they ended up on the streets, then one morning he learnt that they came from Mapiripan and suddenly he understood. Guessing that they had somehow escaped that massacre caused Frank to look at them with respect. They deserved a fresh chance and over the years he'd given them that. Now his investment into Fernando was about to pay off.

They had had many heart-to-heart conversations over recent times and Frank found Fernando's curiosity refreshing. Yet there was a wide gulf between them. What seemed patently obvious to Frank seemed to confuse Fernando. Time and again he repeated the same questions, as if trying to understand his mentor's motivations. Frank remembered their last conversation. It was less than a week ago, just before Fernando's departure and still the same questions.

"Why did you come to Bogotá Frank? Don't you miss America?"

"Well Fernando," he answered, pleased for an opportunity to put his view forward. "I can't stand what I call 'fat cats'; people who are obsessed with money and status. I really have no patience with their materialistic attitudes. Most Westerners are like sheep. Without giving it any thought, they blindly follow trends and fashions. I can't understand why they don't see through these fads."

"I really don't understand Frank. How can you turn your back on your homeland? I could never do that. No matter how bad it is here, this is my home. I could never leave it for ever, yet you have left everything. It seems to me that you've swapped everything - riches, possessions, family, security - and for what? Nothing! You're as poor as us, poorer than many of us in fact."

Frank shook his head vigorously. "No Fernando you're wrong, utterly wrong. I have everything I need," he said firmly. "I don't need a car or a house. In America they're just status symbols. Folk judge you according to the things you have and not according to what kind of person you are."

"Is it so different here? It seems to me that people get these things because they work hard to earn good money. It means they are successful. It's their right reward. We respect people who were successful. Everyone I know wants to better themselves and become wealthy."

"Can't you see that it's all false? The corporate world wants you to think like this. But who's the winner? They are, not you. You're being corrupted by this attitude." Frank continued his argument. "You don't really want to be rich, you just think you do. It won't make you any happier. Listen to me Fernando. You have to find joy in everyday pleasures, the warm sun, people's smiles, music, friendship, simple foods that nurture." Fernando looked away. It was obvious that he didn't want to listen. Frank continued. "In America ordinary folks are caught up in this soul-destroying delusion just as you are. If they don't like what they see in the mirror, they throw their money at fraudsters promoting cures. Take a look around you. It's real here. Life does not revolve around fashion or leisure. It's a struggle and you have to fight for survival. I shouldn't have to teach you this. Surely you haven't forgotten how we met?"

Fernando shook his head. He hadn't forgotten. "It's a struggle. I agree with you there. But why does it have to be like that?"

"That's the question AOL is trying to set right."

Fernando nodded. "We are all glad you are here, but why is it like this? Believe me, mere survival gives no joy. Why isn't Columbia more like America? It seems to me that everyone has choices and the means to make them. Despite what you say, I don't think there is anything spiritually uplifting about poverty."

Frank knew that Fernando was determined to escape, determined to be successful and become wealthy. He realised that his words went over Fernando's head yet he still continued hoping that one day they would make sense. "Listen Fernando, medicine here is about healing and wholeness not about cosmetics. Here life is a battle pitched between birth and death. What matters is the time we each have between those events and what we do with that time. That's why I'm here and not in America, to make those moments worthwhile. Do you understand?" That question hung in the air unanswered. He hoped that a few years living in New Zealand would expose the illusion at the empty heart of Western culture. He thought it was a pity that Fernando's sister was not a member of The Chosen Way. She was his Achilles' heel. He pushed away his doubts, reassuring himself that while Fernando was safely isolated in New Zealand, immersed in a new job, she would have less influence, besides Fernando was fully aware that his sister's safety depended on his ready compliance.

Frank looked again at the postcard he was about to mail to Brady. It was a cheap card, garishly coloured, a classic tourist's choice. Sprawled across the palm fringed beach were the words 'This is the life'. He disliked the sentiment but that was part of the smokescreen. He turned it over and checked his message. 'The trip preparations were flawless. Work's going well and our package has arrived safely in NZ. Keep in touch. Frank. ' It was perfect. It said everything and it said nothing. As he signed, he wondered briefly if using his real name was safe. It wasn't a terribly common name, but at least Brady would know who'd sent it. He dropped it into his out tray where it joined a miscellaneous collection of other letters, bills and correspondence.

### CHAPTER 7

Hanna sighed as she stepped out of Wesley's office. Her crisp brightly coloured skirt crackled as the glass door brushed against it. She'd just delivered the daily bundle of mail and Wesley's eyes never left the computer screen, leaving her feeling as transparent as the reflection she glimpsed of herself on the door. It was the same at the end of every month. This trancelike concentration spooked her. She glanced back at the man almost hidden behind the large LCD computer screen and at the letters she'd abandoned on the glossy desktop. At that moment the phone rang and Hanna hurried to answer it, her doubts smothered yet again under a flurry of tasks.

An hour later Wesley looked away from his screen, stretched his arms behind his head, flexed his neck and shoulder muscles and became aware again of his surroundings. He noticed the untidy heap of mail and, welcoming the distraction, he flicked through it arranging the letters into regimented piles. There were bills, donation cheques, requests for aid and invitations. Occasionally he scribbled instructions for Hanna on a yellow post-it note which he stuck onto the envelope. She would handle the response letters for him and update their diaries.

He paid particular attention to the conference invitations. He and Brady were popular keynote speakers and he welcomed the opportunities this opened for them to promote ESAP. It was satisfying to be in such demand. He might be involved in God's work, he warned himself, but he was not God. Despite his inner warnings, sometimes he felt very God-like. He leaned back on his chair, remembering that not so long ago things had been very different. It was important not to forget.

He had joined APW full of enthusiasm, determined to make a difference and at first it seemed possible. He shook his head as he marvelled at how naïve he had been, how ripe for the inevitable disappointments. One by one the setbacks had piled up and with them came disillusionment. Again and again his best efforts produced only the dry taste of dust. He shook his head sadly, recalling the ever diminishing circles of futility in which he'd been trapped and the cynicism which had replaced his youthful idealism. He was forced to concede that people in the West were predominantly selfish, self-centred and greedy. It had cut him to the quick when he realised that few cared as deeply as he did. Life lost all its joy and the burdens of being CEO snuffed out the last of his hopeful dreams. He'd even contemplated visiting a psychoanalyst. Then 9/11 happened. It turned everything upside down.

Wesley pulled himself out of his reverie. Good overcame evil, he told himself. These days he saw the hand of God in even the most brutilizing situations. Nothing happened by chance. Again he thanked God for 9/11. It was terrible that so many had died but their deaths had made the paradigm shift possible. Sometimes that was what it took for God to get our attention. He put the last envelope onto a pile and turned his attention back to his computer screen.

Almost from the beginning Wesley had been concerned about the organisation's increasing costs. Things moved quickly as their aid work in the African continent had expanded. As the scope of their plans swelled and they were stretched by new challenges, he and Brady sought the advice and direction of specialists and consultants. They scrutinized every aspect of their work convinced that everything could be improved and engineered to produce better results. Their support staff doubled as the paperwork became more complicated.

The burden of these increasing costs was nothing compared to their rapidly rising balance sheet however supporter perception was vital, or so Wesley told himself. Donors expected their gifts to go to the projects, not to administration costs and yet these had to be funded, so Wesley had devised a parallel accounting structure, a fiscal slight-of-hand which tailored ESAP's public finances for public scrutiny. His system proved very useful and slowly it evolved as their need for secret funds grew.

Numbers filled the screen in front of him, the cursor blinked hypnotically and Wesley became oblivious to everything else. As if alive, digits danced before his eyes as he rearranged them. The month's donations looked healthy giving him added satisfaction. Still experience warned him that donors could be fickle, that their donations could easily falter and as if to add emphasis, every zero appeared to expand and contract as he deliberated. It was important to be visible, vital to be ready for every promotional opportunity and crucial to leverage off every calamity. They must continue to pressure influential individuals, key political figures, reporters and philanthropists. Persuade them to dig out their cheque books and sign pledge cards. Brady, he thought gratefully, was in a class of his own when it came to changing a five dollar intention into a ten dollar bill.

For the final time Wesley rechecked each entry for consistency. When he reached the LLB debit entry he paused, glancing back to the donations credit and the numbers in his private ledger book. He felt no guilt. He poked the numbers into his calculator and grunted in satisfaction. Few asked what LLB meant but when they did, he explained with a rueful smile and a shrug of his shoulders, that it meant Loss, Leakage and Bribery, the regrettable cost of working in the third world. LLB stood at roughly 25% of aid money raised and this apparent transparency bolstered their implicit claim to honestly and integrity and reassured donors, who remained ignorant of the truth. LLB funds, together with cash from untraceable sources, found its way into secret accounts intended to finance their long term goals. The abbreviation secretly amused him with its ambiguity.

Finally, confident there were no mistakes, Wesley saved his amendments and sent the file to the accountant. He leaned back feeling invincible, satisfied that all was progressing as planned. A moment later, ready for the next task, he bent forward to speak into the intercom.

"Hanna, I've some correspondence ready for you. Will you pop into my office please?" He smiled, wrapping his words in a friendly glow. "Oh and I'd love a cup of coffee."

He sat back and scanned his calendar for upcoming appointments. Already the first month of 2010 was past. How time was flying by. The soulful black eyes of the solemn February child reminded him that he had to attend a strategic conference in Africa and before the page would flip to reveal the March child he had a meeting with the inner circle.

### CHAPTER 8

The biscuits were butter-crisp, sweet and crumbly. Hanna, responsible for these morning and afternoon teas, catered to Wesley's sweet tooth, knowing it also rewarded their intense concentration and gave them an energy burst for the next brainstorming session. Replenished, the steady murmur of their voices stilled and abandoning their drained cups amongst the leftovers, the Inner Circle returned to their seats.

Wesley stood facing them, waiting for their attention. He was not a tall man and the extra few inches of the concealed platform gave him confidence. When deep in thought, his face became a study of shadows and his deep-set eyes seemed to retreat giving him an austere appearance. Wesley's eyes were impelling; blue irises encircled by a pale ring. Depending on his mood, they reminded you of the clear sun-bright waters of a sheltered sandy bay or the icy glitter of an Arctic Lake. At last the hum died down and he spoke.

"Our next topic is the issue of risk management. I personally have a growing unease around the technology we use in-house and I'd like your input into resolving some of the security issues we might face." He looked around and noticed one raised hand. "Yes?"

"Do you really think we have security issues? Not in our industry ... surely?"

"Who can say till it's happened? Hindsight is always a wonderful teacher. At least we should consider the issue. Brady raised the subject recently and he's fully aware of the technological risks-"

"But who would be interested? Everything we do is open and public."

Wesley frowned at the continued interjection, his eyes glittered coldly. An assertive tone crept into his voice.

"Maybe. But we still have our secrets. Our register of sponsors and their donations, for example are encrypted and their privacy protected." Heads nodded. This was undoubtedly true. Wesley continued. "We are a large and financially successful organisation. This alone exposes us to opposition and envy. It only takes one slip-up and in one blow we can lose our ranking and our supporters. Now as Brady pointed out to me, we are increasingly exposed to potentially undesirable surveillance and possibly malicious disruption. These people are not like you and me. They have no conscience. While we have nothing to hide, as our esteemed colleague reminded us earlier, our actions and motivations may easily be distorted or taken out of context and used against us. It's all about identifying risk and there are a thousand risks, some big and some small.

"Our emails and phone calls can be intercepted, data can be extracted from hard-drives and, at the risk of sounding melodramatic, one day we may have a mole in our midst. All organisations need to be aware that the greatest risk often comes from within. Consider how easily one of us can send an email to the wrong person or forget to use 'BCC' and suddenly ... well, you can imagine the implications. Consider computer or data theft; add in a hacker or a virus. Some of these things may be easily contained but some may have the potential to do significant damage to our people or our organisation. I believe that we need to proactively manage risk. We need a foolproof system and we need to stay one step ahead of the internet savvy criminal. Any ideas?"

Wesley turned to Brady, smile lines forming at the corner of liquid blue eyes. The room was silent as he sank into his chair and Brady stood. The others waited. They knew that he probably had a strategy for their consideration and their buy-in was expected. Brady cleared his throat.

"As you've heard I've been concerned for some time about these issues. I've given them considerable thought and would like to hear your views on my recommendations. Do we all recognise the risks?" He glanced around the table and was met with nodding heads. At least there was agreement. "We should talk to some risk management specialists. Listen to what they say and act on their advice but there are things we can do ourselves. Let's start with the easy stuff. Am I right in saying that we're agreed that ideally our conversations and emails, all our communications remain private?" He paused. All around him people made encouraging noises. "I think less is more and that we should rein in our reliance on technology and use it judiciously. The world is now so sophisticated that security is failing to keep ahead of advances. This exposes us all so let's step back for a moment. Let's discourage emails and avoid phones which can be easily tapped especially for sensitive matters. None of our computers should be linked into a central server or use the cloud system. It may mean duplication but that's a small price to pay for security. At all times we need to use the best encryption software available, and implement regularly scheduled upgrades."

Brady could see their eyes glaze over as he talked of servers, clouds and encryption. This was technical stuff and he might as well have been speaking Welsh or Greek. He grinned to himself. Soon they would be struggling to keep their eyes open and happy to approve any motion he raised. A fly buzzed lethargically against a window. The room was warm and the effects of caffeine were wearing off. Deliberately he made his voice more bland and even.

"Our people could text using cheap cell phones and send postcards. Sure I know that's old technology; snail's mail, but tourists still send postcards and there are millions of texts flying around the world so sheer volume should protect us. If we use different SIM cards and only use them briefly then it will be harder for our senders to be located. SIM cards are cheap and easily disposed. None of our mobiles should be registered. I propose that at prearranged times, agents in the field send brief texts to their controllers, who in turn pass the information up the chain on postcards. We could supply controllers with tourist cards from their postal areas and codify them in some way. Our agents write some innocuous coded message. For example if a cell has been exposed they use a postcard which says 'Wish you were here' and the message mentions bad weather. The combination of these two codes would alert us."

"That's an interesting idea," Wesley replied. "As long as we keep it simple with a limited number of codes I think it would work. Perhaps we need to have an emergency number so that texts can also be sent if there is a need for speed."

The room stirred as if awakening. Brady's voice had lulled them and most could not recall what he'd said. They waited while Brady thought.

"What about using code names as well? Something like 'Emery Redpath' for emergencies and 'Norm Greenway' for ordinary stuff? It would be a simple matter for everyone to load those names and numbers into their contacts. We could also extend the codes further incorporating the colours red and green. Yes! I can see a whole lot of possible applications. I'll do some research into WW2 methods, things like newspaper ads and news releases. They'll be quicker than snail mail when time is vital for us. I think it's important not to rely on just one methodology-"

"We could occasionally use Facebook or blog sites instead of ads. Quicker than waiting for the newspaper."

Brady looked at the speaker and grinned.

"Good point. That's also worth investigating."

Wesley put the motion that risk management be Brady's responsibility.

"Those in favour?"

Murmurs of approval, heads nodded and here and there a hand was raised.

"Those against?"

There were no votes to the contrary and no further suggestions. By the end of the day all the agenda items had been debated and Hanna had recorded their decisions. Back in his office Wesley reflected on progress. He had surrounded himself with the right people, he thought with satisfaction. Brady was the perfect deputy, invaluable and resourceful while the inner circle encouraged and supported them both. Momentarily he saw himself as a puppeteer, his hands manipulating an increasing number of strings, an invisible army biding their time for the moment when time and events ... He shook his head; better not count his chickens too soon.

He made a mental note to add Redpath and Greenway to the staff and payroll. He pondered the necessary details. It would be easy to open accounts at different South American Banks and arrange to pay their salaries. Internet banking was a breeze and the transfers could be buried amongst numerous others. Once set up he could forget about them. A new thought flitted into his mind. Perhaps he needed ID? The answer sprang into his mind. He'd order a passport, no two passports; one for Redpath and one for Greenway. It should be easy to arrange and it would protect Brady's plans, he told himself. No-one need know. Maybe the funds might be useful one day, but this was a line of thought he did not want to consider or explore and he turned his attention back to his report.

Down the corridor the mellow jazz of the Oscar Peterson Trio filled Brady's office. As the music washed over him, Brady relaxed and considered the day's resolution. The decisions suited him, especially the risk management issue and he relished the sense of intrigue which the thought of secret codes and covert systems gave him. He'd be ready, he promised himself, when it mattered. Wesley was such a dreamer, he thought dismissively. He might be able to see solutions where others only saw problems but he didn't have the backbone to see things through and make the hard decisions. Wesley needed him, needed his street smarts and his cunning but Brady was determined not to be a pawn in anyone else's game. For an instant ruthless ambition twisted his face into unfamiliar lines then his mask dropped again. No-one, he thought with buoyant confidence, would be able to infiltrate or expose them once he'd finished.

"CEO Touches Hearts and Opens Wallets _._

Washington Courier August 2010

Last evening ESAP's charismatic CEO Wesley Smithson spoke to a capacity audience about the desperate needs in Africa. His polished presentation received a standing ovation and judging by the comments our reporter overheard this will translate into new supporters for the organisation.

In 2003 ESAP established its first projects in the most neglected areas of the African continent. These initial projects were successful and in 2008 ESAP responded to local requests to establish its first Regional Educational Institutes.

Mr Smithson reported that applications far outnumber the places available. Money raised from Mr Smithson presentations goes towards funding additional placements and providing subsidies for students.

The aim of the Institutes is to produce suitably qualified graduates who will dedicate themselves to raising living standards in their homelands. The first graduates have already provided evidence that these projects are successful.

This is a charity organisation which is making a difference. We applaud his efforts and wish Mr Smithson continued success in his ventures ... "

### CHAPTER 9

Wesley closed his folder. Silence filled the large auditorium. He stood without moving, his face calm and expectant, waiting. His heart rate settled after the adrenalin high of his performance. Time seemed elastic and he could feel its rhythm thinning, stretching. The spell lasted for a moment longer. Just as he felt a wave of foreboding threaten to crash, the audience rose to its feet and their roar of applause and approval drowned the hush and washed over him. Their ovation sustained his self-belief and sense of divine calling. In that instant he was always conscious that he walked in the footsteps of the prophets.

He remembered the missionaries and pastors of his youth, thundering from the pulpit and he knew that he had the advantage. Unlike his predecessors who had little understanding of what made a sermon successful, he knew exactly. Not for him the primitive technologies of grainy and out of focus slideshows or a few rough trinkets to woo his listeners. His advisers had studied audience psychology and knew how to use high-tech effects to enhance his credibility. This was the age of technology and mass media and he loved being part of it.

Along the aisles ushers moved to their predetermined places. Wesley waited for the euphoria to fade then gestured for the audience to sit down. When everything was calm again, he walked away from the lectern to stand in the middle of the stage. Earlier they'd glimpsed a prophet inspired by an all-consuming revelation now they saw a figure, alone on an empty stage and their hearts responded to his humanity. Here stood a man like them.

"Thank you for listening and identifying with the vision I have a burden to share with America. This vision remains unattainable unless you and others like you make it yours. Without your backing I can do little and my words are scattered sounds so if my message has touched you, you may wish to become a partner in our fight against oppression and poverty; a partner in our stand for all that is good and right and true." Wesley paused. He knew to capitalize on the potential within the silence. "The ushers will be passing around donation buckets and you may wish to assist our cause by emptying your pockets."

Laughter rippled as Wesley mimed the process of turning his pockets inside out, finding them empty and raising his arms in a shrug. The audience was oblivious to the subtle changes occurring on stage. The skilled lighting and sound technicians enhanced Wesley's stage charisma, spotlights changed in colour and intensity as did the subtle backing tracks.

"Don't feel discouraged if your pockets are as empty as mine, you can still partner us. The ushers are also passing out membership application forms and pledge cards which you can complete now and drop into the buckets or take them home and mail them back to us using the attached prepaid envelope. Alternatively you can log onto our website and use our on-line registration form. There are several terminals available in the reception hall for your immediate use tonight. One of our staff members will be on hand to assist those who wish to avail themselves of this opportunity. We truly value every donation regardless of size and those who feel moved to a deeper commitment can elect to become a 'Poverty Buster'. It's easy, just set up a regular payment from your bank account to ours.

"PB's are our lifeblood. They receive regular updates from our projects around the world and as they learn more about our work, PB's become ambassadors and advocates helping us to reach those who would otherwise never know about this vital work. Our objective is a better world for those living in dire poverty while at the same time we are working to ensure that our grandchildren, yours and mine, will have a storehouse of goodwill. America will need this if it wishes to influence the future."

Again Wesley paused allowing his message to sink in; aware they were hanging onto every word. "I assure you that ESAP is ever mindful of the future and every project is thoroughly monitored. Your money is carefully allocated and spent to ensure the best return. You can partner us knowing that we are fully committed to achieving a better, brighter future for all peoples. Fellow Americans, fellow citizens, friends will you work beside me to make this happen?" Sounds of agreement and encouragement filled Wesley's pause. "Thank you for coming... thank you for listening... thank you for acting."

Again the applause swelled, intermingled with the dull sound of coins falling into the plastic buckets and muted voices as here and there friends encouraged each other to complete the forms. Wesley waited patiently on the stage. When he sensed that the moment was right he raised his arms as if in blessing. The lighting technicians dimmed the spotlight slightly changing the hue and the soft background music soared triumphantly. In the process Wesley seemed to float above the dark floor radiating warmth and light.

When the ushers had collected the buckets the lights were turned off and an intense blackness fell. The stage was empty as one by one the words 'Economic' 'Solutions' 'Alleviating' 'Poverty' flashed up before the ESAP logo replaced them glittering brightly on the backdrop. Ten seconds later the house lights came on, people rose and conversations swelled as the auditorium slowly emptied.

Well-wishers, staff and fans thronged the backstage area to congratulate Wesley. At the end of every presentation there were always several prosperous and influential individuals who wished to be seen supporting ESAP's good works, who wished to be linked to Wesley's rising star. They thought they were hardnosed and not easily fooled, yet under Wesley's spell, they responded enthusiastically. Wesley mingled, stopping to speak with as many as he could. It seemed that he made no distinction between rich or poor, powerful or simple folks but as trained, his staff identified the movers and shakers and unobtrusively ensured that Wesley met each of them, laying the foundation for future alliances.

Face to face Wesley was at his charismatic best. His warm and unassuming manner enhanced his magnetism, beguiling all privileged to share a moment of his time. Few forgot the intensity of his gaze or the colour of his eyes.

The next day the analysis would begin. Video footage of his performance and the audience reactions would be compared to previous events and the takings evaluated. They had discovered that private and public perceptions were not necessarily the same. Strategically placed microphones recorded personal conversations as people left the auditorium and relevant comments were compared to the evaluation sheet responses. It might be illegal but it was their secret weapon in the fight to stay on top.

### CHAPTER 10

Hanna was responsible for maintaining their website. ESAP had a web page, a Facebook presence and a following on Twitter. She posted links to articles in the media, reports of success, interviews with management and internally generated propaganda. As she browsed the headlines and links she was always encouraged knowing that she was part of such an inspiring organisation, an organisation with such influence. It made her proud. Especially, she enjoyed recording the successes of their graduates.

It had become fashionable for corporate businesses to take on an occasional third world employee and Wesley found ways to ensure that his Defenders received priority consideration. Businesses quickly learned that Wesley's recommendations could be relied on. Once appointed, they proved loyal, hard working and talented. Driven to outperform their colleagues, they were promoted to positions of influence and trusted with responsibility.

She tapped a short staccato beat on the glass with her finger nails. Wesley looked up, over his computer screen and smiled at her. She waved the bundle of letters in the air and opened the door as he signalled for her to enter.

"Morning Wesley. I've just collected today's mail for you."

"Thanks Hanna. How are you today? How's the family?"

This was the Wesley she admired. She felt disarmed by his deep voice and warm smile. He'd been growing a beard and it suited him, she thought. He looks more like Jesus every day. It never occurred to her that Jesus might not have had blue eyes. Every illustration she'd seen in Africa had shown a white Jesus.

"Everyone's fine thanks Wesley. Niger leaves for Africa on the tenth. He'll be gone for two weeks. He's keen to catch up with the team in Mali. The books he translated have been printed and it will be a big event when he hands these over to the school students." Wistfully she added, "I can't wait for him to come back and tell me all the news."

Given the chance Hanna would have loved to return with her husband but she knew that she had no option but to keep within the safe confines of her everyday routines. If she wanted to remain in the USA she had to obey the rules; stay out of trouble, disappear in the crowded streets and avoid the attention of prying officials.

"That's great. ESAP's very fortunate to have you and Niger working with us. We don't take it for granted I can assure you." The warmth of his smile coloured his words with conviction and he saw that they had touched her. He allowed his smile to linger on her a little longer then glanced down at the letters she had put on his desk. "Thanks for the mail Hanna."

He watched as she turned. Her skirt of jungle greens and browns swayed gently as she walked away and closed the door behind her. He knew that she was vulnerable. Many times ESAP had submitted proposals and reports calling for a more lenient attitude to refugees only to be overruled by vested interests. An involuntary sigh escaped. He would miss her if the authorities ever registered her existence and demanded to see her papers but he'd face that when it happened. Wasn't it Mark Twain who said, there's no point in wasting time worrying, it might never happen? Maybe not exactly in those words.

His father could quote Mark Twain verbatim. Down to earth common sense, Charles Smithson would say and his mother Grace would quietly add a similar verse from the Bible, like the one about the lilies of the field. With a smile on his face Wesley turned his attention to the mail and shuffled through the envelopes sorting them into neat piles. A postcard, almost lost between two larger envelopes caught his attention. He took a deep breath and sat back, holding it before him all thoughts of Hanna forgotten. It was an unremarkable card, probably sold at any number of market outlets along the tourist route and he turned it over slowly.

'Greetings my friend, Allah willing, our cricket team will be victorious. A new star has risen in the south so our hopes are high. Amed.'

He'd been waiting for that card with its coded message. He felt an unexpected thrill to be holding hard evidence that things were starting to happen.

He forced himself to finish sorting the mail then he took the card across to Brady's office keen to share his excitement. To his disappointment the room was empty, the only sign of life the fish swimming in the corner tank. He shrugged to himself, hesitated then placed the postcard in the middle of the large desk pad and retraced his steps.

When Brady returned to his office he immediately recognised the photo and picked it up. He turned it over, noted the Pakistani stamp and grinned with satisfaction. The message read, he added it to the pin board behind his desk. One day the novelty might pale but not yet.

Later that day Wesley retraced his steps. Even before he reached Brady's office he could hear the raw emotive growl of James Brown. There was no doubting that Brady was in. He tapped lightly on the open door and smiled self-consciously as he lowered himself into one of the armchairs. The sharp tang of peppermint reached his nose. Brady lounged behind an imposing desk in his equally grand computer chair. A slender black and white patterned laptop had replaced the postcard and within reach his kudu leather Filo-diary and the bespoke cedar tray holding his collection of Montblanc pens. The items were perfectly aligned with the edges of the desk. Photos of children from ESAP's various projects watched them wide-eyed from the side wall.

Brady reached for the remote and James Brown fell silent, replaced by the murmuring throb of the water pump as it forced bubbles of air from the tiny diver hiding amongst the water plants. The tall fish tank in the corner was bright with tropical fish. Some sashayed past the glass wall and others darted nervously through the miniature sunken ruins. For a brief moment both men watched the fish; black and white angels, sleek swordtails, platys and spotted gouramis all avoiding the bright red betta which flamboyantly displayed its beautiful fins and tail at every pass, then Wesley allowed his glance to fall on the pin board hanging on the wall behind the desk. In the centre was their inspiration, a copy of the Robert Frost poem 'The Road Less Travelled' surrounded by several colourful postcards.

Brady, aware of his glance and the purpose of his visit, smirked. "Thanks for the card Wes."

Wesley scratched his chin. His growing beard was itchy.

"You're welcome. I was excited to get it. We have our first pawns on the chess board." Wesley waved towards the new postcard. "Another sports coach. We'll communicate through Amed rather than use any of your local networks. I see you've got a new card too." He pointed to the beach scene.

"Yeah he's also on that chess board of yours. You know, it's very reassuring to realise that each card reflects our past successes worldwide - South America, Africa, Asia ... Our influence continues to have an impact on men and women for the rest of their lives."

Wesley nodded. This was true and he felt proud of their achievements.

"Now he's our gateway specialist." Brady pointed to the postcard. "He'll team up with the ogdoad."

Wesley grinned back.

"Ah, the chosen eight, your special project. How's it going? How will he fit in?"

"The project's going well. I'm pleased with progress to-date. This man's at ground zero, so to speak, and he'll be working in isolation."

"Can you trust him? Isn't it a risk to rely on one person, especially when he works away from his cell?"

"Yes, and no. The fewer people who know what he's doing the better, it protects us all. He has a sister in Bogotá. He's very close to her and he knows that completing this assignment successfully will guarantee that they both have a secure future. I expect him to provide us with a goldmine of data as well as ensuring that our primary objective is achievable."

"So you're confident that he can do this by himself?"

"One hundred percent! He's real bright. He's one of Frank's protégés."

Wesley nodded remembering the intense American in Bogatá. They both looked at the cards, imagining the board covered in colour, symbolising the various tasks as they activated and visualising their ultimate success! Brady lifted the dark blood-red Franz Kafka pen from its tray and unscrewed the top. He stared at the distinctive carved insect on the 18k nib. The pen was a reminder of their beginnings and he'd bought it just after they'd established the first Chosen Way cells. Absentmindedly his fingers stroked the barrel feeling its shape change from round to square.

"Have you read my report? I asked Hanna to email you a copy. Do you have anything to add? I'm due to see the head of the UN Development Program on Monday. She's relatively new in the role and I'd like to impress her with our focus on the Millennium Development Goals."

Reluctantly, Brady dragged his thoughts into the present. He screwed the top back on and carefully returned it to its spot in the tray then looked up with a bemused frown.

"The head's a broad? What do you know about her, her background or her preferences?"

"She used to be a politician in New Zealand and I've heard she's keen on education."

Brady nodded thoughtfully. "Ah-ha. Then you can impress her! You've got all the facts haven't you?"

"Sure. We established the first ESAP National Training institutes in 2008. Um... do we have exact numbers? I know the institutes have turned out doctors, nurses, paramedics, social workers and teachers. Local governments have recruited some of our graduates and we've offered our top students scholarships to overseas universities."

"That's it in a nutshell. A bit bare though. You'll have to do better than that. You'll have to dazzle her-"

"I know, I know. That was often on my school report. _Could do better if he tried_. I'll add some glitz and glamour, blow my trumpet, that sort of thing. We both know I can do that."

Brady raised his eyebrows. It wasn't often that Wesley spoke so sharply.

"I didn't mean to sound like a school master. Sorry. I'll look out some stats for you just in case you find the need to throw some facts and figures into the mix. Be sure to hammer her about the dismal lack of progress towards achieving those UN Goals but it might be wise not to mention our plans to expand into New Zealand. I think it's best if you keep the focus elsewhere. Stick to our African work and our training institutes.

"You need to do some more research though. Get Hanna onto it. Find out everything about that broad. Sometimes it's not who you are but who you know that's important. So the question is, does she have clout or just connections and what has she heard about ESAP? ... Take a bunch of flowers with you," he added. "Gals always like flowers. Get Hanna to order something suitable."

Wesley frowned. He disliked Brady's sexism and he'd argued the point many times but nothing altered the fact that when it came to women in powerful positions, Brady was biased. With a shrug he pushed himself up out of the chair.

"Okay - will do. Thanks for the advice. Oh and send those stats, they might be useful."

"Yes Sir! And Wes, let me know how you go... and don't forget the flowers!"

"Wellington to Host Next ROAR Forum.

NZ Herald August 2010.

New Zealand's successful nomination as hosts of the 2014 Forum was announced during the closing ceremony at Brussels. The 3rd ROAR Forum is generally regarded by officials as a remarkable success. Despite the threat of terrorist attacks which forced the Forum Committee to impose tight security measures, the meetings have been upbeat. Key resolutions were passed with majority support giving hope that even at this late date some of the UN Millennium Goals may be achieved.

Members of the NZ delegation will be returning home today and will be briefing the government on the implication of Forum resolutions. It is claimed that new economic and trade initiatives will benefit the Pacific Region and open new markets for our agricultural products especially in the developing Third World. Despite the economic and banking crisis, which have affected Western Nations, the global outlook is cautiously optimistic and many consider that the worst is now behind us. Recovery of the Euro and US dollar are predicted to occur before the end of 2011 to be followed by a period of sustained growth...."

### CHAPTER 11

November 2010

George Ritmeyer, UN Security Chief and frequent flyer, liked to arrive early. It meant he could choose where to sit and once in place, years of practice had taught him how to blend into insignificance. He hadn't managed to avoid unwelcome attention this time and check-in had been anything but routine. It still rankled that he could so easily be made to feel at fault. He wiped the beads of moisture off his forehead and settled lower behind his paper.

In response to the shocking midair murder of passengers on a flight to Hawaii two months earlier, a new Risk Screening Process had just been rolled out. If the palaver he'd had to endure was any indication it was half baked. He made a mental note to recommend that the UN petition US Passport Control to amend its TSA system.

He had presented his passport expecting to be waved through but instead the computer software had identified him as a potential threat. It had taken time as the officious little passport control officer peered at the screen before her and followed the unfamiliar process.

"Sir, are you carrying any prohibited items?"

"No ma'am."

"Did you pack your own bag?"

He smiled reassuringly and nodded.

"Yes."

She continued to frown at him, her lips pressed tight in a thin slash of half eaten colour. There was no warmth in her eyes and he felt his smile die.

"Are you travelling for business or pleasure?"

"Business ma'am."

"You appear to travel frequently. I see that your last trip was to Bangkok."

George felt a needless flutter of guilt. It dawned on him that his frequent visits into and out of the world's many trouble spots had triggered a red alert on the newfangled system. He nodded and waited.

"Was that also for business Mr Ritmeyer?"

He absorbed her stare, masking his annoyance.

"Yes ma'am."

"And you say this flight is also for business?"

"Yes." What would happen if he was to say no, he wondered?

"How long are you staying in New Zealand?"

"Three days ma'am."

"What will you be doing while you're there?"

"I've been invited to attend an important meeting."

She glared at him suspiciously over her screen. He could read her thoughts. She didn't believe him. He caught sight of his reflection. Faint craters of long gone acne marked his skin and his hairline was retreating. He looked quite ordinary in his tired suit. Surely, he thought to himself, she can't think I'm a terrorist. She turned her attention back to the computer and he waited as she typed, clicked the mouse, then she looked up and spoke more sharply than necessary.

"Please explain yourself further sir."

Again she stared at him watching attentively. He considered and discarded several flippant answers in favour of the plain truth.

"Well ma'am, I'm a UN adviser and I've been invited to address a meeting with New Zealand Government officials. I'm expected to represent the UN at strategic meetings and conferences. That's my job... You can see my UN credentials ... Here!" he leaned forward to direct her attention to the appropriate pages. "Surely this is unnecessary?"

She scowled at him until he moved back slightly.

"I'll decide what is unnecessary. That's my job Mr Ritmeyer. So you say you represent the UN? Was that why you visited," she paused as she flicked through the passport pages. "um Bangkok, Cairo, the Arab States and um Jakarta to mention a few?"

"Yes ma'am. Each occasion was different of course."

"Don't talk down to me, Mr Ritmeyer. How long have you been working for the UN?"

"I joined immediately after college ma'am and was appointed to this role eight years ago." Then hoping to forestall further interrogation he added. "My chief responsibility is to identify threats or potential threats against world's leaders specifically during UN sponsored events."

Her eyebrows rose and he could see suspicion written on her face.

"Are you hiding something from me?"

He started. A rising flush washed over his sallow complexion and the crater scars. This was not a confessional, he reminded himself.

"No ma'am I have nothing to hide."

She waited for more but he held her gaze as if challenging her to refute him. She let it pass.

"Have you been to New Zealand before?"

"No ma'am. It's my first time."

He met her gaze calmly then when her attention returned to her screen, he sighed quietly. This was becoming tedious. She changed the direction of her questioning.

"Where will you be staying in New Zealand?"

George shuffled through his travel wallet, found the hotel vouchers and handed them over. She noted the details, returned the papers to him and continued.

Despite his avowed UN connections, she doggedly followed the new TSA instructions on her screen; question after stupid question until, with obvious disappointment, she reluctantly handed him his passport and released him. He felt her eyes on his back as he walked away.

Once in the departure lounge, he commandeered two seats at the end of a row, placed his carry-on luggage on one and lowered himself onto the other. Instinctively he had identified one of the most defensive seats in the room. With the wall protecting his back, he angled his body inwards, rested his arm on his cabin bag and spread open his newspaper. He forced himself to wait patiently for his boarding call.

The rigid plastic was hardy comfortable and the minutes passed slowly. He loathed this preflight roundup of passengers. Surreptitiously he peered over his paper watching as they scattered belongings around themselves to mark out their personal space. The room filled and those boundaries shrank inwards. He was acutely aware of tension building as those being crowded together resisted the pressure to merge.

He'd observed the transformation many times. Despite passing through check-in, passport control and security, travellers were not yet fully committed to the journey. George had come to the conclusion, there was something about handing in a boarding pass and walking along the ramp which changed the dynamics and by the time they were seated, they were unified. For a short time their futures were intertwined and they would live or die together.

George both resented and welcomed the added levels of security. He knew better than most how important those extra checks were. Their lives, quite literally, depended on it yet still he resented them. Remembered paragraphs, hijacked from the classified pages of intelligence reports filled his mind; paragraphs which could easily induce the beginnings of panic. George didn't fool himself. He was no hero. His driving purpose was to ensure that ordinary citizens could live their lives in peace. He buried his head in his newspaper to distract his thoughts but his senses were alert.

The humid air grew heavy with the stale smell of dime-store perfume, duty free scents and hot bodies. Sounds churned and swirled; the dry rustle of newsprint, shoes scuffing against the carpet and creaking groans from the plastic chairs protesting as heavy bodies settled. Now and then George overheard random snippets of conversation above the din. He started to relax behind his paper.

"George! Fancy meeting you after all these years. Must be at least twenty! You haven't changed a bit. How're you doing?"

The loud voice made him start and he lowered his paper to find Brady Ambler standing before him, a wide smile lighting up his face. George was not at all pleased to have been recognised. It was indeed twenty years since he'd seen Brady and his unexpected appearance unsettled him. He glanced quickly around. Several fellow travellers turned towards them alerted by the loud voice. Brady had always enjoyed being the centre of attention, but not George and he had no chance now of remaining unnoticed. He stood up and grasped the outstretched hand, forcing himself to smile.

"B-Brady. This is a surprise. Great to see you," he spluttered. "So you're off to New Zealand too?"

"No, I'm flying to Sydney but the plane refuels in Auckland so I guess technically you could say I'm going to New Zealand."

Brady stood taller and appeared more muscular than he remembered, but he hadn't lost any of his good looks or his taste for high fashion. Brady, he judged, noting the Italian shoes, the designer labels and the Rolex, was doing well. Reluctantly George folded his paper, removed his bag from the seat and they sat down.

Brady continued. "I've got business in Australia and plan to stop in New Zealand for a few days on the way back. It'll be my first visit and I hear the fishing's great. Where are you off to? Business or pleasure?"

"Business. I'm meeting up with some colleagues in Auckland, just routine, nothing world sh-shattering."

God why did he have to stutter? Calm down, he ordered himself, it's only Brady. He forced a smile.

George had no desire to talk about his trip but by habit he was a truthful man. The odd white lie was perfectly acceptable, at times diplomatically essential but facts were facts. There could be no harm in admitting to his destination, he told himself, it was self-evident given the flight he was about to catch; besides it was on public record. Adeptly he changed the subject.

"I won't have time for fishing but guess I'll get to see something of Auckland, if only from the inside of a taxi. What sort of fishing interests you, fly or big game? I believe New Zealand's famous for both."

"I always go for the big game!" Brady laughed raucously.

George shifted uncomfortably and responded with a half-shrug. He wiped his forehead.

"It's getting stuffy in here," he grumbled. "They can never get the damn air conditioning right. It's either freezing or roasting, and never in-between. Too many bodies in a confined space and by the time the damn machine cuts in, we're on the plane."

Brady nodded. They chatted, small talk really, saying nothing of importance, circling around the unspoken. The sound system crackled. Conversations faltered as passengers strained to catch instructions.

"What's your seat number George? I'm amongst the great unwashed, in the middle somewhere, an aisle seat."

"I'm travelling business class. I usually travel economy but I had so many air points ... " His voice trailed off. Brady's eyebrow arched briefly. Was it surprise or jealousy? George didn't care, his relief was overwhelming. Further tête-à-têtes were unlikely. That's all that mattered. Thank God he'd upgraded.

Brady shook his hand heartily.

"Well George, it's been great to catch up; all the best with your Forum Security Meeting. We're all grateful for the work you UN paper soldiers do to keep us safe. You and I know that it takes courage to do the right thing."

Brady turned and without a backward glance blended into the snaking line. He felt pleased with himself. He'd achieved all his objectives and a satisfied smile flitted over his face as he remembered George's obvious consternation. Nothing had changed despite the years which had passed. Lost in thought he held out his boarding card and passport and before he knew it he entered the belly of the Airbus. He rarely travelled in economy and gazed with distaste at the narrow seats. He ducked his head beneath the overhead lockers as he sidled into the cramped space and eased his trousers as he sat. It was certainly a tight squeeze and his knees almost touched the seat in front. Why had he assumed that George would be travelling cattle class? Still, the relief on George's face made it all worthwhile. Now all he had to do was haunt the fringes of George's imagination.

Disconcerted George watched as Brady swaggered through the crowd. What did Brady know about the Forum? He was sure he hadn't mentioned it. George racked his brains. He'd last heard of Brady some years past. He'd featured in a newspaper article about disaster relief although the remembered details were only vague. At least, their spheres of influence and connection were worlds apart, he thought thankfully. It was unlikely that their paths would cross again.

By the time George joined the slowly moving queue he'd again become unremarkable. No-one would later remember seeing him board the plane. He dropped thankfully into his seat and stretched his legs. The cushions felt simultaneously soft and firm and his body settled comfortably. He found the in-flight magazine and flicked through it, his thoughts still restless. Paper soldiers indeed! What did he mean? The edges of his mind worried at Brady's barb. He shivered as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

### CHAPTER 12

The man with the javelin was closing the gap between them. George pounded up the dune, his throat raw as his lungs sucked in the dry thin air. The sand slipped treacherously under his bare feet then as he stumbled he saw the javelin leave Brady's hand. A hole opened under him and he tumbled, freefalling, down, down, down. The plane hit the bottom of an air-pocket with a thump and he woke, heart racing and drenched in perspiration. It took him a moment to make sense of things and disarm his terrors.

Of course he knew that dreams were meaningless, merely a chaotic jumble of thoughts and experiences pulled like a rabbit out of his deep subconscious. Still it took some time before he managed to force his thoughts in another direction. He leaned back, closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. He pictured a duster wiping clean the black board of his mind and then onto the blackness he projected an image of a great oak and visualised the wind rustling through its green leaves. Bit by bit he reclaimed his quiet centre but sleep evaded him. Eventually he gave up trying, turned on his light and reached for his laptop.

Few understood the mindset of those plotting terror or the shadowy organisations which backed them better than George. He loved his work and believed in it. That was why he spent more time travelling the globe than sitting at his desk or sleeping in his own bed. He considered it a privilege to meet the many dedicated individuals who generously shared their insights with him. His years of experience had seen him acquire a valuable instinct for trouble and those he worked with described him as being special, somehow different. He was not the stereotypical American official and no-one ever accused him of being loud or brash, or doubted his commitment to global harmony. His habit of listening to other views and his willingness to work in the background was appreciated. Fortunately, those whose aims were in direct conflict with George's, often made the mistake of underestimating him and discounted his influence. Deceived by their first impressions, they assumed that his mind and talents were equally mediocre. He used these preconceptions to his advantage.

As George reviewed his speech notes, his thoughts drifted to the purpose of his trip and he wondered who would be attending. Initial meetings with newly appointed stakeholders often carried complex undercurrents as various factions jostled to establish their influence. Nervous anticipation fluttered in his stomach. The hostess heard his belly grumble as she placed his food tray down. She grinned at him sympathetically.

"Enjoy your breakfast sir," she said.

### CHAPTER 13

As he exited New Zealand Customs, George spotted the board with his name. Automatically he stopped to the left, the wall at his back and looked around the arrival hall observing the exodus and assessing the crowd for danger. No-one gave him a second glance. A steady stream of disembarking passengers passed in front of him and from all directions he heard the usual hubbub of shouted greetings and shrieks of delight. Momentarily amused, he observed the disruption caused as an overloaded trolley stopped unexpectedly, its driver staring around in confusion; like a large boulder in a river bed the stream of arrivals surged around him.

For another few seconds he glanced over the waiting crowd and briefly scrutinised the tall, dark-suited woman holding the board. She stood to one side, aloof and disinterested, her thoughts elsewhere. Nearby a swarming mass of taxi drivers and tour guides held up similar name boards. As she moved her head, her dark brown hair caught the light reflecting a hint of auburn.

He walked towards her observing the moment she realised he was heading in her direction. His lips stretched but the smile never reached his eyes. She responded with a slight toss of her head and he felt her dark eyes assessing him, taking in every nondescript detail. When he reached her he held out his hand.

"George Ritmeyer, hi."

"Pania Morrison," she countered as she returned his handshake.

"Hi Tanya, pleased to meet you."

"It's Pania, not Tanya. Pania of the Reef."

He reddened at her tone. The reference to Reef went over his head.

"Sorry - my ears are a bit blocked. Decompression you know."

She tilted her head slightly in acknowledgement of his gabbled apology.

"Come, the car's this way."

Without another word she turned and headed for the exit. George hung back as Pania queued and paid her parking fee then followed her as she led the way to her car. The light was bright and he squinted wishing he had his shades handy. She stood to one side as he loaded his bags into the boot. The trolley return was next to the car and she pushed it in as he dropped the lid with a clunk. He walked to the passenger side and had reached for the door handle before he noticed the steering wheel. He cursed under his breath. Pania watched him in silence. Again a flush of red crept up his neck. Mortified at his inattention, he looked up and detected a fleeting hint of amusement which took some of the sting out of her words.

"Down under we do things differently. For one, we drive on the left."

Sheepishly he walked around the car and got into the passenger seat. God he'd better be careful. He found his dark glasses and hid behind them. There was no small talk during the drive into town. George fingered the coins in his pocket and Pania concentrated on driving. Music throbbed from the car radio but no matter how hard he listened, the words were unintelligible. Swallowing rapidly he jiggled his head hoping to clear his ears. Pania glanced across.

"That's a Mãori station. I can change to an English one if you wish."

George shook his head and turned his attention out the window. She was a competent driver but sitting beside her on the wrong side of the car he had a sense of disorientation. Perhaps it was jet lag. New thoughts chased each other through his mind. Would he need an interpreter? Surely the meetings would be in English? The few New Zealanders he'd met had always been friendly, spoken English. He glanced sideways at her unsmiling face. Her distinct lack of welcome disturbed him.

### CHAPTER 14

Pania killed the engine, and turned to look at him. For a moment they sat in silence then the uneasy atmosphere in the car was suddenly warmed by her smile.

"Here we are Saint George. Let's see if I can find you a dragon or two."

Again George glimpsed amusement flicker across her face as she leapt out of the car. Perhaps she'd got out of bed on the wrong side or something had bothered her, he thought. Whatever it was, he was glad it was over. He grabbed his briefcase and followed. The uncarpeted corridor echoed. For an impossible moment it felt like Groundhog Day. The thud and squeak of his soles carried him back to 1990, back to that sultry September day when life shimmered with possibilities. The day he'd first met Brady.

He gripped his briefcase firmly, not as tightly as he'd clutched his suitcase, its handle wet with sweat, his knuckles white. His shoes had felt heavy and clumsy and no matter how lightly he tried to step, his footsteps echoed making the same sound. Thud, squeak, thud. He'd progressed down that lengthy hallway in erratic strides, checking the numbers on the doors. He felt his eyes flick around, just as they had before; from the floor to the doors and back, up and down, up and down.

He almost crashed into Pania as she stopped to turn the door knob. It pulled him instantly back into the present. He followed her into the small room where the Chief of the Diplomatic Protection Squad paced barking orders into his phone. He turned as Pania opened the door and abruptly ended his call. Pania spoke.

"Morning Sir. This is George Ritmeyer. George, meet Ernest Parsons. Known to all as Parsons."

As she completed introductions her smile flashed over him. That smile should slay a few dragons, he thought as he shook hands. Parsons grip was brutal.

"Pleased to meet you Ritmeyer. Good flight? Hope you got some sleep?"

"Yes sir, glad to be here. Not used to these long nonstop flights. We did strike a few air-pockets. Gives you quite a jolt, if you know what I mean. Still I can't complain. Business class sure makes the trip more bearable. The staff looked after me and the food was better than usual so I feel just fine. I'm keen to meet your stakeholders."

The words tumbled out in a rush.

"Right. Er... pleased to hear that. This meeting's just an opener, nothing important, get to know a few faces and exchange business cards. That sort of thing. Just say the word when jetlag hits. We can always stop early today."

"Thanks. That's so kind sir. I hope it won't be necessary to shorten any sessions. I've always found these initial meetings very helpful. It's good to build rapport and know where we all stand. It's important to be united. That way we can fight terrorism together."

"Yes. Right. Of course. Well Ritmeyer, or would you prefer I call you George?" George nodded. "Okay. George, I don't expect we'll be facing any of that down under, nothing we can't handle on our own. So you just relax, sit back and get on with your observing. Now, we have a few formalities to sign off before we can start. Let's get things underway then we can move on and you can meet the others. Grab a pew."

George took the seat indicated. Parsons and Pania sat down on either side of him and, in a quiet voice intended only for George, Pania whispered.

"Ernest in name and earnest in nature."

George glanced sideways. Parsons certainly did not appear frivolous or particularly welcoming. He was a solidly built man, muscular rather than fat, a man used to making decisions and directing others. His slightly wavy hair was peppered grey; still thick, George noted enviously, it showed no sign of receding. His tailored suit and matching tie of dark corporate blue was offset by a crisply ironed shirt of palest blue and George was suddenly aware of his own slightly frayed collar and lack of starch.

On the table lay a confidentiality agreement. He dealt with it quickly and they countersigned. Parsons handed two copies to Pania and one to George. Without further thought he stuffed it into his briefcase.

"Right let's meet the troops." Parsons stood and held the door for Pania. George followed in silence, clutching his briefcase. Ahead of him, Pania and Parsons chatted about Saturday's Rugby game. Pania retrieved their name tags then led the way to the urns. She knew almost everyone and introduced him to those standing nearby. Every government department seemed to be represented. George smiled, nodded and sipped the bitter coffee. It tasted stewed but it was full of caffeine. The doors to the conference room opened and slowly like sand in an egg timer the room filled. George followed the others. He felt he'd already made a fool of himself so he said little, concentrating hard to understand the new accent.

A large table made from light coloured wood glowed in the centre of the room. Several bowls of peppermints and jugs of iced water, dripping with condensation, awaited them. Centre stage a posy of roses arranged in a clear ball-shaped vase provided a touch of unexpected colour.

It was a corner room with large picture windows on two sides. George found himself drawn by the stunning view of an island volcano. A classic cone, its sides sloped gently into the shimmering sea. Pania glanced at George then back at the island.

"That's Rangitoto. The Mãori name roughly translates to 'bloody sun' or if you prefer 'bloody sky' and I'm not swearing." She laughed at her own joke. "It first erupted more than six hundred years ago. They found footprints of people and a dog in the ash layer from that first eruption. I reckon that they must have got a bit of a shock! If I'd been there, I'd be getting out as fast as I could."

George nodded not taking his eyes from the view. Pania chatted on.

"Did you know that Auckland's built on an active volcanic field? Did you notice them as we came in? Those hills over there are small extinct volcanoes too. There are lots scattered around the city. Yeah Auckland has its volcanoes, Rotorua its geysers and Wellington its fault lines. You could say this is where nature has the final say." She paused then grinning apologetically added, "Sorry I wasn't a better tour guide on your drive in." She turned again to look out at the island. As if talking to herself she continued. "I love this view; it changes all the time. Today it's peaceful but at other times it can be dark and threatening. Sometimes cloud rises as if from the cone and you'd think it was smoking, then in December the island glows red for weeks when the pohutukawas flower."

Pania focused on the panorama before them. George said nothing, imagining the red sun as it rose above the eruption. It must have been quite something. Behind them the hubbub quietened and reluctantly they turned and found their seats. Name tags identified the seating. They sat down together and George glanced at the attendee list. He was pleased it had been provided. Whoever organised the meeting had thought of everything. As well as the list, everyone had pens, paper, and a glass tumbler set on round mats of blotting paper. Pania leaned towards him and tilting her head towards their neighbours said in a low voice.

"The suits are mostly from Wellington, the casual dressers from Auckland."

She fell quiet as Parsons stood up to open the meeting.

"Good morning ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for taking the time and making the effort to come today. We are... er... honoured to have as our guest one of the UN Security Chiefs..." He glanced down at his notes. "George Ritmeyer. Mr Ritmeyer has been... er... assigned to help us in our preparations for the 2014 Forum. I'd also like to welcome representatives from the newly formed National Assessments Bureau. Welcome on board guys. We have high hopes that you will add significantly to our national security.

"For this first session I would like you each to stand and introduce yourself, identify your department, and explain your interest in the Forum. We will then break for morning tea and our... er... honoured guest will take the second session. I'll start the ball rolling.

"As most of you know, I'm Ernest Parsons, head of the Diplomatic Protection Squad based in Wellington. We are responsible for meeting, greeting and accompanying foreign delegates during their stay in New Zealand. Our brief is to provide security and protection for leaders and officials attending the Forum. This includes identifying potential risks and we rely heavily on others within this room to provide us with relevant intelligence and backup resources. We're proud of our record and proud of our officers. We are certainly up to this challenge." He smiled confidently around the room his eyes avoiding George.

George felt sidelined. He wished he knew the man better. Did he treat all strangers in this offhand manner or was it more personal? Parsons' body language seemed to imply that he was an unwelcome imposition. George hoped his first impressions were wrong. He gave a mental shrug. It would not be the first initial meeting where he'd been made to feel redundant.

Parsons sat down and the first official got to his feet. George forced his attention back to the meeting. Gradually he felt the tone change as one after another they welcomed him and spoke about their roles and responsibilities.

The delicate scent rising from the posy bowl reached him. It reminded him of home and he felt his tension ease. He scribbled on the paper provided, his attention concentrated on each introduction. Dragging his chair under him, the speaker subsided with a quiet sign and sploshed water into his beaker. There was a rhythm to the session, the rise and fall of speech then a restless quiet. The background activity was layered. George fiddled idly with his pen. Its click click lost amongst the other unheard sounds; mints skittered like marbles; a whispered comment; a strangled cough; chairs creaked and feet shuffled on the carpet. The mint cracked as his teeth shattered it and his mouth and nose filled with a strong tangy burst. The next speaker shoved his chair back, took a whistling sip, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. He rustled his notes then discreetly cleared his throat and everyone settled again.

When it was Pania's turn, she identified herself as Detective Inspector of the Diplomatic Protection Squad. He quickly revised his assessment of her. She was no ninety day wonder. She informed them that for the next four years she'd been assigned to work closely with George and she was looking forward to the challenge. She'd smiled at him as she said that and arched an eyebrow. Everyone had laughed.

After the introductions they took a break. As the doors opened the aroma of fresh coffee, warm muffins and hot savouries drew them out. The plates held only crumbs and flakes of pastry when the bell interrupted their chatter. Cups with murky dregs were hurriedly abandoned as they filed back. It was George's turn to address the meeting. With everyone settled, he stood up.

"Thank you for your warm welcome. It is a real privilege to come to your beautiful country. Look out there and you can see that I am not just saying this. What a magnificent vista you have here and such clear air." He paused and waited until their attention returned. The island dozed in the spring sun.

"I would like to congratulate you on your successful selection as host to the 4th 'Reaching Out Across Regions' Forum. You will be aware that it is now commonly referred to as the 'ROAR' Forum or the 'ROAR and EAT' Forum. EAT naturally refers to its purpose - Economics and Trade. Many think these amusing acronyms are enormously apt."

His listeners chuckled. George gave himself two ticks. He'd admired their country and he'd made them laugh. He continued.

"In my role for the UN I've been working with host countries to ensure the security of world conferences and forums and we've been able to provide a safe environment, free from acts of terrorism and fanaticism. It has taken the vigilance of many to achieve this and I am committed to securing a similar outcome in New Zealand." George came to life. No longer grey and inconsequential his enthusiasm, confidence and sincerity captured their attention. "I believe this is the most high profile meeting to be held in your country and this may expose you to new threats which you have not previously encountered. Some may think your inexperience gives them a window of opportunity but I intend to deny them this prospect.

"You may be interested to read about some of the security issues we faced during the last Forum in Brussels and I've prepared a brief report giving you an outline of known threats and our strategies to contain them." He looked over at Parsons. "Am I correct in assuming everyone present has signed confidentiality agreements?"

Parsons looked up and caught his eye. His head tipped in answer. George took a pile of reports from his briefcase; each stapled document prominently red-stamped Highly Confidential. He passed them around the room and waited until everyone held a copy.

Systematically he dealt to each of his prompts.

* uniquely different threats

* increase border vigilance

* home-grown protest groups

* external threats

* timely sharing of security intelligence

* respect the perspicacity of the UN network

* close with memory prompt

He reached the last point, took a deep breath then slowly looked around the room. He could see that he still had their attention. He smiled slightly.

"One last thing before I sit down. If you remember nothing else from this morning remember this. 'Expect the unexpected'. It will be your best strategy." He glanced at the clock high on the wall. "Thank you for your attention. I look forward to getting to know you all much better over the next four years and," he grinned at Pania, "I'm sure you'll rise to the challenges."

Again laughter rippled around the room. Parsons stood up.

"Thanks George. We can see that you are... er... passionate about fighting terrorism and we in New Zealand share these values. We're a peace loving society but I am sure we have much to learn and your report promises to... er... help us understand the menacing threat of global terrorism. We are unlikely to experience these threats here but I see no harm in keeping ourselves informed and up-to-date. I can assure you that all of us here in this room and those we represent are working off the same page and that we'll all pool resources and ensure that this Forum will be safe and successful."

As attention moved away from him, George again became unremarkable.

"Now it's time for a lunch break. Gentlemen, ladies, please move to the reception area where lunch will be served. We meet again in an hour."

People stood up and stretched. Murmurs of conversation followed them as they wandered into the reception room. George admired the table laden with food, his mouth watering at the sight. Before them lay a palette of rich colours; crisp white rolls; creamy yellow cheeses; green salad leaves; moist red salmon; ham on the bone; large oval olives in dark purple and pale green and pickles. Tiny drops of water sparkled on the plump red and orange tomatoes. As his eyes toured the table he could imagine the flavours. There was so much to choose from and in the centre of the table rose a mountain of éclairs.

Little groups formed here and there as delegates clustered, juggling their plates and cups as they chatted.

"If you've had enough to eat, we could go for a walk," Pania suggested. "Get some fresh air?"

George looked at his watch.

"Do you think we have enough time before the next session?"

"We do. We can wander up Queen Street to the town hall and back again. It's not that far and we can pick up a coffee on the way back. Real coffee not this stewed stuff. You like coffee don't you?"

If sounded good to George. He felt a bit thickheaded, jetlagged. A walk would do him good and a coffee would keep him awake. He nodded and placed his empty plate on the table.

"Sure I like coffee, especially if it's full of caffeine. Lead the way."

They headed up Queen Street walking as far as Aotea Square before turning and retracing their steps. George appreciated the break and the exercise. Already he was forming an impression of the country and its people. So many ordinary things seemed subtly different. It felt strange walking beside Pania on the wrong side of the sidewalk. The breeze carried the salt air ahead of them and the palm leaves whispered overhead. Pania set a purposeful pace and pointed out local landmarks. The sunlight seemed more intense and it bounced off the tarmac in warm waves.

They returned to the conference room carrying steaming cups of aromatic coffee and they were not alone. Several others had also used the extra time to nip out. The afternoon passed quickly and by four o'clock he could hardly keep his eyes open. It was time to call it quits. Pania escorted him to the hotel. It was not far and as they walked, they discussed the day's sessions.

George reflected on his impressions of Parsons. Choosing his words carefully he ventured.

"I'm struggling to read Parsons. He's a bit... reserved? Perhaps he thinks I'd been reading too many thrillers and doesn't take me seriously?"

Pania shook her head firmly.

"Yes - no. Well ... I know that we can be a bit complacent but probably not everything you said is relevant down under. That's Parsons view. I'm sure he'll come round. He's okay... can be a bit parochial. You know... doesn't like outside interference. According to him, terrorist attacks just don't, won't happen in New Zealand. To tell the truth, most of us struggle to visualise such events. You're in safe, conservative Middle Earth." She saw his eyebrow twitch. "Sorry I'm a Tolkien fan."

"Hey that's great. I'm with you all the way when it comes to Tolkien. I'm a big fan. You know, I hope to have a chance to visit WETA Workshops when we have our meeting in Wellington. It's one of my dreams, visiting in Middle Earth." He looked at her hopefully.

"I'd be delighted to take you." She beamed at him. "I'll make a note in my diary and pencil in a free half day for you. If it can be fitted in, it will be! I'll check with Te Papa to see if their LOTR exhibition is still on. Anyway, what was I saying before I got sidetracked? Oh yes. Don't worry about terrorism threats down under. We'll all make sure they never happen here... You know ... we have a small population and we're pretty much isolated from the rest of the world. Our troubles are so much more manageable, containable, controllable... You'll see."

George was pleased. He had WETA to look forward to but he wasn't sure he agreed with her point-of-view. Time would tell if she was right. They reached the hotel. Pania shook his hand.

"I'll call in at eight thirty tomorrow to pick you up. Does that suit?" He nodded and thanked her.

She watched him as he registered, picked up his key from reception and turned to go towards the lifts. Tiredness washed his pale complexion of colour and he looked so ordinary, a man of little significance. She wondered if he had a wife or girlfriend; his limp suit suggested otherwise. She'd met other men in nondescript suits. They were always looking for someone to look after them. She shook her head. She had no intention of becoming a caregiver. She was looking for an independent man, a soul mate.

Still, George intrigued her. Despite his accent, he was unlike any American she'd met. As soon as he'd stood to address them she'd seen him change. Not loud or overbearing, he spoke with firm authority, the facts at his fingertips, his conclusions balanced and astute. He did not tell them what to think. Instead he had clearly presented the facts and left it to them to draw their own conclusions.

As the lift doors closed Pania turned and left the hotel. She was looking forward to spending the next two evenings with her cousin Cheryl, who had an apartment in town and a comfortable spare bed. Cheryl felt more like a younger sister than a second cousin and Pania could not remember a time they hadn't been friends.

Two days later she dropped George back at the airport. She'd developed an instinctive liking for this quiet, reserved American and looked forward to their next meeting. He seemed to see life in a suspiciously mistrustful light. Perhaps given the intelligence which passed his desk it was not surprising. He was, she decided, a keeper of dark secrets.

### CHAPTER 15

Two days after George left Auckland, Brady arrived. He hadn't told George the full truth. He was going fishing but not the sort of fishing George had imagined and he was well prepared. He had the facts filed away in his mind; the unemployment and crime statistics; those half hidden hints of controversy or discord and he understood about gangs and turf wars and who was who.

His reputation preceded him and his money opened doors. Brady was encouraged by the welcome he received. As he approached key individuals and groups, his open wallet quickly persuaded them that they would benefit from his friendship. It was a good start and Brady considered the cost reasonable. There was one final undertaking he needed to complete and it concerned Ms Kristine Baildon LLB, a young lawyer from one of Auckland's most prestigious legal firms. The minute Brady met Ms Baildon he knew he'd made the right choice. He'd asked for a junior solicitor and chosen her. Her evident inexperience was perfect for his purposes. He set out to impress her. He required her, he explained, to complete all necessary documentation to ensure that his new venture, 'Change Makers', was correctly established as a charitable trust and obtained a not-for-profit status. It was crucial, he explained, for future supporters to qualify for tax rebates on their donations. Ms Baildon was impressed by her new client's knowledge of the legal issues and his suave presentation. He was, she had quickly judged, a very, very attractive man.

He was extremely well organised. All the paperwork need to register the new organisation; a trust deed, constitution, business plan, and mission statement was at hand. Brady authorised her to open a trust account and invited her to become their legal advisor and representative and in this capacity she should apply for all charitable grants and community funding for which they might qualify.

"Every dollar we get helps the underprivileged," said Brady earnestly.

Brady's aspirations and the wonderful benefits he promised to bring to New Zealand made a huge impression on the young lawyer. She was so caught up in the vision he painted that before she knew it she was hooked. His enthusiasm and charm inspired her to offer her services at no cost.

"We often do pro bono work and this is such a good cause," she enthused to him. "Please accept Mr Ambler. Besides it'll free more funds for your work."

Brady sat back and looked at her with apparent surprise and frank appreciation. She'd coloured under his gaze suddenly embarrassed by the emotion that his attention stirred.

He was silent for a moment, as if deciding whether to accept her offer.

"Thank you ... call me Brady. I'd really appreciate that. I've been deeply touched by the fantastic Kiwi generosity I've experienced. I'll never forget your kindness, Ms Baildon, Kristine."

His deep warm drawl caressed her name. They moved on to the business of signing the legal papers and their agreement. Kristine was mortified when her biro suddenly ran dry.

"Here, borrow my writing instrument."

She'd almost laughed aloud when Brady had said 'writing instrument' but the pen felt wonderfully sensuous in her hand; just the right weight and the ink flowed smoothly onto the paper. She promised herself that she'd get one like it one day.

With the dealing done and all the papers signed, Brady slipped his Montblanc into his leather wallet and stood up. He kept his eyes on her as they shook hands, then she escorted him to the lift and they waited for the doors to open. His closeness and his attention flustered her and she didn't know what to say. He seemed reluctant to go. The lift tinged and its doors opened. He deliberately hesitated for a moment before smiling regretfully at her and tilting his head slightly in the direction of the waiting lift. With a deep sigh he turned and stepped inside just as the doors closed.

Later she struggled to explain to herself what had made her volunteer to make him a pro bono client but Brady's gratitude warmed her long after he had left and she looked forward to their next meeting.

"Launch of Minginui Pilot _._

Rotorua News August 2011

Minginui has been chosen as one of the pilot projects for Change Makers. This Charitable Trust is new to New Zealand and has been looking to establish several projects. After careful consideration Minginui has been chosen. Organisers believe it is an area full of potential and that their involvement will make a positive difference to the district. There are currently few opportunities available to the young people of the area and the community has pledged its support, something which Change Makers believes is essential for its programs to work.

To quote Rawiri Kairangi, the Director of Ngati Whare Schools, 'The new organisation promises to make a difference to the behaviour and aspirations of our young people. I believe that it will be a force for good and am pleased to see the level of parental support that this project has attracted. I look forward to developing close links with Change Makers and to seeing positive outcomes resulting from their work in our school community. We are proud that Minginui has been selected for this pilot project.'

The Change Makers model is inclusive. Membership is free and open to all between 7 and 21 years of age, regardless of race, gender or creed. The majority of the leaders are local volunteers and funding comes from New Zealand and overseas sources...."

### CHAPTER 16

Ms Kristine Baildon, LLB, had performed her pro bono work efficiently establishing Change Makers as a bona fide new charitable trust. Brady's fresh venture was recognised under law and compliant with government regulations. Most importantly it was an approved charity and donors qualified for tax rebates. Brady considered this an admirable state of affairs and one he intended to use to full advantage.

Every year she completed applications for funding and as the organisation's name became known they attracted more significant grants. Brady opened her eyes to the poverty hidden from middle New Zealand. She was at first indignant when he referred to city slums. Slums were found overseas not in her country but he quoted government facts and graphically proved his points with photos of dirty, snotty, barefoot kids. It had shocked her deeply and she was glad that she was making a difference. Her growing admiration for Brady stopped her asking questions.

Brady travelled extensively meeting with church workers and Mãori elders, with Pacific Island leaders and sports administrators. Everywhere he went he offered funding and hope to community leaders. At the same time he was probing society's underbelly, looking for disaffected youth. They were not hard to find. He recognised the signs, the local grievances and simmering tensions. These hotspots were selected for his pilots. He identified potential leaders and established training camps often in a blaze of publicity.

Not everything Brady did was public knowledge. Behind closed doors he formed strategic alliances and money talked. He made agreements, signed contracts and earmarked secret funds. Certain key groups and individuals were given specific tasks. He hired middlemen, people with links to the criminal community, who were ignorant of his agenda or his connection to Change Makers. They certainly had no loyalty to his cause. They would do anything if the pay was good enough so they were hired, bribed and occasionally blackmailed.

Yet despite appearances Brady did not have access to unlimited resources and he needed to find generous openhanded patrons and committed supporters. Good works relied on cash flowing in. It depended on frequent, prominent and carefully scripted coverage to keep its donors from asking questions. Tales of heartbreak and calamity were popular media fodder and Brady's marketing department ensured they had a steady stream of lead stories, cleverly worded so that many who read their articles felt needlessly guilt-ridden. Mining this reaction, Change Makers offered readers a ready-made solution.

Brady was a dexterous pickpocket who had perfected the art of extracting money from wallets. He had retold his life story many times and over the years he'd learned which parts to embellish and which to leave out. Word spread that he was an entertaining speaker with a fine cause. Those who heard his story were touched and inspired and as he finished they often rose to their feet in enthusiastic applause. This was the moment Brady looked forward to, the moment when he would deftly begin to take advantage of their instinctive emotions.

"My life is dedicated to helping young people overcome poverty and tragedy but I'm not superman, I can't do this alone. I need your generous support so that we can offer programs, provide counselling and other opportunities wherever there is a need. In particular we are looking for regular sponsors who are willing to partner us on an ongoing basis. Together we can be makers of change, change right here in your own communities, funded by locals, run by locals, for locals.

"I know New Zealanders are real generous. Everywhere I go I am overwhelmed by your kindness. You can be proud that your support is making a difference, and it is making a difference right here in your own communities, but with more funds we can do so much more."

His audience emptied their wallets into the collection plates and completed pledge cards. Most left the meetings filled with a sense of togetherness, warmed by their contribution to a better world and happy to trust the outworking of this to Brady. Few people ever saw past the Brady pinup. They were like Ms Baildon. They saw what they wanted to see and most wanted to see Brady as a white knight.

### CHAPTER 17

Brady's tanned complexion deepened and his eyes narrowed as he reread the report. One of the ogdoad had broken the rules. The damming evidence lay before him and he needed to limit the danger. He didn't hesitate. He couldn't. Too much was at stake and without compunction, he selected a cell phone from the top drawer of his desk and keyed in a new message. He checked the text and then pressed 'send'. The clock was now ticking.

He leaned back and reviewed the circumstances. At least his careful procedures had enabled him to detect the threat and eliminate it. For three years it had seemed like an expensive and unnecessary exercise. Replacing each laptop was costly. Year after year his IT department checked each returned machine for clues of unexpected activity.

The seven year project had started so well. Eight men and women carefully chosen for their knowledge and ability had been flown from their homes to an island paradise. For a week they had enjoyed the luxury of a beachside estate lent by one of Wesley's wealthy supporters. There they planned their strategies. This year, slam bang in the middle of the project timeline, IT had reported a lapse. He regretted only the waste of time and effort which he was now forced to eliminate. Brady twisted his hands together and slouched in his chair, his eyes unfocussed, looking inward. This was not the first nor would it be the last time he'd have to arrange an accident. He was relieved that one down did not mean the premature end of this project but he needed to ensure the others kept to the rules. He scowled at his laptop. Wesley poked his head in.

"Hey the sky hasn't fallen in yet Brady. What's up?"

Brady started and looked up, his frown instantly replaced by his customary grin.

"Hey yourself. Nothing's up that a text can't fix. Just an operational hiccup Wesley, it's all under control. You busy?"

"Sure - always busy. It's good to see you can still smile. That frown had me worried. It's not like you to look so black."

"Nah it was nothing. What's the time?" He looked down at his Rolex. The little diamonds winked at him. He stroked the smooth ripples of the bracelet. He liked everything about this timepiece; the little crown symbol and the reassuring weight. It was iconic. Its rich quality made him feel better. He looked up with a grin.

"I need a coffee. Want one?"

"No thanks. I've just finished the one Hanna made me. I must get back to my desk. Keep smiling. Smilers never lose and-"

"Yeah and frowners never win - I've heard that one before Wes."

"Sure you have. See you later Brady."

Two weeks later Brady received confirmation that the job had been completed. He ordered a large wreath of synthetic blooms to be delivered to the grieving widow. He then despatched his team to cleanup; to retrieve the precious new laptop, the postcards, cell phone and SIM cards. Later that week he read the obituary on the internet.

The website _www.internationalaidnews.com_ gave details of the fatal accident, adding that during the funeral service, the family home had been ransacked and some of the deceased's belongings were missing. The items believed to have been stolen, were listed. Brady e-mailed the link to each of the others.

### CHAPTER 18

Fernando checked his inbox. An email from Emery Redpath! His cursor hovered anxiously over the sender, a decisive click and the email opened. It was short. He clicked on the link and flicked though the report. The victim's name meant nothing but the message was clear. Fernando felt a familiar shiver of fear snake through him. For a moment he heard the guns roar in his ears and saw his mother fall. Fernando leaned back in his chair and screwed his eyes tightly shut. Sadness washed over him. If only he could turn back the clock, change history. He wished himself back to the days when he was barely thirteen, a boy growing into manhood on the family farm, before life became so complicated and nothing was quite as it seemed.

For almost a quarter of an hour Fernando sat unaware of his surroundings lost in painful memories. He remembered the warm earthy scents and the colourful flash of parrots against the dull green jungle. The familiar jungle and the well worn path that he'd trudged along. Every fortnight without the help of a donkey or cart, he and his father walked to the market at Mapiripan, their produce strapped to their backs.

It was a long walk, a hot and tiring trek. In spite of that, he looked forward to market day, for a few hours it added colour to his life. It gave him time out from the backbreaking work of tending the crops, a chance to talk with his father and he came to understand that chatter was not always necessary. Periods without words when the drum of his own laboured breathing, his father's deeper rasping gasps, the steady drone of insects and more distantly the jungle sounds, spoke to his imagination.

There was always something different to observe, to discover. Occasionally they would pass a family of spider monkeys feeding on the ripe fruits close to the track. A smile flitted over his face. They'd stopped to rest and standing together in the shade they'd spied on the troop. They had watched the exuberant antics of a youngster twisting and turning somersaults in the branches. How they had laughed together when it had fallen, shrieking as it crashed earthwards through the leaves. Its tail looped the very last branch. It swung there briefly before it clambered up to rejoin the troop and start the game again. It had reminded Fernando of his little brother, just learning to walk and tottering about in excited pleasure. His smile faded.

For as long as he could remember, the rhythms of the land were unchanging. There was a time for clearing and a time for planting, time for tending the crops and harvesting them. There were times of plenty and times of famine. Periodically soldiers would pass through gathering taxes, demanding food and taking whatever they fancied. That was always an anxious time. The armed soldiers were unpredictable, given to sudden unexplained and often violent acts. Livestock was fair game and often they would leave in high spirits while his mother cried over her dead milk cow. Mostly though, they were left to get by on their own.

It was a desperately hard life but they knew nothing else and expected nothing better. Now that he'd seen Bogotá he knew that Mapiripan was an insignificant town in the middle of nowhere but then back then it was where things happened.

The market place was a large clearing of low grasses, easily trampled, lying between a straggle of houses and the Guaviare River. No more than 100 souls lived there and still it thought itself important, for it was the headquarters of FARC, the military arm of the Colombian Communist Party and they controlled the area. Up river there was a government check point, for the waterway was strategic.

At thirteen, Fernando was not interested in geographical facts. He did not care that it rose in the Andes or that it flowed into the Orinoco and on into Venezuela. What was important was that it was a great waterway which carried life and promised adventure. It seemed to murmur to him of other places and other peoples.

The market was always a noisy confusion; farmers mingled with townsfolk; sellers with buyers; young with old. The shoppers moved with purpose while the idly curious wandered randomly around the mounds of carefully arranged wares. Roaming youths, released briefly from the tedium of selling, zigzagged through the throng. It was a chance for him to experience the world beyond the farmstead, a brief time of escape from the fetters of endless tasks, burdens and responsibilities.

That year had been significant. He would have remembered 1997 without the events at Mapiripan for he had stopped going to school. At thirteen his childhood was over and he was now the third adult in the household. He bent his back to adult tasks, men's work and was expected to carry a man's burdens. He helped his father care for the crops and looked out for his two younger sisters and his baby brother. In a few short years he would marry and then claim his own plot of land. That was the way things were done.

It dawned a typical July day or so he thought for he was ignorant of the terrible events which would change his life and sear the date into his memory. It was early, before daylight when Fernando and his father left the farm for they wanted to be amongst the first to claim a spot. His brother and sisters slept on undisturbed and his mother fell back into bed as soon as the door creaked shut.

Still he remembered thinking that there was something different about the day. They seemed to be the only farmers travelling to market. The countryside was asleep long after sunrise and the usual sounds of activity were missing. As they came closer to the town they realised the familiar bustle was absent. The only sound was the shuffle of their sandals on the dry beaten track.

Fernando's father became uneasy, cautious for these were uncertain times. Whispered rumours of brutality and bloodshed were carried as if on the wind. His father stopped, removed his load and placed it at the side of the road.

"Something's wrong my boy. Maybe not right here for surely this is the safest place in all of Meda? Still I think we should be careful. Wait here and guard our crop. I'll go ahead to check that all is well. I'll be back soon."

Fernando remained at the side of the road under a shady tree. It was alarmingly quiet; neither monkeys' raucous calls nor parrots' mimicking squawks disturbed the silence. The air felt oppressive, heavy and humid, even at that early hour. Fernando watched an ant trail passing unaware in the dust, each ant busy with its own affairs. It seemed he waited for a very long time. In reality barely five minutes had gone by when he heard an abrupt burst of gunfire. The silence returned, spinning a web of dread. Fernando felt fear creep upon him. He drew back into the shadows and waited.

His father did not return.

Eventually Fernando slunk along the roadside, a shadow amongst shadows, keeping out of sight. As he rounded the bend he saw bodies lying on the path, flies droned in the air and he smelt death. He recognised his father's colourful cape, the one his mother had patched again and again. It kept him warm outside at night but offered no protection against bullets. Now the colours were darker, stained with blood. Fernando resisted the impulse to rush to his father's body. While he was hesitating he saw José, their neighbour, coming down the road. He turned the corner and the guns roared.

The donkey fell without a sound and José tumbled from his seat on the cart. Two men in camouflage fatigues emerged from the trees picked up José's body and piled it next to Fernando's father. They cut the donkey free, dragged it into a ditch then pulled the cart into the jungle. Fernando watched as both cart and men faded into the green dimness. He waited, his heart pounded painfully. It drummed loudly in his ears, tears stung his eyes. Finally he found courage to go back to the farm. It took him longer to get home. The trail was no longer safely familiar. He clung to the shadows and froze at every unexpected noise.

### CHAPTER 19

Fernando's mother was surprised to see him come home alone and flew down the track towards him.

"Fernando why are you alone? Where's your father? What's happened?" Eyes wide, the whites clearly visible against his olive complexion he glanced over his shoulder down the track. His voice squeezed between deep gulps of air.

"It was too quiet. Father was worried. He told me to wait by the roadside ... just outside of the town. I sat there to guard the harvest ... he went ahead. I heard gunshots. He said he'd come back but he didn't. I waited ... then I crept forward in the shadows. I saw his coat ... his Joseph coat. It was stained with blood. There were so many flies and bodies heaped together." Colour bleached from his mother's face and her eyes became shadows of pain.

"Aaeee," she wailed, pounding her chest. He waited mute.

"Then I saw José, with his donkey cart. I couldn't stop him. They fired at him. The donkey dropped and José fell off the cart. He didn't cry out. They dragged him onto the pile, dumped him beside Father. It was all over in a second. I waited till I thought it was safe and came home."

"Aaeee. Where will it end? Aaeee."

She wept; for herself, for her fatherless children, and for the bleak future. Fernando stood before her, his head low, his thin shoulders drooped. She could not see his face but saw his tears fall onto the dry dust at his feet. Gradually her sobbing stilled.

"This is a disaster. Where were you? You must show me where this happened. We have to go back. We need the harvest or we'll all starve. We have to go now. We'll get your father's body. Hurry! We mustn't waste any more time."

"But how will we carry his body? We have no donkey or cart."

"We'll find a way. Just show me where this happened."

With barely time to recover from his previous trek, they set out. The sun was high in the sky and it was not a good time to travel. They stopped at José's farm to pass on the terrible news.

"My husband's dead, shot by rebels. Yours is too. They were both shot, dead. Fernando saw it all." Both women wailed loudly, joined in grief. Fernando had to repeat his tale. His mother explained, "We're going back to get our harvest. The boy abandoned it at the side of the road and I will ask for his father's body."

"I'll come with you! José must have a proper burial. They were both good men. Perhaps with three of us, the rebels will listen and we can bring their bodies back! We can pull the cart even without a donkey."

José's wife was determined to go with them. It was a sombre group that trudged towards town. Fernando was young and fit but the sun drained the moisture from his body and his throat became parched. He felt faint for lack of food, fear gnawed at his stomach, and an unseen burden seemed to weigh heavy, slowing his steps. As they neared the place where he'd left the bags he became anxious and fearful, loath to go any further. The women hurried ahead, driven by anger and sorrow.

Bullets hit the road and the two women. Fernando dived into the undergrowth and lay as if dead. He heard heavy boots on the road and bodies being dragged along. He waited expecting to be shot. Time passed and then it was night. Before the moon rose he started back to the farm. His brother and sisters were asleep when he stumbled into the house. Exhausted he fell onto the bed and finally slept. It was not a peaceful sleep. His body twitched and several times he started up in fear.

His sister prodded him with her finger. Reluctantly he opened his eyes. It was morning and the boy was crying. They were all hungry and anxious, full of questions. The answers stuck in his throat. There was no-one else to help them, no-one else to make decisions, no-one else to feed and clothe them. He imagined snipers looking for him, stalking him, shooting them all. His fear was real, he could taste it. It was not safe to stay. The others looked to him for protection and while he'd only played at being a man, overnight with gunfire still echoing, he had become one.

'Surely in the city it would be easier to find help, easier to hide?' So they packed up their meagre belongings and what food they could find and started to trek along the jungle paths. Everywhere they met small groups of displaced people all heading in the same direction, all stunned and dazed by violence. They overheard whispered conversations about the brigade of Para-militaries that had travelled downriver and by land. Soldiers had sealed the town, cut the power supply and started the killings. No-one knew what to expect or who to trust. It was a dangerous route. Occasionally they reached a clearing filled with ramshackle hovels. Sometimes Fernando found work and they were able to rest for a short time, gather their strength before moving on.

It was a bitter year which he could not forget, for the journey still haunted his dreams. The two youngest died before they reached the city, their bodies left behind in the jungle. There was nothing he could do. They had to keep moving if they had any hope of surviving the long march. In the city they searched in vain for their mother's parents. Finally defeated, the street became their home. They joined the vast army of homeless vagrants stealing food and searching rubbish dumps.

He was at his lowest when he met Frank whose friendship seemed like a coin tossed high, dark and light flashing as it fell. He wished he'd never met Frank, never believed his promises and yet, he reminded himself, without Frank he'd still be in the gutter.

Slowly blood returned to his face and he was aware again of outside noises, a tui chortled from the nearby tree and cars passed in the streets. The sun had moved and no longer shone in the window. He shivered. He'd never get used to Auckland's temperatures, he thought.

He clicked the delete key and the email vanished. He renewed his resolve to play by the rules till his contract was over. Only three years to go, he told himself. He had no intention of going back home in a box or returning to find his sister dead. Fernando shivered again. He'd seen too much death in his life.

### CHAPTER 20

Every six months George flew to New Zealand. He began to look forward to seeing Pania waiting in the arrival hall. Her ready smile and open friendliness warmed him and she was good company. Sometimes the meetings were convened in Auckland and sometimes in Wellington, but always Pania was there when he stepped off the plane. On the whole he was pleased with the relationships he was building, Parsons might be prickly but the meetings progressed at a relaxed pace. Mutual respect and trust made it easier to agree on effective strategies whenever potential issues were identified, nonetheless there was a lack of urgency amongst his colleagues which sometimes irritated him. He had to remind himself to chill out and worry less.

Pania had kept her promises and organised a trip to Weta Workshops and a visit to Te Papa. It was the perfect distraction and for half a day they forgot about their work. They marvelled at the craftsmanship and attention to detail which were evident in the clothing and props on display. Awestruck, George stopped in front of the display of swords and daggers. For a moment he wished that the real world was more like Tolkien's; that forces for good always triumphed. He stood lost in thought while Pania lingered by the cabinet holding the hobbits' soft capes with their beautiful silver clasps. He didn't notice that she'd joined him.

"A penny for your thoughts."

He started and grinned sheepishly. "I was wishing for an ideal world in which good always triumphs."

"Then we'd both be out of a job. And anyway, wouldn't it be dead boring, always knowing that things work out in the end? Give me a few hefty orcs or rogue wizards any day."

"You're right of course. Middle Earth is ..." He stopped. It wouldn't do to suggest the New Zealand was boring without a bit of terror to liven things up. "Let's hope that the orcs and wizards stay in the museum and leave Middle Earth in peace. Still as I always say, expect-"

"The unexpected." With a grin Pania interrupted to finish his catchphrase.

He laughed and shrugged his shoulders. "Right again ma-am. Never argue with the lady George!" he quipped.

As Pania led the way through the labyrinth of passages towards the exit, past exhibits and doorways into sections of the museum they had no time to explore, she noticed the little house and the snaking queue of people waiting to go in. She pulled at his sleeve to get his attention and stopped in front of the seismograph.

"Look, you can see how Middle Earth moves under those rampaging orcs... mostly we don't feel anything. Perhaps we do live in that ideal world of yours George and those marauders are deep underground."

Together they stared at the shaky black line of ink wavering down the paper. The line did a little jump as they watched but they felt nothing. George fidgeted as Pania continued to watch the black line. It didn't grab his attention not like the magic creations they'd just seen. He wished he could sit down. He was flagging. His stomach grumbled. Pania dragged her attention away and grinned at him.

"Sounds like you need a big steak! Let's go to the Green Parrot." She led the way. George liked listening to Pania. She held interesting views and wasn't afraid to speak her mind. Conversation was never boring and never awkward. It was something he'd discovered in other places. Not everyone saw things in the same light as America. Pania, George was discovering often saw the world around her quite differently and challenged him to review his own assumptions.

George had plenty of time to think on the long flights back to the USA. Time to muse on items rising from his meetings or things Pania had mentioned. Often he revised his minutes and updated his records.

Since that first encounter in the departure lounge, he had seen Brady on several occasions. Each time it had been on one of his New Zealand trips, never in Mumbai or Cairo, New York or Amsterdam. It threw him off balance and each time he felt vaguely uneasy and found it harder to settle, despite the comfort of business class. There was something about Brady's knowing air which disturbed him and no matter how hard he tried to distract himself, the anxieties lurked, disturbing his sleep and his concentration.

He found himself reliving his student days. Those carefree months when they'd been buddies, weekends when Brady's watering holes became his and when Brady's crowd absorbed him. Everyone knew Brady and everyone liked him. He was the life of every party and the magnet for a gaggle of leggy, perky blondes. No one really noticed him unless Brady's arm was slung across his shoulder and even then he was just a stage prop. He hadn't minded. It was enough to be included and he'd enjoyed observing his roommate in action. Then... his mind swerved away from the past and back into the present and his regrets.

He bitterly regretted being in Brady's debt and the effect the man had on him. It made no sense. Brady had made no threats, no allegations, nothing on which George could act. Still, his instincts warned him that he was deliberately being needled and he was filled with a sense of foreboding.

### CHAPTER 21

Pania loved coming home at night. As she stepped up onto the veranda through the rose-covered entrance she would stop briefly to fully experience, appreciate the moment. The sight of the blooms and their scent lingering in the warm air made her glad. She was intensely proud of her place and a little overwhelmed that it was her own. She had plans for the inside, long term plans but the section was what mattered to her most. She loved the space and the trees. For the present the house was liveable, cosy and comfortable; as long as the fire burned and there was no wind. That had been how she'd first seen it, on one of Wellington's rare sunny still days. The day she had fallen in love with it.

Afterwards she discovered the windows rattled in their sash frames, sometimes caused by a small earthquake and sometimes by the wind. The southerly found every crack between the timber planks. In those rooms where the old scrim linings remained, the wallpaper seemed to breathe in and out, whispering to her of previous owners and earlier happenings. The room she'd made her own had been relined and did not face the prevailing wind. It was solid and quiet, regardless of the wind's temper and she slept soundly. She did not mind the mutterings of the house. They were benign, just creaking joints, the sighs of old age.

Pania sipped her coffee absentmindedly. The new lamp cast a soft light and the big log in the centre of the grate spluttered. The flames flickered, ruffled by the southerly which tugged at the house and blew across the chimney. Every so often a puff of smoke escaped into the room leaving a shadowy trail on the wall above the fire. Her feet were curled under her on the sofa; her slippers had fallen untidily onto the floor rug and the grey tabby cat, folded into a neat ball of fur, purred quietly beside her.

The cat had adopted her, appearing out of nowhere a few days after Pania moved in. No-one knew where it had come from so she let it stay. It was a free spirit and came and went according to its own secret rhythms. When Pania came home it would be waiting on the doorstep. It sat unmoving, a compact sphinx until she set foot on the veranda. Then it would stretch and with its tail high in the air meow a greeting. The loud purring would start as it invited her to pick it up and cuddle it.

She gently stroked the soft furry warmth tucked in beside her. She considered the lamp. It made quite a statement and added a touch of eclectic style to the room. It reminded her that the date of the Forum was getting closer and that meant an end to George's visits. Would the others be sorry when the Forum was over, she wondered, and what about George? How did he feel? Sometimes she felt as if there was no future after the Forum, as if nothing would have any meaning and the world would fade into nothingness. It was a very strange feeling. She'd become used to his regular appearances and would miss him. She wondered if he was aware of the attraction she felt between them. Nothing in his manner indicated that he thought of her in any other way than as a friend and colleague, so she kept her feelings carefully hidden. Still, she reflected, the last three days had been pleasantly companionable.

George had emerged from customs carrying a large parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. She'd watched as he scanned the room looking for her. When his eyes met hers she'd waved cheerfully. A warm rush of affection filled her. He beamed back at her. She watched him square his shoulders before striding across the floor. People noticed his wide smile and grinned back.

"Hey there, Pania of the Reef" he teased. She raised her eyebrows in surprise as he thrust the heavy parcel at her.

"House warming gift from the US and Uncle Sam. With my sincere compliments." George dragged out his vowel sounds in an exaggerated drawl. She'd stuttered her thanks to which he countered, "Ma-am, you're welcome."

They'd both laughed at his performance. In the car she unwrapped it to reveal a table lamp, a replica of the Statue of Liberty. She wasn't sure if she really liked it but she appreciated the thought. No-one she knew had a lamp quite like it.

"I'll always think of you when I see it, thank you. Perhaps on your next visit, there'll be time for me to show you around my home."

"I'd really like that," he replied with a relieved smile. She could see that he was pleased that she'd liked his gift.

During his previous visit Pania had been in the middle of buying the house. It had been the main subject of discussion at morning and afternoon tea, that and Parsons' new grandchild. George had shown equal interest in both topics. Parsons had been so proud of the baby. He'd passed the photos around and boasted that the screwed up little face was the most beautiful in the world. He kept saying how strange it felt to be a grandparent; how different from being a parent; how unexpected. As he said that he'd turned to George.

"You're right George. We should always expect the unexpected. Do you have family?"

"No," George spoke casually. "Too much gadding about, work demands my full attention. I don't have time for anything else."

Parsons had paused and his eyes had narrowed as they concentrated on George.

"Well young man, it's time you backed a different horse. You should stop flitting about, poking your nose where it's not um ... Time to settle down Ritmeyer. You need to belong. Everyone needs to belong to something, a family, a community. The years march by and before you know it you'll be old, like me and getting close to retirement. That's when you need grandchildren and people close to you. Life's empty without people close."

They had stared at each other for a long minute before George had looked away and rubbed the back of his neck. Parsons must be feeling the stress, thought Pania in surprise. He was not normally this blunt although it had been obvious for a while that he resented George's visits.

"Thanks for the warning Parson, right now I'm perfectly satisfied with my life. Haven't met Miss Right yet but I'll remember your words in case I do."

Pania felt her heart drop. He'd changed the subject then and turned to her with a warm smile.

"Now tell me about your house purchase. Sounds like a brave move. What have you bought?"

Before she could say a word, Parsons interrupted with a knowing smirk.

"Pania here, it's obvious that she's nesting. Knows when her clock is ticking down wouldn't you say George? I think she's waiting for a knight in shining armour to rescue her."

George had raised his eyebrows and given a slight shake of the head. He kept his eyes on her. She never blinked. She'd felt the dusty-rose smudges warm her face and she'd answered George just as if they were the only two in the room.

"I don't own it yet, still another four weeks to go. It's an old two bedroom working man's cottage in Petone. Very small and it needs a lot done to it but it has the most amazing section - I think you Americans call it a lot. It's got lots, excuse the pun, of old fruit trees and a wonderful velvety red rose which is climbing all over the front veranda. I've got some photos if you're interested."

He leaned over to look and gently squeezed her hand. The awkwardness passed. Ignoring Parsons, they looked at the real estate photos on the laptop and he'd asked more questions, keen to understand how the system worked, expressing his surprise that the process of buying houses and financing them was so different. That was the thing about George, she thought, he's always interested in what you're doing. She'd noticed that he had a real knack for keeping conversations rolling and away from himself. Often people told him things they might not normally have shared and most never realised they knew nothing more about him while he had gathered all sorts of little snippets.

Pania stared at the lamp. Liberty held her gaze.

"Is Parsons right? Am I really nesting?"

The cat stirred and stopped purring, perhaps hearing the sharp edge to her voice. Pania felt irritated by the implications. She continued crossly.

"If a man buys a house it's called an investment. Why should it be any different when I do it?"

Liberty seemed to understand. The cat watched her with unblinking eyes. The log crackled loudly sending a bright flare into the room and the cat yawned. Pania saw its sharp little teeth and pink tongue. She shook her head glad that only the cat had heard her talk to a lamp. She stroked it with slow regular gentle sweeps of her hand, velvety fur warm under her fingers. The cat closed its eyes and started purring again.

She considered the house from a nesting point of view. In its present state it was definitely unsuitable. Whenever the kids from next door visited, the house seemed small and cramped but not now, she thought looking around the cosy room. It suits me perfectly. What would George think? She imagined him sitting across from her and the room seemed big enough. She felt she belonged here, perhaps it wasn't a family as Parsons had defined it but she'd found a community.

She counted her blessings. She had good neighbours on both sides. There was Edith and Rex, a retired couple, warm and welcoming who often left veggies from their garden or a couple of freshly laid brown eggs on the doorstep. They were good people to have as neighbours even if they did organise the street. They were devoted members of the local Civil Defence group and instigators of Neighbourhood Watch. Just after she'd moved in Edith had given her a card listing actions she needed to take to be prepared for emergencies.

"Everyone in our street is prepared" Edith assured her. "Just take the card next time you go to the supermarket and use it as a shopping list. Rex has plenty of spare water bottles to get you started. Let us know if you need them. It's important dear. Emergencies just happen but at least you can be prepared."

They were such kind, genuine people, so passionate about CD that she couldn't take offence. Rex offered to check that her hot water cylinder was properly secured to the wall. He was a practical man, Edith told her, good with his hands. If ever she wanted a handyman, she just needed to ask.

Pania read the card and by the end of her first week she had filled her water bottles, set aside batteries, a radio and torch together with three days of food supplies. She was pleased with herself. It was the neighbourly thing to do and it made her feel she belonged.

Her neighbours on the other side were the equally welcoming Sargeson's. The kids called to her whenever they saw her and brought her gifts of their artwork which she displayed on her fridge. She enjoyed their visits. She made them hot chocolate drinks and they wolfed down her biscuits, sharing confidences; things of real importance only to children. On free weekends, she played ball with them and coached them to shoot the basketball through the hoop.

Pania had always planned to have a family, envisaging a boisterous brood, boys like him and girls like her but as each year passed that possibility was fading. Parsons was wrong though. She was not sitting around waiting for a knight to come riding up to rescue her. She didn't want rescuing and she had plenty of friends.

She continued counting. She found challenges at work, met interesting people and enjoyed a full and rewarding lifestyle. As she rested her hand on the warm body she felt the rumbling purrs. She was a perfectly happy twenty-first century woman and she told herself, she had something Parsons did not have. She had independence.

Pania smiled at the lamp. "Did he chose you himself or did he send his PA out?" she murmured.

### CHAPTER 22

2013 was nearly over and in Guinea Bissau, the regional Trade and Industry Growth Workshop meetings were drawing to a close. Wesley had used every opportunity to highlight his vision and agenda for the next ROAR Forum, now less than a year away. The delegates sat in the caressing warmth. On both sides of the hall openings in the walls allowed the air to circulate but only sluggishly. It was not cooling enough. By the mid-afternoon even the breeze was taking a siesta. Dappled patches formed as the cotton fabric soaked up their sweat and the air rustled with soft swishing as makeshift fans stirred up the warmth. As it passed their faces and necks, the air lightly kissed the dampness and they sensed a momentary relief. No-one was really aware that the air grew stale instead they stoically endured the energy sapping heat which enfolded them by waving their fans.

Wesley was unused to the humid conditions and he gratefully sipped from his thermos of chilled water. He was seated in the front row near an opening. An electric fan whirred beside him periodically sweeping the air over him but despite this his handkerchief was no longer crisp, white or dry. He was counting the minutes till he could return to the noisy air-conditioned comfort of his hotel room.

Akili Mwala gave the concluding address and again highlighted the contribution made by Wesley Smithson. No-one attending the workshops, he mused, could ignore his immense influence, charisma and determination. The delegates had vigorously debated his proposals, considered the issues from various angles and finally voted to adopt his remits. He was quietly confident that these would be ratified by the politicians.

Her speech was concluding and the delegates listened closely as she addressed the pressing issues before them; external debt, national banking, universal health care, basic income for all, partnerships not treaties, education and sustainable growth. These were at the heart of their lack of progress. Heads nodded in agreement as she thanked Wesley for the support which ESAP had given their region despite negative economic conditions.

The mood in the room was palpable as her passionate words inspired her listeners. They loved oratory and Akili was a skilled orator. Wesley was impressed. A trickle of dampness ran down the side of his face and he wiped it away. Almost immediately another dribble started to gather. Akili could push all the right buttons, he thought as he listened hardly aware of his handkerchief tracking the drips. She had them in her hands. He congratulated himself for putting her name forward to the workshop committee.

"Men and women of Africa, these goals are within your grasp. You must be ready to take the lead and make it happen. It is time to throw off the colonial heritage which blights us. We must stop being victims and become the creators of change.

"You have just over half a year left to petition your representatives, lobby the people of significance in your communities, your leaders, the ones who have the will and influence to effect change. You must share your vision with them and convince them of the importance of supporting the remits which we will put on the table. It takes courage and commitment to make changes on the scale which we are proposing but the outcomes will be truly mind shattering.

"This is our opportunity to speak with one voice, to speak clearly and loudly so the world will take notice.

"Imagine a world where your people have significantly raised their standard of living.

"Imagine the confidence and sense of optimism they will feel when they are no longer described as this planet's poorest.

"Imagine that your wives will get maternity care, your children will be healthy and have access to free education, your land will produce more than enough affordable food and everyone will have access to safe drinking water no matter where they live; in the smallest hamlet or the most populous city and no-one need go hungry or homeless."

Wesley listened appreciatively. She was an inspiration. The air from the fan blew over her and she seemed unaffected by the heat. Her brightly coloured cotton shirt-waister stood out against her dark luminous skin. Like most of the Africans at the conference, she wore her hair short. It stood out from her head. Hanna often wore her hair in little plaits decorated with colourful beads but Akili's hair was free and the air moved through it.

"Yes, it takes imagination but also hard work and courage. Our people can do more than just dream of a better future. They can learn and work and walk together to make it happen. It is Africa's time.

"I share the same dreams that our speakers have presented to you during the workshops. We all know that achieving the UN Millennium Development Goals by 2015 is now impossibility but we can make it happen for our own nations by 2020. Let us do it together.

"I am truly inspired and excited to be living in an era when we will become the masters of our own fate. I lay the challenge before you. In the words by Martin Luther King Jr, which Wesley quoted earlier, and which I have taken the liberty of changing slightly, 'This will be the day when we bring into full realization the African dream -- a dream yet unfulfilled. A dream of equality of opportunity, of privilege and property widely distributed; a dream of lands where men will not take necessities from the many to give luxuries to the few; a dream of lands where men will not argue that the colour of a man's skin or his tribal origins determines the content of his character; a dream of nations where all our gifts and resources are held not for ourselves alone, but as instruments of service for all of our citizens; the dream of an African Continent, where every man will respect the dignity and worth of the human personality. ' Will you take these words and make them yours?

"Please stand and commit your country to this dream. Men and women of Africa let us roar and our people will eat!"

A ripple of laughter was drowned as the delegates rose together. Chairs scrapped against the wooden floor then they clapped and stamped to show their support. Wesley felt the floor shake under his feet. Everything depended on his pledge. In the euphoria of that moment, Akili and the cheering delegates felt as if they could not fail. Her eyes sought him out. He raised his clapping hands in approval. Her determination pierced through him and as she smiled down at him, Wesley knew that she'd thrown him a challenge. Would he, could he deliver? He took a sharp breath. Her eyes suddenly shot him a look of ... of what? Of warning? Of ultimatum? He wiped his forehead.

### CHAPTER 23

Pania hummed a carol as she tidied up her desk. It was Christmas Eve and she was feeling in the mood. At midday the office would close for two weeks.

In the staff lunch room, the PA's had arranged the tables in the centre of the room, covered them with festive red and white plastic and were setting out the food for a shared lunch. The faint scent of pine was fading as they opened the doors and windows to cool the room. Streamers hung from the ceiling and in one corner the branches of the overdressed Christmas tree sagged in the summer heat, carelessly dropping needles in unseasonal drifts. With the holidays looming, work was taking a back seat.

As she checked her emails one last time a new one dropped into her inbox. The subject line read 'George Ritmeyer'. The sender was unknown. She clicked it open and gasped.

'Don't trust George, he's got blood on his hands. He's not what he seems. Ask him about his last girl friend. She came to a sorry end. You'd better watch your back.'

She'd never received hate mail or threats before. Instinctively she pressed the delete key and the message vanished yet the words remained etched in her memory. She took some deep breaths and told herself to forget it. She told herself that she had the measure of George and he wasn't a killer! She turned off her machine, grabbed her handbag and headed for the lunch room glad it was the Christmas break and she could forget work for a while.

The days before Christmas were always hectic with the heat and the crowds and all the parties but as an actual social event it was quiet. New Year's Eve on the other hand was not. It had become a regular event amongst the staff of the DPS in Wellington. The evening was a boozy hotchpotch, a mongrel cobbling of traditions resulting in a jovial noisy celebration. Out with the old, in with the new. It was the best excuse for a party.

The tradition had started in 2000 when the new millennium was welcomed so enthusiastically and had been repeated every year since. The party went all night, well after the haggis had been piped in. It didn't end till they all gathered on the beach and heard above the sound of the waves the lonely cry of a conch shell calling the sun out of darkness to start a new year.

Pania had fallen into bed just as the chooks started laying. She was woken some few hours later by the Sargeson's kids shouting and splashing in their pool. She dragged herself up and made a strong coffee and relaxed on the deck in the sun. The day stretched pleasantly before her. It was a good start to the New Year. Time to make some resolutions.

Pania had always loved summer and especially the holidays. For two weeks the politicians disappeared from public view and no events of national significance were ever planned. Many of her workmates exchanged the hot city streets for water cooled campsites next to a beach, river or lake. This year she stayed put, determined to chill out and turned a blind eye to her normal routines. Each new day invited her to bounce out of bed and get going before the temperatures soared. Housework ignored, she spent afternoons cooling in the Sargeson's pool or in a deckchair under a large shady tree soaking up the lazy heat and reading magazines. As the sun crept round, their edges started to curl, the moisture sucked from the paper. The Woman's Weekly was full of predictions for the year ahead. Half interested Pania read about 2014, the year of the horse. ' _This will be a year when the fight against injustice will succeed, when humanitarian causes will flourish_.' That sounds promising she thought drowsily. She read on. ' _With the wooden horse in ascendancy, decision making will be uncomplicated. There will be times of difficulty which must be endured and the horse may stumble but it will not fall. Expect upheavals in spring when the horse will become frisky ..._.'

Pania shook her head. Horoscopes were all so obvious. She could write them herself without all that psychic mumbo jumbo. Winter was cold and dark and spring was warm and hopeful. It was an easy step from there to frisky horses. She shut the magazine and lay back with closed eyes hardly aware of the somnolent air gently caressing her skin.

All too soon the holidays came to an end and the rhythms of industry and commerce restarted. Just before George was due to visit Pania received a second email. It was equally malicious. This time she did not delete it but forwarded it to IT asking for information on the sender and for all further mail from that address to be treated as spam and diverted. A few hours later she learned that the email had originated in South America, probably Colombia and that they would need several emails from the same source to make it worthwhile pursuing the culprit. All further mail from that address would be intercepted.

She tried to put the poisonous words out of her mind. All around her an overriding atmosphere of optimism reigned. Business confidence was up, unemployment down and the weather continued warm. The fortune teller's predictions flashed into her mind and she crossed her fingers. She reminded herself that the future was unknowable, hidden always around a blind corner.

### CHAPTER 24

George felt the mood of optimism which coloured the forum preparations. Its subtle pressure was relentless, fuelled by his sense that he was missing something. Those responsible for security continued to confidently reassure him that they could keep terror out and manage any internal protests on their own. After all they repeated with pride, they had protected Bill Clinton and the Queen, not to mention all those dignitaries who'd attended the Rugby World Cup. George was sick of hearing about rugby, Clinton and the Queen, tired of reminding them that the Forum was in a different league altogether. No-one except Pania really believed him. He was grateful for her loyalty but he could see that it annoyed Parsons and this added to his worries.

He hid his concerns in constant activity. He used every free minute to double-check security at the proposed Forum venues. He walked around them all, studied their entrances and exits and wandered around the surrounding streets. He inspected the hotels and officially approved accommodations. He studied the reports prepared for him and evaluated for the umpteenth time the various security measures being implemented. He looked for gaps but to no avail; everything, he had to agree, was satisfactory. His global security network remained ominously silent and the usual markers of impending crises were absent. Locals seemed to be slumbering under political apathy. No-one was greatly concerned about anything it seemed. The NAB (National Assessments Bureau) detected no new threats and no rumours of terrorism disturbed the Forum plans. Everyone, except for a sceptical George, was reassured.

The organisers continued their planning. George had no jurisdiction or input into domestic matters. This was all under Parsons direct control. He had delegated authority to a number of sub-committees and restricted his involvement to what was little more than a rubber stamp. Their budgets were tightly controlled. They called for tenders to manage the venues, serve morning, afternoon teas and lunches and clear up. Additional duties included the preparation and cleaning of meeting rooms and reception areas.

Under Brady's direction Ms Baildon prepared the tender document and using company letterhead, she supported it with her personal recommendation. If successful, Change Makers pledged that all profits would be invested into their youth development program. After much deliberation the successful tender was announced and Ms Baildon had the pleasant task of informing Brady. It was the only possible decision, she told him. There were rumours that their tender was the lowest. Their guarantee that all youth leaders would attend the appropriate training courses at no cost to the organisers had swung it in their favour.

Parsons approved. He immediately saw the advantages of their decision. It would be good publicity. He authorised the release of a series of media articles to be published while the forum was sitting. No-one informed him that his budget was too tight or that a decision was made to sidestep security regulations. Instead of obtaining police checks they elected to rely on the charity organisation's internal vetting. Ms Baildon's support as guarantor gave them confidence in this decision.

George continued to worry; convinced that something was happening right under their noses. He felt as if he was chained to a sleeping volcano and no-one could tell him when it would explode. His UN colleagues ribbed him relentlessly. They thought it was obvious. Terrorist activity had not lessened, they assured him, but was focussed on a more convenient and media-centric event; the Sochi Winter Olympics. That was the most newsworthy and vulnerable event on the calendar, an event easily subverted. Situated on the Black Sea, Sochi was accessible, close to the terrorist bases in Russia, the Middle East and Asia, with the additional smoke and mirrors complication of dealing with the Russians.

Maybe, George tried to tell himself, his instincts were wrong. Perhaps New Zealand's isolation was sufficient protection; even so, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something unseen, undetected lurking in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to stab him in the back or explode in his face. He read and reread the reports coming from the stakeholders, searching for the breakthrough he knew was there just beyond his reach.

The shenanigans in London during the Olympics had been a sobering experience for them all and yet in Wellington and Auckland they found it almost impossible to believe that anything major could disrupt their Forum. At least London had had some warning but there was nothing to raise alarms in New Zealand. Secretly they were beginning to think that George was just crying wolf and he sensed their growing scepticism.

Pania overheard Parsons saying that in his opinion, George was scared of his own shadow. This type of threat had no relevance in the Pacific, he'd said in knowing tones, and a different approach was required. That fool Ritmeyer hadn't realised that Wellington was neither Brussels nor London; that New Zealand was not in Europe and not in any risk. He was considering mentioning this in his post Forum report. In fact, he opined, Kiwis were paying the UN too much for an unwanted and unnecessary service. Ritmeyer was not adding value. He was merely a drain on budget. Pania listened and kept quiet.

All through his visit she observed George closely and he sensed her tension. As they sat in the airport departure lounge drinking coffee he finally asked "What's been troubling you Pania? I've noticed you're not your usual self."

"Nothing important. I'm a bit distracted. Sorry. I had a couple of nasty emails but it's all under control."

"Related to the Forum?" George was suddenly alert.

"Um sort of. Don't worry I contacted the IT department and they're blocking further emails from my inbox. Some lunatic who wants to make trouble, I won't let it bother me."

"Have they been able to trace the sender?"

"The email came from Colombia so unless I get more they won't do anything further for now."

"Colombia! Who could you possibly know in Colombia?" His surprise was unmistakable.

"No-one, I hardly know where it is."

"So it can't be personal. Do you think it's related to the Forum?"

Pania shook her head. George held her gaze for a long moment as if to see if she really meant it. Reassured, he smiled warmly.

"I'll quiz my UN colleagues who specialise in South America and see if there's anything happening there which might affect us. You'll let me know if you get anymore won't you?"

"It's unlikely, given that IT has added that address to their screening process. Do you know anyone in Colombia who could be behind this?"

"No. There are unsavoury organisations; drug cartels and warlords, and suchlike but I've never been to Colombia or had any dealings with officials. I can't see any obvious links to you. Try to forget it."

Pania nodded her expression serious. George was telling the truth, of that she was sure. Neither of them had any links with Colombia; at least not that they were aware.

### CHAPTER 25

Pania couldn't help grinning as she looked at the photo Mira had sent. There was something extremely endearing about the chubby infant with dark eyes and a gummy smile. How time was flying. It was already autumn. Mira had never been a regular correspondent yet here was the third email since Christmas. Perhaps, Pania mused, Mira felt isolated by motherhood and the backblocks. She could hear her cousin's voice as she read. She examined the photo for family likenesses. Although she hadn't yet met Mira's husband or the baby, Mira had filled her in, told her all about Rawiri's Ngati Whare and Nga Potiki whakapapa and his job as Director for three Ngati Whare Schools. The wedding had clashed with a state visit and then immediately after they'd moved to Minginui. Rawiri, Mira's child of the mists, sounded like an interesting man, she thought.

The email stirred up an urgent desire to take a trip north. It was high time she made an effort to visit and besides, Pania told herself, the car needed a good run and she needed a holiday. With the Forum date coming closer, she reasoned, now was the best time. 2014 had brought an Indian summer; hot, dry days with hardly a breeze to cool temperatures, without air-conditioning the office would have been unbearable. Still, it wouldn't last forever besides babies grew quickly and she'd miss this cute phase if she didn't make up her mind. The more she thought about it the more reasons she found to justify a visit.

Yes, she thought decisively, now's the best time to take a break. She submitted a request for two weeks leave and was pleasantly surprised when she received approval the same day. That night she emailed Mira and started planning her trip.

Mostly Pania's car sat in the carport. Everyday she took the train into Wellington and used one of the departmental cars whenever she needed to travel for her work. She'd bought the bright blue VW Beetle secondhand and she loved its iconic shape. Its compact size and manoeuvrability suited her perfectly. Every time she used it, the flower in the vase made her smile. In the summer when the garden was in full bloom she kept the silk daisy in the glove box, filled the little vase with water and placed a fresh rose stem into it. Its fragrance would fill the car as she drove and lighten her mood.

It was a long drive from Wellington to Mira's place so Pania stopped in Taupo and spent an hour relaxing in the hot pools. She still had a couple of hours driving before reaching her destination so she ordered a double shot long black before getting back behind the wheel for the final leg. She took the road to Rotorua and then turned off towards Murupara. The landscape was becoming rugged and wild, the road narrowed. She reduced her speed as she navigated potholes and flattened road kill. This was a forgotten, isolated corner of New Zealand and Pania felt its brooding presence follow her.

As she reached the scattering of dwellings she slowed, looking for the right house. Minginui was a small settlement almost at the end of the sealed road. It was a long way from the city but Pania sensed that this was a community with hope. Almost every house was neat and surrounded by tidy gardens. It was greener and brighter than the country she'd driven through. Everywhere she saw large gardens with the last of the summer harvest or newly growing winter crops. The community board outside the hall was bristling with posters and notices and there were kids playing in the street.

She found the number on the letterbox, drew to a stop outside, and turned the engine off. For a moment she sat in the sudden silence and felt the relief of a safe arrival then the stillness was broken by Mira's excited voice.

"Pania you've arrived, haere mai."

Pania jumped out of the car into Mira's warm hug.

"Hey cuz it's great to be here. Let me look at you. Ah-ha I can see motherhood suits you. Where's bubs? Wait" she dived into the boot and brought out a parcel, carefully wrapped.

Mira accepted it with both hands and smiled her thanks as she kissed Pania on the cheek.

"Bring your bag and come inside. Rawiri and Ngaio are waiting to meet you." Lowering her voice apologetically she added. "Try not to mention your work. Around here the cops are not welcome. Sorry, cuz. You know how it is?"

Pania felt a chill on her neck. She nodded with a wry half smile and followed Mira into the house. She knew exactly what Mira meant. Towns in this area had their own ways. Police were called in only rarely and then only when there was a death. Not even child abuse was reported unless it resulted in death and then it was too late. She shrugged to herself as she stepped onto the porch. She was on holiday and anyway she wasn't really a police woman these days. Still, she wondered, why the warning?

"Pania meet Rawiri, Rawiri my cousin Pania."

They hongied and then Pania turned to the baby staring up wide eyed from her high chair. She knelt down so that their heads were level and smiled.

"Tēnō koe Ngaio, aren't you just the cutest?"

The baby looked into her eyes for a long unblinking minute then glanced at her mother before the smallest of smiles flashed across her face. Immediately she lowered her gaze in shyness and they all laughed. Indeed she was very cute.

"Come let me take you to your room. I'll show you where things are and you can get settled." Pania followed Mira into the hall listening to her chatter and noted the layout, bedrooms one, two, a third at the end for Pania and on the other side, the bathroom, a separate toilet and a shower room.

"We all take turns. Rawiri is first then when he's left for the day Ngaio and I can take our time. We'll try to be quiet so you can sleep-in. I'm sure you've been working your butt off and haven't had a holiday in ages. Now I'll leave you to unpack. Just come out when you're organized. Dinner's ready anytime." She paused as Pania dumped her bag onto the bed. "It's so good to see you cuz." She turned and closed the door softly.

The room was neat and freshly redecorated. Pania tested the bed and was pleased to find that it was firm, not hard or saggy. She wouldn't get a sore back in that bed. A lamp perched beside a clock on the bedside table and a vase filled with yellow and orange daisies sat on top of a chest of drawers. She pulled open an empty drawer. The scent of lavender escaped into the room. Pania picked up the flower sachet and took a deep breath.

It was the smell of childhood.

Her mother used to put drops of lavender essence on the ironing board. As she smoothed out the wrinkles and sang, the scent would fill the room. Mostly she sang popular tunes but sometimes when she was feeling blue she sang in Mãori, old hymns or sweet plaintive melodies of her ancestors. Then her silent tears dropped onto the fresh ironing and sizzled on the hot iron. Pania's eyes filled with tears as she remembered and she blinked hard then returned the lavender, closed the drawer and turned to examine the photos on the wall. Mira had mounted several snapshots of her family together in one large frame. One in particular made her smile; three bright-eyed, sandy girls with cheeky grins and hair stiff with salt. They were all family; Mira, Pania and Cheryl; three summer-time cousins without a care in the world.

From the window she could see the garden overrun with pumpkins and the brown and black feathery chooks clucking softly as they wandered around the section looking for grubs and insects. A low hedge separated the house from its neighbour and beyond, the bush clad ranges towered over the village.

Pania could hear the murmur of conversation coming from the living room. She unpacked quickly. In the bathroom she splashed water over her face, squirted some perfume behind her ears and raked a comb through her hair. She was ready for dinner.

That first evening they sat together talking, catching up on what had happened since they'd last been together. Mira showed her wedding album and Ngaio's baby photos. There was no doubting, she was a proud mother. Rawiri talked about the Ngati Whare schools and the people, about the challenges of isolation and the hopes he had for the community.

"You know Minginui was originally a model town."

"It still is by the look of the streets I saw," Pania interrupted with a smile.

"I can assure you that in-between it was a dump. More than sixty years ago, it was built by the government to house forestry workers. When logging was stopped they had no use for the town and so it was deemed surplus to requirements. Not only was the town surplus to requirements, but so were the workers living here. Our people cast aside, treated like dross. The government no longer wanted to own these houses which were in need of renovation and maintenance..."

"It's the same old story," added Mira. "It doesn't matter which party's in government no-one who's anyone cares for those at the bottom."

"Those in power shrewdly handed ownership to the iwi and washed their hands of any responsibility. The Ngati Whare Trust was established and took over management of Minginui. It was the end of government liability for the town or its infrastructure, but not the end of Minginui although at the time many thought it was... So what happened?... You can imagine... A town full of unemployed workers, isolated in the heart of a forest they're forbidden to log. No community structure... no money... no facilities... It mouldered and decayed. Morale sunk along with hope and anyone who had any sense made their getaway."

"But something must have happened to change things?"

"Yeah it did but change came slowly. A few of the residents determined to fight for a better deal. They started to look back to their history, their roots and to older ways of understanding the world. They realised the forest growing, vibrant and healthy, might after all be better than a forest logged, cut down and without a heart. It was hard work and often there was little reward. The Kaitiakitanga program was a start. In 2003 David Bellamy agreed to be the patron and his mana inspired them. In 2009 he returned to see the progress made and so slowly over many years they reached a turning point. That was the same year that the elders started a community garden in Minginui and workshops for our youth. Those efforts, little things one on another, helped to foster a deeper community spirit."

"I can understand how people's attitude might be changed but you need more than attitude you need money."

"You're right cuz. At last the authorities listened."

Rawiri continued. "Some dosh came from Treaty Settlements. You know my tribe never signed the Treaty of Waitangi so there were plenty of grievances to correct. Then at last we got official acceptance of responsibility for infrastructure at Minginui. I think the best part, the thing which made the most difference, was that it was ultimately up to us, and not the government, to fix things. Money helped but we did it. We were in charge and we made the decisions. People learnt new skills and put them into practice. The locals called a Hui and debated endlessly. Once the talking was done and they got off their backsides, everything was possible. Now we're into tourism and hospitality and the national cycle way extension project has almost finished."

"The cycleway's a government sponsored project isn't it? Do you think it will open new business opportunities for your people?"

"Opportunities? We make our own. You know the room you're using Pania? Sometimes trampers or cyclists stay overnight. We're like a B&B, give them a bed, breakfast in the morning and they can buy a packed lunch. We tell them about our land and culture. We aren't the only ones. All over town people take pride in their homes and are keen to earn a bit extra. Old skills have been dusted down. The elders remember how to tend gardens in the old way and to make jams and preserves. It's not always that simple of course. We have to get off their butts and face some scary challenges but it's very exciting for me to watch."

"Are people starting up their own businesses and coming off the dole?"

"Um... not yet... but it's a good question. Most locals are still on benefits, although there seems to be a bit more money about recently. Gradually it'll change as things become more viable." He changed the subject. "Did you know that we were selected as one of the pilot projects for CM-"

"CM? I don't think I've heard of them."

"It's short for Change Makers. They're new around here but they've made a difference already. They focus on youth work and our tamariki are dead keen. In some ways it's like boy scouts or girl guides. The kids attend weekly meetings where they start to build self-esteem and learn to respect the environment and each other. These are all values our iwi cherish. They go on tramping and camping trips and learn about the bush and how to survive from the forest. The younger kids are mentored and protected by the older ones. Together they become CC's Creators of Change ... it works like a charm!"

"Sounds a bit like M&Ms. Sugar coating but underneath it's still a nut." Pania noticed Rawiri's frown. "Sorry sometimes my jokes are not funny. I take it this is the real deal?"

"It's wonderful. You should see our tamariki find their identity and sense of purpose. It's a great alternative to joining a gang. Surprisingly... even... patched members let their children join and there's been a noticeable change in the playground culture at our schools."

"That's great news Rawiri. I mean it! Let's hope that CM can spread and work its magic in other places."

"Perhaps you'd like to visit one of my schools? Later this week, we're running a sports development program. We have representatives from different sports coming to encourage and teach our kids. It will start with a pōwhiri and hāngi which the children will prepare. Each year has responsibility for a different part of the welcome program; then the following two days will be taken by our sporting guests. The children have been preparing for weeks and are very excited. We have some great names coming."

Pania was about to accept when they heard Ngaio crying and Mira rose.

"Its time for Ngaio's last feed and then she usually sleeps till morning. I'll go straight to bed after I've fed her and she's settled again. Goodnight Pania - sleep well."

Pania yawned and got up. "Goodnight cuz. I think I'll head for bed too. I've really enjoyed our evening. Thank you for your welcome and Rawiri, I'd be delighted to visit your school. I think the children are lucky to have such a dedicated director. 'Night Rawiri."

She lay in the dark listening as the house settled into sleep. The hum of the city was missing, replaced by the lullaby breeze singing amongst the trees and the night birds. She heard ruru call close by and then, further in the bush, a kiwi. Her breathing slowed and she fell into a deep dreamless sleep.

At six she heard Ngaio cry. She must have drifted off again because she woke with a start when the backdoor closed and the silence was suddenly filled with the sound of Rawiri's motorbike spluttering into life. Not long after, there was a light knock on the door and Mira poked her head around. Seeing Pania was awake she came in with Ngaio balanced on her hip and pulled open the curtains. Light streamed into the room.

"Time to get up cuz, breakfast's ready."

They chatted over toast and tea, catching up on news. Crumbs fell unnoticed as they attacked the food and conversation with equal enthusiasm. Ngaio played happily in her highchair dropping toys to the ground just to watch Pania pick them up again and again. It was a wonderful game. She had an irrepressible twinkle in her big eyes. Once the tea pot was drained they cleared the table and the rest of the morning was filled with everyday tasks. Pania took pleasure in the novelty of the slower rhythms of Mira's life.

That afternoon Rawiri rang. He asked Mira a few questions then she hesitantly passed the phone to Pania, fine tukutuku lines weaving across her forehead.

"Hi Pania, I've got a small problem. One of our coaches has had to pull out. You used to play netball didn't you? Mira said you were very good ... said you were a rep! I know you're on holiday and I probably shouldn't even ask, but perhaps you'd like to volunteer... as a coach... for our kids?"

Pania smiled at Mira who was watching, her face anxious.

"I'd love that. It can be my koha."

She could hear the relief in Rawiri's voice.

"That's great. You must come to the pōwhiri and meet the others. It'll be fun, you'll see. Thanks Pania ... see you tonight."

She replaced the handset.

"I don't mind at all," she reassured Mira.

That evening she asked Rawiri about the program.

"This is the second year we've held these workshops. The Bay of Plenty Schools' Development Program helps us and sponsors three professional coaches to attend. We also get funding from CM. That's another advantage of having been a successful pilot. It all helps with the running costs. Local sports personalities volunteer their time and skills. Tutors stay at the marae and we enjoy sharing our history and culture. There are six different sports and it would have disappointed heaps of kids, especially the girls, if we'd had to drop netball. I'm really grateful Pania.

"Of course rugby and netball are the favourites. Cross country athletics was quite popular last year so we are repeating that and this year we are introducing cricket, BMX and mountain biking, canoeing and kayaking. The children from all three schools are divided into six groups or teams of roughly the same age. Each school hosts two sports and for two days the teams stay together and travel between the venues. Each group has an adult leader either a teacher or parent volunteer. It's a way of bringing and retaining new skills within our school community. Everyone has a chance to try a new sport. Afterwards we structure our lesson program around their experiences. It works really well for us and the kids love it."

### CHAPTER 26

Under the watchful eyes of their elders, the senior children welcomed their parents and the visiting VIPs. They'd been practising the karanga, whaikōrero and the waiata for weeks. The younger children had helped to prepare the food and to dig the hāngi pits for the hãkari. Potatoes, kumara and pumpkin came from the community gardens, wild deer and pork from the forest, the rest of the meat store-bought from Murupara. While the buried food cooked on the hot stones, they presented the traditional Pōwhiri ceremony with enthusiasm and pride. The guests and VIP's enjoyed the traditional ritual and Rawiri's quiet pride was plain to see.

Once the pits were opened and the fragrant steam of kai reminded people the banquet was about to be served, the courtyard hummed with conversations, children's voices shouted high with excitement and here and there, like boiling mud in a thermal pool, laughter erupted above the hubbub. As she queued in the slowly moving line, Pania found herself beside the Cricket Coach and when they exchanged names, Pania guessed Sheila was Irish.

Her stunning red-gold hair gleamed brightly. It was impossible to ignore and it framed a pale complexion spattered with freckles. She had a pleasing cheerful face with clear blue eyes but it was her soft Irish lilt which most charmed all those who heard it.

"I didn't know the Irish played cricket, at least not seriously. I thought it was a British game," Pania said as they queued.

"I'd be exaggerating if I described cricket as our national game but cricket clubs have been around for over a hundred years especially in Dublin ... probably a British plot to distract the enemy." Sheila giggled and winked. "The profile of the game has improved, helped I guess by the ceasefire which ended The Troubles. Then the barriers between Catholic and Protestant slowly eased. I was in my late teens when I played my first game. At first I was a bit of a round peg in a square hole but I played well and eventually the others realised I didn't have horns or a tail." She shrugged. "Our players are not professionals so it's a hobby not a career; that is except for a handful of us who get by as coaches. I was one of the lucky few. When I started coaching, my teams did really well and so I was offered more opportunities, then I got a coaching job in South Africa and from there I moved to New Zealand. To think I'd get so much satisfaction and get paid I still pinch myself. I just love my life."

Her enthusiasm was infectious. Pania had never warmed to cricket but she could identify with the sentiment. She'd been an amateur too and had once dreamed of a future dominated only by netball. Now she played in a social team and enjoyed the company even more than the game and she too loved her job. Sheila chatted on.

"When I first arrived in New Zealand and I saw all those Mãori carvings I thought they were very spooky and sinister. I really felt their power and it reminded me of my father's tales. He'd been in the Congo and could never forget the savage horror of that place. Now I understand better what your carvings represent and I no longer fear them. I love that they represent your ancestors. I think it's a wonderful way to keep memories alive."

Pania nodded. "When I was little we used to spend our holidays at the marae. My family... all my whãnau gathered there and we kids ran wild. The marae was built above the beach and each day at low tide we would go with the older women, the kuia, and gather kaimoana. Mostly we played around in the water and got in their way while they did the hard work. We had a whale of a time. At night we would all sleep on the floor of the meeting house. There was no set bedtime and we would just lie there talking quietly until we dropped off. Our parents would be sitting nearby retelling the old stories and debating. In those days kids were not expected to take part in a pōwhiri; that was adult business. We just had to be quiet and respectful or we'd get a cuff around the head or a boot up our backsides. My cousin Mira and I used to disappear when it was time to peel the spuds and return just as the hāngi was being opened." She laughed. "We always ended up doing dishes. The aunties saw to that! I'm still good at cleaning up and hate all that dreary washing and peeling and cutting so I must have learnt something."

"You're so fortunate to have a big family. I do envy you. I really think it is time for us to change the way our world works. We should focus on people not on wealth and power. That's Change Makers' focus too. Did you know that they helped sponsor me to take part in the Sports Workshops?"

They reached the food, were given a plate and became absorbed in picking and choosing kai. With plates heaped full they looked around for space to sit and eat. Before long they found themselves deep in conversations with locals.

### CHAPTER 27

Mira poked her head around the door.

"Sleepyhead, wake up. It's your last day and we're going on a tramp."

"I'm awake. The chooks make sure of that. I feel right at home. You'd think laying an egg was very painful by the noise they make. Look I'm up!" Pania leapt out of bed with a grin and pulled open the curtains. She was looking forward to their tramp. The sky was grey with high cloud but the light was bright and the temperature pleasant. "Looks like perfect weather for some exercise."

An hour and a half later the cousins got out of the car in the Whirinaki Forest Park and loaded up. Ngaio was perched on Mira's back looking out from the backpack with gurgles of delight, waving her chubby brown arms in excitement. She kept trying to pull her sun hat off but it was securely tied under her chin. Eventually she forgot it was on her head and grabbing handfuls of Mira's hair she chattered happily. Pania's pack was stuffed with their picnic lunch, drinks and light jackets.

They set off side by side for the track was wide, heading for the falls where they would stop for lunch. For a time they walked in silence, entranced by the giant podocarp trees around them. Inquisitive fantails flitted above them, almost within arms reach and Ngaio followed their antics gurgling and laughing in delight. The forest calmed their spirits and gradually the steady rhythm of Mira's steps lulled Ngaio. Her head drooped and her eyes closed.

When they reached the falls they stopped. Pania opened her pack, spread their jackets out on the ground and they sat down. Ngaio was now awake and hungry. Mira fed her first. Pania lay back with her eyes closed and listened to the forest and the waterfall. A cool breeze carried droplets of water through the air. It was wonderfully refreshing. When Mira reached the playing with her food stage the girls tucked in.

As they relaxed Mira quizzed Pania.

"Have you got anyone special? Last time I heard anything about your love life, you'd just broken up with Dan."

"Oh Dan's long gone. I can't believe what I saw in him. No. There's no-one special at the moment. My job makes it a bit difficult. I'm here, there and everywhere. That was one of the issues with Dan. He couldn't stand not knowing where I was or who I was with." She shrugged. "I guess he was the jealous sort and that always caused friction. I'm happier without him."

"Are there any possibilities in sight? Isn't there someone you fancy?"

"No... The only new man I've met is this... American. Whenever he's in New Zealand I'm his girl Friday. Taxi driver, tourist guide, entertainer you name it that's me. That's been my job twice a year for the last four years. He's a nice guy but there's no romance. It's all strictly business."

"Oh I'm intrigued. And what exactly does nice mean cuz? Tell me more. What's his name? What's he like?"

"His name is George, George Ritmeyer. He's very ordinary looking. You'd never notice him in a crowd but he's okay. This is the last year he'll be coming over. I guess after September I won't see him again."

"So he's ordinary? What does that mean?"

"Um he's about my height with mousey coloured hair, cut short and kind eyes, grey I think or maybe hazel. God Mira I don't spend my time gawking into his eyes! He wears off-the-rack clothes, nothing colourful and kind of blends into the background so that you forget what he looks like and what he's wearing. He could be one of the SIS guys if you know what I mean?"

"He's not married is he?"

"No. I'd say not ... doesn't look married ... never mentioned a wife or a girlfriend ... doesn't talk about himself at all really. He told Parsons the other day that he hasn't met Miss Right yet."

"So what do you like about him?"

"I dunno ... we just get on okay and he's interesting to talk to... he has a way of making you feel that what you have to say is worth listening to. It's like he really pays attention, unlike some people who hardly hear a word you say because they're so busy thinking about their next pronouncement. You know what I mean?"

Mira nodded. Pania continued. "I had a bit of a giggle to myself, the first time we met. He'd arrived at the airport and I was standing there holding a board with his name on it. I'd been a bit annoyed to have been assigned to collect him, why me and not one of the blokes? Anyway he waltzes over and introduces himself. I suppose he'd never heard of the name Pania so when he called me Tanya I put him right. He made some lame excuse about blocked ears.

"Then when he went to get in the car, he moved to the right and found himself on the driver's side. That confused him! Quite took the wind out of his sails. After that it was fine. He's good value and knows his stuff. We work well together and you'd never guess what; he's a Tolkien fan too! He's read the book and watched the movies more often than I have. You wouldn't believe it, would you?" She sighed. "I probably won't see him again after this year's over, so it's no use getting attached is it? I'll probably never get to play happy families like you cuz."

"I suppose not seeing the guy makes it harder but distance doesn't mean it's impossible. Rawiri and I were living in different places after we got engaged and we managed it so I'm sure you could too if you really wanted to. Perhaps this guy's just shy and you need to make the first move?"

"No ... I think that would make him run a mile. No, he probably just doesn't see me as a woman ... if you know what I mean? I'm a colleague, a work mate nothing more." She changed the subject. "How do you like it here? I can see Rawiri is in his element but are you happy and making friends?"

Mira refused to be sidetracked that easily. She sighed sympathetically as she considered her cousin's dilemma.

"Poor Pania. If you like him you should ... I dunno ... shock him into seeing your female side. You know ... helpless and vulnerable." She laughed. "Knowing you that won't happen." She considered Pania's questions. "How do I like it here? Silly question really. What's not to like about this place? Look around. Where can you live surrounded by such natural beauty? I'm happy. Ngaio sees to that and I love Rawiri. There are plenty of things to get involved with, so much is happening and it's exciting to be living here at this time... The women have been friendly enough but it's hard to get close to anyone when your husband's the Director of Schools and one of the few men earning a wage. We've only been here a short time. They're waiting to see if we last or if we rush back to civilisation." She hesitated then continued, "I am a bit worried about something. Rawiri won't listen to me and makes excuses but I think something's wrong somewhere." She paused looking for the right words to explain her suspicions to Pania. "The problem as I see it... is that suddenly some people have extra money to throw around. You might not notice it in the city but here it's conspicuous. Where before, their kids wore hand-me-downs and were always hungry, now I see the same kids in designer labels, no doubt bought in Rotorua or Auckland, and with money to spend in the school canteen. Suddenly everyone's their friend and they're shouting the treats."

Pania watched the doubts chase across Mira's face as she tried to explain.

"I just wonder where the money's coming from ... it's far too much to be coming from tourists.... I'm a silly gossip reading far too much into things, but I hope people here haven't started dealing or home baking ... if you get my drift?"

"Have you heard any rumours about drugs? P is a big problem around the country. Do you think it might be P production?"

"There have been no rumours of drugs that I've heard and Rawiri hasn't seen any sign of it in his schools ... the other day I overheard a conversation, but... I came in the middle of it and they shut up when they saw me nearby. It was in Mãori and I don't always understand the local dialect. The words are sometimes different. I thought they were talking about the old prophet Rua. I heard the words 'chosen way' but if they were talking religion why did they stop when I came close? It felt peculiar. I can't put my finger on it but I'd hate all of Rawiri's dreams to be destroyed by some drug operation. He's so involved and so proud to be part of this... this renaissance of his people."

Pania had no answers and let Mira talk out her fears. In her experience the dealers in drugs were often linked into a gang and were addicts themselves. From what Mira said this seemed to be unlikely. She quizzed her further.

"That local gang, the one Rawiri mentioned, how much effect do they have on the community?"

"Oh they're certainly around but it seems to me it's more a sense of belonging that holds them together. I suppose they're involved in petty theft and crime but it's a pretty safe environment in Minginui. The elders keep things under control and we rarely see a Cop. Of course Cops are not welcome. The locals don't trust them at all eh. That's why I suggested you keep quiet about your work. You know how it is cuz?" Pania heard the unspoken apology and nodded.

"If you hear anything else and you want me to pass on information just let me know. I can't do anything personally as I'm no longer involved in regular police work. Perhaps Rawiri is right and there is nothing to worry about. Maybe some of the Treaty Settlement payments are disappearing into their pockets?" She shrugged. "It happens." She looked up at the sky. The sun was on its home run and the air carried a hint of cooling. "It's time we got moving don't you think?"

She pushed herself up and they packed everything away and headed for the end of the track.

It was late afternoon when they arrived back. It had been a great outing and while Mira bathed Ngaio, Pania started to pack. Later she wandered around the garden, collected the eggs and picked some beans. Mira was right, what was there not to like? She stopped and listened as the sounds of silence settled on her, the woodwind sighs from the forest accompanying the muted pulse of rural life. It was so peaceful, hard to believe all might not be as it seemed.

"Death Result of Routine Explosion

Dominion Post March 2014

At around midday yesterday on the last day of his contract, Denzil Jackson was killed during a routine explosion on the Transmission Gully project. The site has been shut down as investigators determine the sequence of events which led to this tragedy. Police, OSH and the Department of Labour are all involved in conducting an inquiry into the death. Once the inquiry has been completed, and before the site is reopened, local Mãori will perform a tapu-lifting ceremony.

Mr Jackson was employed by A1 Blast Specialists of Knoxville Tennessee, who were contracted to manage all tasks involving explosives for the Transmission Gully project. He had many years of experience both as operator and project leader. His workmates have described Denny as meticulous in the performance of his duties, a skilled contractor and extremely safety conscious. They all trusted him with their lives and are shattered by the loss of a popular leader.

Denny loved New Zealand and during his time in Wellington had travelled widely. He enjoyed extreme sports and he was particularly proud of his achievement in completing the South Island Coast to Coast race earlier in the year ..."

### CHAPTER 28

Pania stirred her coffee absentmindedly as she read about the fatality in the morning paper. According to the company spokesperson, it was a deplorable accident which should never have happened and a regrettable blemish on the company's fatality free record. Regrettable indeed! Poor guy, she thought, wonder if he's married with kids.

The new motorway was one of the many makeover projects scheduled for completion in time for the Forum. It was unlikely that this delay would affect the timetable significantly but that was not what tugged at her memory. Denzil Jackson, the name was somehow familiar. He'd been in the news before, she was sure of it. She logged on and keyed in the name. There were several search results both sporting and work related and she opened each one in a separate window. There was even a photograph of the deceased crossing the line in the Coast to Coast race. He was a big man, broad and tall, with a head of tightly curled close-cropped black wiry hair and she couldn't help admiring his biceps and muscular shoulders. He was grinning at the photographer. It softened the lines in his rugged face. He was quite a hunk and Pania felt a brief stab of regret that she'd not had the chance to meet Denny. Waste of a good man, she mused and started to read.

There was a brief report of a serious break-in at the construction site a year previously. A large consignment of explosives and detonators had been stolen and according to the reporter, the police were investigating and Denny was helping them with their enquiries. Interesting, thought Pania, It seems Denny was their prime suspect. She reread the brief coverage then logged into the police system and accessed their report. It was thorough and inconclusive. Pania read the interviews. They painted a picture of a quietly confident man; a trusted boss; a popular man not easily rattled, so well-liked that many of the workers called him bro.

There had been an upset in the office on the afternoon of the break-in. This was confirmed by many of those interviewed, something about a missing key. Denny had kept them back late and had insisted that the office be turned upside down and that the key be found before anyone could leave. The key was finally located in a rubbish basket and they'd all been in a hurry to go home. Denny admitted that he too had been in a hurry to leave and had forgotten to set the compound alarms or to reset the surveillance system.

That night, the locks to the storage compound were forced. A large consignment of high explosive materials and several remote detonation devices were stolen. In the morning the guard dogs woke slowly from their drug induced dreams, the theft was discovered, reported and an investigation undertaken. There was no video footage and no alarms had been triggered. Denny's failure to complete his end-of-day security procedures was directly responsible for its success and was initially considered suspicious. Evidence to prove a link between the break-in and Denny was never found. The conclusion pointed to probable human error and until they received further evidence the inquiry was shelved.

The loose ends bothered Pania. No-one seemed to have addressed the issue of what happened to the stolen goods or who was planning to use them. They had just disappeared. Was this a solitary incident or had there been more losses from the construction site? She scratched her head. Pity the explosives expert from Knoxville Tennessee was dead; she would have liked to ask a few questions of her own. She made a note to ring management to check out the story and satisfy herself that this had been an isolated loss.

Denny had taken his secrets with him. He'd told no-one about that fateful day in Takaka when he'd been unexpectedly activated. It was the weekend he'd joined a group of trampers to explore the caves at the top of Takaka Hill and they had spent the day exploring the gaps and crevices stretching deep below the marble hill. He'd just returned and was sitting on the step of the backpackers' undoing his boots when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked up, caught his own reflection in the motorbike visor and heard the code words 'ESAP ASAP'. The man abruptly turned and walked away. In shocked disbelief, Denny followed. Beside the curb the figure turned and thrust a box at Denny, his voice muffled behind the visor. Denny screwed up his eyes into the glare of the setting sun unable to see the man's features.

"Here's your phone. Keep the battery charged. Check for messages. Don't make any calls."

He stomped off towards the black Harley. Denny's heartbeat cranked up. His training, long dormant, kicked in. He slipped the package into his pocket and turned back. It had all happened so quickly. He felt adrenalin surge through him, his tiredness forgotten. What would he have to do? He felt a stab of fear to think his movements were so transparent that they had been able to trace him to this remote location.

It never crossed his mind to question or to disobey the orders he received but his smile lost some of its spontaneity as the strain took its toll.

### CHAPTER 29

Pania handed George the latest assessment report with a sigh.

"It can't be that bad," he said.

"No. It's not bad, not really, but sometimes I wonder why we meet at all. We spend hours debating issues, writing reports and then it seems policy makers don't bother to read them. Despite our recommendations, police powers have been extended over all public areas in the CBD."

"Surely that's a sensible move?"

"Not everyone thinks that. Many consider it an abuse of power. Human rights activists have been especially vociferous. We expect that this decision will result in more protest, probably timed for optimum effect."

"So we can expect trouble from them? Is that what you're predicting?"

"Um ... well ... we... that is, the organisational committee hope this will be quickly forgotten. They maintain an unchanged view that security responses must be low-key and unobtrusive. The report emphasizes that there's no evidence that we will attract any unwanted attention from terror organisations or anyone else of consequence. Nevertheless they have drawn up contingency plans."

George nodded as his eyes flicked over the report. It was just as Pania had explained. The activists were deemed a nuisance not a serious threat.

"There's really nothing new in this report," George grumbled. "No wonder nobody takes any notice. Maybe the powers that be have decided that the committee puts an too much of a positive spin on things? I'm inclined to take their side. Better to be safe than sorry. You know what I say-"

"Expect the unexpected." She laughed as she interrupted. "You're right of course. I should be happy that we're preparing for the worst. Let's hope it's unnecessary."

The absence of even the slightest rumour continued to gnaw into George's sense of equanimity. It was too uncharacteristically peaceful. He reviewed the history of the last two forums which he had been associated with. His records were precise and detailed. In 2006 the second regional conference had been held in Quebec and despite its low key profile organisers had forewarning of several protest actions. Police arrested nineteen people for alleged terrorist plots and environmentalists held loud gatherings protesting against uranium mining while the trade unions organised placard carrying, banner wielding rallies against Israel's war on Lebanon. Despite the disruptions the delegates had concentrated on their own agendas and the results of the fledgling organisation had been newsworthy.

By 2010 the Brussels Forum met under darker clouds. Strange splinter groups from around the world planned disruptions and it had been a tense time with specialist police units on high alert. George had been hard pushed to keep on top of the intelligence reports piling onto his desk. He'd been relieved when he and his Belgian counterparts had been able to identify the real threats and alert the relevant authorities. The Forum met under fortress-like conditions but the threats had been neutralised.

"I don't like it. There's something missing."

Pania sighed.

"George, remember your first visit to New Zealand? You inspired us with your confidence and control. I told you then that nothing would happen here and it seems I'm right. Can't you accept that you might have been wrong?"

"I'm not worried that I'm wrong. I don't matter much. I worry far more about all the people whose safety depends on me. I have to do everything I can to protect them. I just have this desperate sense that something is dreadfully wrong. God I sound melodramatic. Sorry."

Pania smiled uneasily. She remembered her first impressions of George and how she'd told herself that they should listen to him and not ignore his advice. Now she was doing exactly that. If he was wrong then they'd nothing to fear but what if he was right she asked herself.

"Can I take a step back? Who do you think would want to disrupt the Forum?"

"In my experience, it's usually groups that stand to benefit either from the publicity their actions produce or they want to change and influence decisions or they oppose the Forum and what it represents. It's not usually individuals. I've investigated all the obvious suspects and my sources confirm that their attention is elsewhere and that the Forum is not on their horizon. If we have trouble it will come from a different direction."

"Is it possible for a new group to be planning something and not be visible?"

"Yes it is. It's happened before but usually when investigators look back they can see the warning signs which unfortunately were overlooked. I want to find those warnings, those events and activities which are isolated and yet unusual. I want to identify people who are buying or stealing ingredients for explosives, unusual changes in normal behaviour, a surge in meetings, communications chatter and secretive activities. We need to look outside the normal and I believe that if we find anything we will find it in New Zealand."

Pania nodded slowly. It made sense but how would they spot the signs?

"I followed up a... hunch I had the other day. There was a report in the paper about a fatal accident. It led me to an earlier unsolved crime which happened about a year ago when a pile of explosives was stolen from the motorway project. The items were never found and the culprits never identified. The main suspect was killed in that accident."

"So you decided to investigate?"

"Yep. I rang the Project Manager to see if more items of this nature had gone missing during the project but he was unable to confirm my suspicions. He had no way of checking that items ordered had been used or could be accounted for. I thought it was an unsatisfactory reply. The only thing he could confirm was that there had been no unusual expenses during the project; even the items stolen had made no difference to their bottom line. The project was in budget and that seemed to be his main concern. I found nothing to justify a search warrant or an investigation."

"Mmm - you were right to be concerned. If there is an unknown organisation threatening the Forum then it's the little hints which will give it away. Good work Pania, keep following your instincts and we might get a lucky break."

Pania coloured at his praise. It was all so vague and unscientific; what she really liked were facts and evidence. What about those worrying emails which were cascading into her inbox. Each time IT investigated, they claimed that the source was different; still coming from Colombia but not the same computer. It made it impossible to track but it was starting to look like a deliberate campaign to undermine the relationship she and George had developed. Despite her promise, she was reluctant to mention it again. She'd be glad when it was all over. Maybe then the emails would stop and she could focus on a new job. There'd be no new job, she warned herself, if George was right. It didn't bear thinking about and then there was the immense damage their failure would do to New Zealand's reputation. She just had to dig deeper. She would renew pressure on her counterparts in the NZ Police and in Customs. She needed a breakthrough.

### CHAPTER 30

The start of winter was a few weeks away but already southerly gales had swooped down on the city. Rain lashed the window and gulls huddled miserably in the lee of buildings. The Indian summer had been well and truly blown away. It was lunchtime and Pania's stomach reminded her that she needed to eat. She was loath to leave her desk and face the elements. As she dithered, the phone rang. It was her contact in the Central Police Station.

"Hey Pania. I might have something for you." Pania smiled to herself. She pictured Tom walking around his office as he spoke. He liked to keep moving. Said it helped him think. Even at college when they'd had to learn all that legal stuff, he couldn't sit still. She scribbled the time on her notepad and jotted things down as he spoke. "One of my undercover officers, code-named Bruno, has reported that there's talk of a big job and his gang has more money to throw around. Prez, the gang leader, seems to have a new source of drugs. The sample Bruno obtained was analysed and DNA results point to an overseas source, one which has not previously been found in New Zealand. Normally I would just have filed this report and warned customs but you've been bugging me so for what it's worth I've included you in the alert."

Pania asked a few quick questions then hung up. She pondered the facts she had. Something in the conversation rang a bell. It floated just beyond recall. Was it relevant to the Forum? What did it mean? How had the drugs entered New Zealand? What was the significance of the rumour?

She consulted Parsons, made some calls and then rang Tom back.

"Can you put a tail on Bruno's man? I think you called him Prez? I've also got approval for all his calls to be monitored. I'm forwarding the permits. I'll shout you a drink next time our paths cross."

A few days later she remembered what Mira had told her. That was why she'd had a feeling of déjà vu. Perhaps this was what George was looking for. She felt her pulse quicken as she picked up the phone and dialled her cousin.

"Kia ora."

"Kia ora Mira."

"Pania! Good to hear you. How're things?"

"Fine and how's Ngaio? I bet she's into everything these days."

"Yeah and I bet you didn't ring me just to talk about Ngaio, eh?"

Pania laughed. "You're right. I just heard something and it reminded me of your concerns Do those kids still have money to throw around? Have you've noticed anything more?"

Mira was silent for a moment. "Yeah! There's still money around, more now than before and I have no idea where it's coming from. Even Rawiri's a bit concerned but I can't tell you anything more, sorry cuz."

"Never mind. Do you know if the kids come from within the local gang or not?"

"Dunno Pania. One kid's father was arrested some years ago when there was all that fuss about the terrorism raids. I think the charges were dropped and we've heard nothing more. It seems that he keeps a low profile. I suppose the families are close, possibly they're whãnau. I don't really know anything else."

"That's okay. It was just a thought. Is that Ngaio I can hear? I'd better let you go. It's so good to talk to you Mira. Haere Rã."

She hung up disappointed, frustrated by her failure to uncover any leads. Realistically she didn't have enough to justify follow-up action. She sighed loudly, rummaged in her desk drawers and found a chocolate bar. She broke off a large piece. The chocolate melted slowly as she held it on her tongue. By the time it had dissolved she felt calmer.

### CHAPTER 31

Brady was livid. He threw his phone against the wall. It dropped onto the carpet, its screen smashed into crazy splinters. He struggled to contain his anger, his urge to destroy everything about him. It took all his self-control to throw on shorts, T-shirt and cross trainers and head for the hotel gym. It was the middle of the day and he was relieved that the well-equipped room was empty of guests. He attacked the punch bag with fierce aggression. Slowly his anger leached away and after twenty minutes of sustained pummeling he was exhausted. The sweat ran down his face and his back and his fists ached. At least the anger which had clouded his mind was back under control.

He returned to his room and took a long shower. At first the sharp pulsing flow stung his skin but as he let the water run over him its warmth eased into his muscles and they relaxed. Refreshed, he dried himself and dressed. He glanced at the pile of discarded garments he'd left on the floor. The shirt was ruined, torn in his rage. The phone was beyond repair. Careful to avoid cutting himself he removed his SIM card and dropped the phone into the trash-can which he placed over the glass splinters. The maid could vacuum them up later.

It was all Prez's fault, he growled to himself. No doubt he shouldn't have concerned himself so directly in the project, shouldn't have broken his own rules and gotten involved in the next layer but he was just looking for a bit of action. He'd craved the sense of excitement a closer hands-on role gave him and now he was starting to regret it. He'd made the mistake of assuming he could outsmart any hood; assumed that his superior intelligence would intimidate any felon he dealt with. Instead, he admitted to himself, he'd met his match. Not that that in any way excused the man.

He considered his options.

Prez was accustomed to manipulating others. He owned two Pitbull - Rottweiler cross mutts. Real ugly brutes they were, in Brady's opinion. Barely restrained and on short leases, they suited their names. Fear and Violence accompanied Prez whenever he made deals. Brady had refused to be intimidated but he'd noted the implied menace. Now, greedy for money and drugs, Prez had threatened to expose him. That could destroy Change Makers and was something that Brady had no intention of allowing to happen.

He didn't want to meet the man again and had managed to avoid this for some time but now he faced the ultimatum and he didn't know how to regain the upper hand. Gradually he was aware of his grumbling stomach. His Rolex told him it was long after the normal lunch hour. He wandered out of the hotel and onto the Wellington waterfront looking for somewhere to eat and to think.

It was a mild winter's day and the southerly blast had passed over some days earlier. The sun was warm and in a sheltered spot one could easily forget that winter had arrived. The trees were green, each branch rich with foliage and the brightness often confused those expecting to see bare branches and watery sunlight. As he passed the eateries and cafes he paused and considered their menus finally settling on an Italian restaurant.

He chose an outside table overlooking the water and placed his order. The waiter returned and held out the wine bottle for inspection. Brady nodded, taking pleasure in the familiar ritual and watched as the man pulled the cork. It made a little pop. He examined it while the wine waiter poured a sample into the bulbous glass. It gleamed clear and bright. Brady lifted it to the light and admired the swirling colour then he buried his nose into the glass and breathed in the concentrated aromas. Slowly he filled his mouth allowing his taste buds to savour and judge. He pursed his lips and sucked in some air then he swallowed. The effect on his palate, complex with hints of chocolate and blackcurrant, was a new-world taste which he was beginning to appreciate. It had a medium long finish. It would go well with his meal. The man waited patiently for Brady's smile of approval then filled the glass, placed the bottle on the table and disappeared.

Brady leaned back in his chair and idly watched people and boats going to and fro. Slowly he relaxed into the moment and when his pasta arrived he enjoyed every mouthful. He finished the meal with a strong coffee and a sweet tiramisu.

His hunger gone, his mood restored, he paid the bill leaving a generous tip and wandered along the quay. As he walked an idea formed. Suddenly he had a solution which would isolate Prez, ensure their privacy and enable him to control the outcome. He would charter a yacht, take his problem out to sea and deal with it. Decision made, he found the booking office. The booking agent smiled as he walked in.

"Good afternoon Sir, how can I help?"

"Hi. I want to charter a yacht on Wednesday, take a cruise in the Marlborough Sounds. Can you arrange it for me?"

"Give me a moment sir. Wednesday? Um, our minimum hire is four hours. We do have yachts suitable for weekend or longer term hire if you prefer. All vessels are staffed and fully catered. We guarantee that you will have a unique and memorable exp-"

"I think four hours would be sufficient. A small yacht - I'll have one guest and I don't need a full complement of staff."

"Our minimum is captain, hostess and chef."

"I won't be needing a chef - I plan to have a catered lunch delivered."

"Our basic rate includes the services of a chef sir. I'm afraid I can't discount that rate."

Brady waved his hand as if swatting flies.

"That's okay. I'll pay whatever it costs but give your chef the day off. I want to head out into the strait and across to the South Island but not into The Sounds. I'll leave the exact route to your captain."

"Bear with me for a moment sir, while I check details."

The clerk peered at his computer screen. He grunted then spoke without looking up.

"You may wish to reconsider; the marine forecast predicts southerly swells for Wednesday. Perhaps Sir would like to select another day or an inner harbour cruise?"

"Southerly swells are fine by me. At least we'll know we've been at sea. I expect the hostess to meet my guest and serve the first drinks then leave us for the rest of the voyage. I require total privacy. Absolutely no interruptions or disturbances. I've some delicate business details to finalise and will expect all personnel on board to sign confidentiality agreements. I'd like access to the yacht half an hour before sailing and up to an hour after returning. This will allow me to prepare for my guest and afterwards complete any paperwork resulting from my meeting."

The route and cost of the charter was agreed and Brady paid the bill in full. He returned to his hotel in a sunny frame of mind and set about finalising the meeting.

Two days later a smorgasbord feast was delivered. Three courses of the choicest, freshest food Wellington could produce, accompanied by a fine selection of local wines and beers. The hostess helped him set out the food and on his instruction, arranged trays for herself and the captain.

The 'Mana Lady' was a beautifully restored motor yacht. Brady admired her teak decking and elegant timbered interior, her sleek lines and her class. As always Brady was smartly dressed. His clothes gave him confidence. Only the best for the best and I'm the best, he always told himself. He had carefully chosen each item to complement the yacht's elegance. He'd slung a new opossum and merino sweater across his shoulders and knotted the sleeves casually over a Ralph Lauren stripped Rugby shirt.

Half an hour later Prez swaggered up. He was a big man, bulky, solid; an intimidating presence even without his dogs. His head was shaven and he was thick-necked. His hands and fingers were tattooed and Brady guessed that a good part of the rest of his body was similarly branded. Prez hadn't dressed up for the occasion and was wearing his usual black leather jacket, jeans and sweatshirt.

If the hostess was alarmed, she didn't show it. Her practised smile stayed in place and she escorted the man on board, offered him a drink and then left to cast off the mooring ropes. They never saw her again. Brady was relaxed and at ease in his role as the gracious host. Prez was clearly overawed.

"Hey man. This is a cool boat. Where're we going?"

"Over to The Sounds."

"Cool."

"Hope you like sailing?"

"Never been on one of these before. Been across on the bloody ferry of course but this is something different, eh. Bloody hell, I'm more at home on a bloody bike than on bloody water. But I'm cool with it." His wrap-around sunglasses masked his eyes and hid his unease. He exuded tough nonchalance.

"The kai smells good," he said as his stomach rumbled loudly. He took a long swig of beer and burped loudly. Brady hid his disgust, handed him a plate and gestured at the table.

"Help yourself."

They started lunch and worked their way through the courses.

The yacht sailed through the heads and out into Cook Strait. The swells were more noticeable as they moved away from the lea of the Island. With their hunger satisfied, they finished their coffees and the talk turned to the matter in hand. Brady's anger was carefully disguised.

"I hope you enjoyed our lunch?"

Brady's smile seemed to mock Prez. Brady could see that the movement of the ship and the rich food which he had provided were having the desired effect. Prez looked very uncomfortable. He removed his sunnies and small drops of perspiration appeared on his forehead. He was obviously not an experienced sailor.

"Now let's get down to business," Brady spoke brusquely. "You've demanded we renegotiate our agreement."

The man nodded and shifted uncomfortably in his chair as the yacht rode the swell. He's eaten too much, gloated Brady, and the movement of the sea's making him queasy. He looks almost green.

"This is my new offer. When you complete the job according to our earlier agreement we will increase your bonus by twenty-thou. Is that acceptable?"

Another twitch of his head acknowledged acceptance. Brady stood up, fished a pair of gloves from his pocket and squeezed his hands into them. He flexed his fingers thoughtfully then retrieved a steel box from a side cabinet. Solemnly he unlocked it. Inside was another box, this one protected by a keypad. He glanced at Prez and then moved to block his line of sight. He stabbed at the numbers, opened it and stepped aside signalling his guest closer.

Inside was a bag containing cocaine with an approximate street value of fifty-thousand dollars. He watched as Prez picked up the bag, judging its weight before he dropped it into an inside pocket of his leather jacket. A cocky grin flashed on his face. His nose widened and his nostrils flared. Brady noticed a missing molar. An agreement had been reached without any argument.

Brady pleasant expression changed. He glared at Prez belligerently until he finally looked away. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees as venom laced every word,

"You will do as agreed in our contract ... If I ever see you again your body will be fed bit by bit to the fish out here in the Strait and your gang will be destroyed. Don't underestimate the resources I have at hand to carry out my threat. I repeat; never again contact me directly. Do you hear me?... You will forget you ever knew me or met me. Do we understand each other clearly?" He moved closer invading the man's personal space, ignoring the smell of sickness on Prez's breath. His slow clear words poisoned with hostile malice. "Do you understand me?"

The yacht bounced about as the swell roughened. Behind his expensive clothes and conviviality Brady was as hard as steel and as dangerously sharp as a flick knife.

A strangled "Cool man!" was the most Prez could manage.

Brady picked up the intercom and ordered the captain to return to Wellington. Prez disappeared into the toilets and was violently ill. He emerged white-faced and spent the rest of the voyage outside. Unobserved Brady disposed of the steel boxes. They sank quickly.

The yacht docked and Brady's guest jumped onto the quay almost before it was properly moored.

Brady grinned grimly to himself. He poured another coffee and helped himself to more dessert. It had been an expensive exercise but he knew he would have no more trouble in that quarter. Prez has pocketed his severance pay. The gang would not get another dollar from him. It was all in the contract. No job, no final payment, it worked both ways. He removed the hidden camera and slipped it in his briefcase.

### CHAPTER 32

Pania was fed up. All she seemed to be doing was waiting. Waiting for George, waiting for news, waiting for leads. It was extremely frustrating. The nasty emails worried her too. For the last month there had been no progress on any front. Nothing further of interest was reported, no covert operations detected, not even rumours of rumours. The surveillance reports of Prez's landline and MOB calls were analysed and filed. Nothing of significance was noted. It was so boring and with each passing day the Forum opening loomed closer.

Then Pania took another call from Tom at Police Central.

"This might be of interest to you reef maiden!" She groaned theatrically and Tom laughed. "Remember Prez? Recently he travelled to Wellington, where he was observed boarding a chartered yacht which left the harbour for a cruise in the Marlborough sounds. We tracked its route and confirmed that they stooged about in Cook Strait. A strong southerly swell would no doubt have made the trip unpleasant. They returned some hours later. Bruno was waiting. He took photos of his quarry leaving the yacht. It had not been smooth sailing and he looked a bit green about the gills. Despite that he strutted down the wharf looking pleased with himself. Not quite Bruno's exact words but you get my drift. Because he left on his own, Bruno stayed in position and half an hour later he photographed another man coming ashore. The crew followed soon after. We questioned the girl and the captain and they confirmed the yacht had been chartered. The client had identified himself as Brady Ambler. He was probably American or perhaps Canadian and he'd paid in advance. He had one guest and the meeting had been private. They'd cruised into Cook Strait heading for some fishing in the Sounds when the trip was aborted on Mr Ambler's express orders.... Do you want us to do a follow-up?"

Pania thought for a moment chewing the end of her pen before she answered.

"I've made some notes; email your findings and attach the snapshots. I'll check them out and then get back to you. Thanks Tom I owe you one."

Who was Brady Ambler? Was this significant? She passed the name and photos to immigration and suddenly she had a wealth of information.

Brady Ambler, a US citizen involved with charity aid work, had been a frequent visitor to NZ. There were fifteen recorded visits in the last five years. According to immigration forms he had been in New Zealand to set up Change Makers, a new aid network, initially sponsored by ESAP. The date of his first visit seemed familiar. What was significant about that date?

Then Pania remembered. It had been the same time as their first Forum conference. She wondered if that was purely coincidental or was there some sinister connection. There was something else in the information before her that tugged knowingly at her. She read and reread the report, put it down and later she took it home. Finally the significance rested on the words 'Change Makers'. Rawiri had mentioned there was a Change Makers club in Minginui. She looked at the clock; almost quarter past nine, not too late to ring. She picked up the phone.

"Kia ora."

"Kia ora Mira."

"Pania! Good to hear you. How're things?"

"Fine Mira. How're things with you?"

"Yeah good."

"I'm following another hunch and wondered if Rawiri's free to talk to me for a few minutes?"

"Hang on I'll pass the phone to him."

Pania could hear Mira talking to Rawiri in a low voice.

"Kia ora Pania – how can I help?"

"Kia ora Rawiri. I've just received some information which has triggered my curiosity and you could say I'm following a line of enquiry." She laughed. "I have before me an immigration report concerning a certain Brady Ambler, allegedly the founder of Change Makers. I recall when I stayed with you and Mira that you spoke very highly of this organisation and its impact on your school community. I wondered if you still held that view."

"Brady Ambler? Change Makers? My view hasn't changed. Should it have?"

"I don't know Rawiri. This may not be related but Mira mentioned that some locals seem to have extra money to spend and are throwing it around a bit. I asked her if their parents were part of the gang scene. When this connection to Change Makers materialised and I remembered there was a club in your area, I put two and two together. Probably got five, hey? Still I wondered if those kids attend Change Makers or if their parents are involved?"

"I don't know the answer to that Pania."

A plan started to form in Pania's mind as she talked.

"Rawiri, if I could organise a daytrip for your pupils to Te Puia in Rotorua, could you do something for me? The boys could attend a carving workshop at Te Wãnanga Whakairo Rãkau and the girls could get some instruction in weaving at Te Rito. What do you think?"

"Depends what you want Pania. I won't do police work for you."

"No no. I just need some information. I can arrange for your school to visit on the tenth, eleventh or twelfth of September. To determine the best date I want you to arrange for all the parents to be rung and asked if they can assist with the trip on those dates and which date suits best. You'll need both men and women. I'd like a list of those parents who can't help and the dates when they are unavailable. If any parent provides an excuse I'd like to know that too. It would be really helpful if I got some sort of idea of who's who. Who's involved with gangs, Change Makers and which are the kids with money to burn?... I'd also like you to contact the organiser of your local Change Makers and ask if they'd be willing to sponsor the cost of one of the buses. I'll get you funding from 'Art in Schools' ... Would you do this?"

She waited. She imagined Rawiri considering her proposal. A trip to Te Puia would be a very attractive carrot and he'd be thinking of the kids. She knew that they would love the opportunities and the school would benefit from including parents. Hadn't he told her himself that he wanted to bring new skills back into the school community but would he be prepared to pay the price? She held her breath and crossed her fingers.

"Okay Pania you have a deal. When do you need the information by?"

"The end of the week! I should book the facilities as soon as possible. You need to decide on a date as well. Tomorrow you'll get a call from 'Art in Schools' about the funding. Do you know roughly how much the transport costs will be?"

"I'll get that tomorrow. I hope the information I get you is worth it. We will certainly get heaps of value out of Te Puia workshops and the kids will be over the moon."

Pania could hear the enthusiasm rising in Rawiri's voice as he warmed to the idea.

"Thank you Rawiri. I hope I get nothing from you and can eliminate the Change Makers link as incidental."

"I hope so too Pania."

"I'd better let you go, it's getting late. Thank you Rawiri. Give my love to Mira and a kiss for Ngaio. Haere Rã."

Pania hung up pleased with her inventiveness. Later that week she attached the report, photographs and immigration findings in her weekly email to George.

That week she noticed a change to the rogue emails which continued to drop into her inbox. They were full of slanderous, weaselly words which disturbed her with their venom. Pania kept a running total. She'd received eleven since Christmas; all from different addresses, all attacking George. This one was different. It was more specific and she was no longer the sole recipient.

### CHAPTER 33

George had had a busy week. He'd attended three different meetings in three different countries and arrived back home exhausted. He checked his emails and noted the one from Pania. It seemed a routine report so he left it for the morning.

The first thing George did the next day was print off the report and read it. It was routine. It referred in passing to the attachments and it was only much later that he had a spare moment to open them. As he read the immigration report his face lost all colour. He clicked on the jpg and Brady's face displayed on his screen. George stared at it, a knot of dread tightened in his stomach. Don't jump to conclusions - think, the inner voice of reason counselled. What's Brady been up to since college?

He made a couple of phone calls. While he waited he searched the internet. There was certainly a lot of information in the public domain regarding Brady, all confirming that he was clearly well respected and recognised worldwide as a man of integrity. There was not a single hint of scandal or criticism anywhere. Strange, George thought, not one negative report. Surely someone, somewhere had detected a flaw in this squeaky clean image? If now why did he have this festering sense of unease? Did it warrant further investigation? He weighed up the alternatives and made a decision. He flicked an email off to Pania. It was then that he saw the incoming email with his name in the subject-line.

The bruising pain in his belly returned. This was much worse than Pania's report. He felt sick and his head started to throb. It was sometime before he noticed her name on the email and realised that she had received a copy. For once his decision making powers deserted him. He couldn't ignore it and had no idea how to deal with it. Eventually he forced himself to compose a message to Pania.

### CHAPTER 34

Rawiri's report confirmed that both 'Change Makers' and 'Art in Schools' had agreed to sponsor the costs and that the eleventh was their preferred date. He commented that he was delighted with the uptake. Most of the parents had volunteered to take part and Pania was pleased to see that he'd included the excuses as she'd requested. She flicked through them. Some had previous commitments and were involved in a fundraising exercise in Wellington. The parents of one child had advised they had planned a holiday in the South Island from the third till the tenth but were available for the eleventh or twelfth. A little mark beside their names indicated their child was one of those with money to spend. She groaned with disappointment and although she knew it was unnecessary she jotted down their names on her desk pad.

When she passed them through the police computer system she learned that they were known dissidents, with a history of protest and civil disobedience. They'd taken part in various land marches and antigovernment demonstrations and had been investigated during the terrorist arrests in 2007 but no charges were laid and since 2010 they'd kept out of trouble. The information held was mildly interesting but had no obvious relevance to her investigation.

She contacted Te Puia and booked carving and weaving workshops for the eleventh, then rang Mira and confirmed the date of the booking.

"Please tell Rawiri everything's in order. I'm really grateful for his help. At least it removed one of my concerns. I'm sure it'll be the highlight of the school year."

"That's great Pania. I'll pass on your message to Rawiri. He'll be relieved and delighted. I hope this outing doesn't blow your budget eh."

Pania laughed. "No, it doesn't. Don't worry cuz. You should go with them Mira. You'd enjoy the weaving and learn heaps. They have excellent tutors and their workshops are really cool."

"We'll see. I'll think about it and if there's room on the bus maybe Ngaio and I will go. Thanks... and Pania... take care won't you?"

"Of course - I'm in no danger."

"We had a... fantail come inside the other day. I know it's superstitious nonsense but I felt spooked, as if someone walked over my grave. That night I dreamt about you and... you were surrounded by flames. I know it was only a dream and we don't believe the old myths but please cuz, be careful."

Pania shivered instinctively. A fantail inside was bad news, to be followed by a dream was surely coincidental. She shook herself. She didn't believe all those old wives tales. She turned back to her computer. There was an email from George.

She read it thoughtfully and hoped his assessment was right then she picked up the phone and called Tom.

"Remember Bruno's Prez? Can you bring him in for questioning? My UN colleague wants to clarify his relationship with Brady Ambler. He'd like to be able to eliminate them as potential security threats to the coming Forum. In particular, would you focus on the source of the money which he's been splashing around and follow-up on those rumours of a big job?"

"Geez Pania sounds like a waste of time and resources. The guy's a small time crook and drug dealer. We've been keeping our eyes on him and his mates as part of a wider narcotics investigation. He probably doesn't even know there's a Forum planned. Are you sure you have authorization?"

"I have and maybe it's a red herring but we need to eliminate him and Brady from our list."

"Well, if you're sure. I won't do anything without seeing the authorization forms."

"I'll send them through. My UN colleague also wants to know everything about Prez's meeting with Brady. You can use the photographic evidence to add pressure."

"That might take time. He won't like being interrogated. He knows his rights and we don't want to jeopardise our undercover operation."

"Damn it. Tell him you're not interested in him but in his sailing companion. Offer him immunity, whatever it takes to get the info. I'll get the legal documentation to you ASAP."

She put the phone down. She looked at the email again. So Brady's charity fundraiser image was for real. Surely that was not the full story? A second email from George arrived as she was still pondering. It was far more serious that the first and she wasn't sure that she should be waiting for him to arrive before acting. He hadn't put it into words exactly but she knew that George was really asking her to keep quiet, to protect him. It was an unsettling thought and she was disappointed in him, disappointed that he wasn't ready to trust her with the truth.

A week later Tom sent through the full Police report. She really did owe him a beer. It had taken hours, days of sustained interrogation and left new questions unanswered. The arrested man had been evasive, denying any knowledge of Brady Ambler, changing his story and then backtracking again. He was clearly hiding something and was also scared. In the end he'd tried to strike a deal and bit by bit it had come out. First the death threat from Brady and slowly what had caused it. Reading between the lines she realised Prez had probably threatened to blackmail the man but that he'd met his match.

Now, finally they had something, small clues pointing to a much larger unknown. The interrogators were satisfied their suspect did not know what the big job was or when it had been scheduled but were equally convinced that he was involved.

On the issue of Change Makers Prez was unhelpful. He had no kids, he insisted, so it had absolutely nothing to do with him. He resolutely denied any knowledge of the organisation or any links to its organisers. He never wavered and eventually he sat silent refusing to answer their questions until they changed the subject. Eventually he admitted he'd signed a twelve month contract with Brady, pocketed a retainer fee. To date he'd received seven monthly payments. In return, he had guaranteed his gang would be available at short notice for a big job. He'd also admitted to regularly receiving a quantity of narcotics. A final payment of double the contract value would be made if and when they completed their assignment.

Pania calculated the remaining months. The Forum dates fell uncomfortably into that timeframe. She still had no clearer idea of the extent of the potential threat or even whether it was linked to the coming Forum. She glared at the report in disgust. So much time and money and still their understanding of the big job amounted to zilch.

She forwarded the encrypted file to George. This time she gave the email a status flag. George would get it before he left for their next meeting. She registered an alert with immigration. Should Brady return to NZ she wanted to know about it the minute he passed through customs. She could feel the frayed edges of something else just beyond knowing.

### CHAPTER 35

At first it was just a faint prickly sensation felt at the back of her neck as if someone had breathed on her. Pania told herself it was nothing but the feeling continued to bother her. She never felt it inside, when she was at her desk or at home. It was outside in the street that she sensed it. She was being watched. It was a creepy thought. That faint puff of air had become eyes, cold eyes staring at her back, tailing her. Normally Pania would have ignored feelings without facts. Perhaps George's anxiety was getting to her or those emails and now this business with Prez.

When it started to dominate her thoughts and she found herself jumping at shadows, she knocked on Parsons door. Almost immediately she regretted taking him into her confidence.

"Come in Pania. How are you? You look a bit peaky."

"I'm fine really thanks but I think I'm being followed and I'd like some backup." Parsons stared at her.

"It's George isn't it? He's infected you with his constant harping. Who could possibly be following you? I mean you're not that important girl."

"This has got nothing to do with George. I'm not imagining it. I know I'm being followed. I don't know why but it's making me nervous."

"Take a few days off. You'll feel better after a break. The world won't fall apart if you're not at your desk for a couple of days. You're just tired. The mind plays strange games when it's tired."

"I'm not tired. I'm being followed and watched. I don't like it and I'd like backup."

"Sorry Pania I can't spare anyone. We're overworked as it is with the Forum so close. I think you're imagining it. You've listened to too many conspiracy theories. No-one's watching you. Why should they be? I'm sure it's nothing a holiday wouldn't fix."

She felt a rush of colour flood her face. Parsons was being particularly unhelpful. He'd used such a dismissive tone and, she was sure, would have patted her head if he hadn't been behind his desk. It was a long time since she'd felt so patronised. She'd gathered up her tattered dignity and fled to the privacy of her office.

She spent the rest of the morning deep in thought. She didn't know who they were, why she was being followed or what it meant. She just felt vulnerable. The thought that she might be in danger never entered her head, despite Mira's warning but she didn't like being spied on and wanted it to stop.

She rested her head in her hands and rubbed her eyes. She was determined not to give in to paranoia. She was a police woman for god's sake. She'd been trained. She remembered the lessons she'd learnt and practised when she'd been on the beat.

There were a few things she had to change immediately. She had to change her routines. Go to work at different times and by different routes, buy her morning coffee at a different café and change her lunch breaks. Never do anything the same, two days in a row. When she was out she needed to change direction often, retracing her steps as if she had forgotten something, pop into shops especially those with more than one entrance, check reflections and be observant.

She wondered what George would tell her to do. He liked things orderly and he liked to be in control and yet he was always telling them to expect the unexpected. He wasn't around to ask and Parsons had proved useless so she was it. Be alert, she told herself, the world needs more lerts! She laughed at herself. There's always a joke somewhere. Still she felt slightly better now that she had a plan. If only she knew what it was all about then she wouldn't feel so exposed.

### CHAPTER 36

The stress-ball in Fernando's fist sighed in time to the pressure exerted on it. Sometimes it seemed to hold its breath just as the watchers did whenever the cursor paused as if trying to decide which message to display. The team was gathered around the master screen as they watched the old system being turned off and the new software kicking into action. These pauses could mean that the system was in trouble or just that the amount of processing was slowing the machines slightly. The list continued to show that everything was progressing satisfactorily and as the last one appeared they all let out a collective sigh.

The new software had been running in parallel since May and exhaustive testing indicated that it would be a successful implementation. Fernando had been working on the project almost every day for four long years and his team had done it, on time and within budget. Now New Zealand had a series of new portals through which all electronic traffic passed. It was a massive enhancement. The new technology was several generations ahead of the old system and would improve speed and volume of data flowing in and out. Bottlenecks and downtime would be consigned to history. The implemented software was like a vast electronic brain which monitored and protected the flow of data into and out of the country, checking for threats and malware. Like ants in a nest it actioned a myriad of simultaneous tasks effortlessly. It erected security walls when necessary, diverted and contained suspicious data packages and analysed data for activities deemed of national importance. It was his baby and he was determined to closely monitor its first days.

The whole team was excited. They'd worked long hours to ensure a successful implementation and now they were ready to party. Normally Fernando avoided socialising but tonight he would join them to celebrate their achievements. The team's excitement had infected him.

It wasn't that he was unfriendly by nature; he just felt he had so little in common with these people, besides he did not want to risk making any friendships or getting close to any of his team. It was too late for that now. Soon, with the project bedded in, they would all be going in different directions.

He went home to change and in the privacy of his room, he sent Frank a text to confirm the successful installation. It was a habit now and he didn't give it a second thought. He removed the SIM, destroyed it and inserted a new card into the phone. He reminded himself that he had only to endure another three months and he'd be home. It felt good to be so close to leaving, job done, debt repaid. It would be wonderful to see his sister again.

Later in the evening after a few drinks he started to unwind. Everyone was in celebration mode and full of the joys of life. They were sitting around the table and unexpectedly the conversation focussed on Fernando.

"Hey Fernando what are you doing when your contract ends?"

"Me? I go back home."

"Where's home?"

"Bogotá, Colombia."

"Colombia, what lingo do they speak, Portuguese?"

Such ignorance! It irritated Fernando. "No Espanol - Spanish. Only Brazilians, they speak the Portuguese."

"Do you miss Colombia?"

"Si. I miss it mucho - I miss sister. She has baby I never seen. I miss ... "

A lump came to his throat. He missed the familiar Bogotá lifestyle, the street theatre and the night life, soccer and carnival. Even after four years he was still homesick for Colombia. He missed the sound of Spanish, the smells of cooking and the constant animated clamour. It was always cold and wet and grey. He faltered lost in self-pity. His obvious homesickness unsettled them. Someone changed the subject looking for neutral ground.

"What's Colombia like then?"

The silence prodded him. The questions made him nervous and he reeled off the facts to fill the silence and to stop the questions.

"Esta tropical ... mucho hot. In highlands esta cooler. On map it's at the top of Latin America, we border both el Pacifico y el mar Caribe. Los Andes run along ... la Costa Occidental ... so we lie along an earthquake fault just like your country and tanto ... both our capitals lie on a fault line. We have mucho grasslands and Amazon Rain Forest - en el sudeste." He stopped breathless, his words all tangled up as he tried to explain. He wanted to say that the people were alive and vibrant unlike dull provincial Aucklanders. He wanted to say that he despised their narrow outlook and their lack of passion. There was so much he could not say.

"Were you born in Bogotá?"

The question reclaimed his attention.

"No." The word was the same in both languages. Fernando hesitated. Normally he avoided talking about himself but the mood was carefree and as he looked around he saw familiar faces waiting expectantly. "No, I born in the country, on a farm in the province of Meda."

"What brought you to Bogotá?"

The questions seemed unstoppable and he plunged on.

"My parents, they killed by revolutionary forces at Mapiripan. It was a terrible slaughter. My sister and I, we walk to Bogotá. It take us a year then we live on street. We homeless. One day we find AOL food centre, then we have food and place to live. I already read and write but not good. I stop school at thirteen. So I go back school.

"First time I see computer. I became a nerdio. How you say? A nerd?"

They laughed sympathetically.

"I think nothing matter but computers. The teacher, he help me. I study mucho hard." He shrugged. "I pass exams. I go for university and AOL, it give me scholarship ... I graduate, get job. Now contrato, contact ... en Nuevo Zelanda. You know rest!"

They nodded. The topic of discussion and their attention moved on.

Fernando sat silent, letting the hum of words pass as he thought about going home. He could understand much more than his broken accent suggested. Being the focus of attention made him nervous and then words got mixed up. Nobody really noticed but whenever he needed to talk work, his English was perfectly adequate.

He thought about Frank, the American who'd changed his life, pulled him out of the gutter and believed in him. If he'd never met him he wouldn't be sitting here. It was Frank who had sent him back to school, where he attracted the attention of his teacher. ' _Settle down lad and work hard, keep your nose clean and stay out of trouble_.' Fernando heard those words often for he wasn't always a compliant student. Indeed he was often rebellious and yet he wasn't a real troublemaker and somehow he'd kept away from drugs. His sister depended on him and how could he ever forgot that terrible year? Study dulled the pain and it became his refuge.

On his sixteenth birthday Frank offered him a place in an outdoors pursuit course. The course had many purposes. Under the guise of adventure, fun and challenge it developed the skills and endurance of the participants. It also assessed their aptitude for clandestine work. Fernando proved to be perfect and already he possessed valuable skills learned during his long journey to the city. Slowly and surely they moulded and captured his mind. That course changed him. It gave him a fresh purpose and a new attitude. He returned to school refocused and started to excel in his studies. Frank showed his delight by securing an AOL scholarship for him. In 2006 when Fernando graduated with first class honours he became the pinup boy for AOL Colombia. He had also, under Frank's guidance, pledged his allegiance to the Chosen Way.

He started work, gained experience and a sound reputation in the field of network server applications. Two years later Frank suggested he apply for a New Zealand working visa and a network engineering contract. The position concerned the redesign and implementation of key software to drive New Zealand's gateway servers. It would control all international internet traffic pathways and was of national significance. The job would stretch him and he'd learn new skills, which he could bring back. It was an exciting prospect and things fell into place very quickly. Fernando had no time to wonder what he might be getting involved with. He'd allowed himself to be convinced almost against his better judgement but Frank had been very persuasive.

"Four years is a long time. Isn't there anything else? Perhaps I should wait for something shorter. What if I don't like it in New Zealand?"

"No no! You'll enjoy New Zealand. It'll be good for you to experience a different culture. Four years will fly. You'll see."

"Are you really sure?"

"Four years is nothing. You spent five years at University and you know how the time flew. This'll be the same, you'll see. Think of it as payback for all the support that AOL has given you."

"If you put it like that I guess it'll repay my debt to you and all those supporters who send you money. I don't really want to go but when I come back the ledger will be wiped."

"Atta boy! Now you're talking. This is a strategic job. It will give you a chance to make a difference, to change the world. It'll be your mission for The Chosen Way. You're the only one who has the skills and the heart to do it."

When he arrived in New Zealand he completed his first assignment. He bought a cheap prepay mobile phone, sent a brief text message to Frank then removed the SIM card and destroyed it. No-one could trace the message to him he was anonymous.

The weather was foul, cold, wet and windy for most of that first month. His sister tried to warn him but he never gave her words any serious consideration until he was feeling homesick and utterly sorry for himself. He missed her terribly. Still by then there was no turning back, no change of heart possible. Fernando did not like New Zealand and four years seemed an eternity. The only way to cope was to lose himself in his contract so with single-minded determination he focussed on surviving. He was strong and had overcome terror and hardship, now he learnt to endure another horror, the unhurried passing of time. He settled into his role and began the preparatory work, building his employer's trust. He worked long hours, started early and stayed late. Slowly but surely he made it a habit to take home papers and reports, specifications and data. At first it was purely practical, related to the work at hand, but on occasion, confidential information disappeared into Fernando's briefcase then returned early the next day. No-one noticed.

He was determined not to get comfortable and refused to socialise. Sometimes it was not easy for people continued to invite him to join them. His self-imposed isolation helped him minimise any sense of guilt, any sense of obligation to his employers. It made it easier for him to discard any thoughts that what he was doing was wrong. It wasn't as if he was throwing bombs or shooting people, he rationalised to himself. He was a Defender not an aggressor. No-one would die because of what he had done; besides he would never deliberately cause another's death. That was a line he would never cross.

Still he'd be glad to be finished with it all. Every year his private laptop was replaced by the latest model and its stored information retrieved and transferred by Brady to one or other of the ogdoad where it was mined for relevance to their secret projects. New instructions appeared on the replacement. When ordered, Fernando amended existing objects and classes and inserted the altered code into the new software. Small subtle changes here and there, changes which would lie dormant and undetected until triggered by some other piece of code. It was a very hands-off form of sabotage and he refused to consider what might one day happen. Even so, he despised his supervisors for their unthinking trust, for failing to detect his malware. It allowed him to sidestep those random pangs of guilt which intermittently assaulted him. They had brought it on themselves by their own incompetence and now, soon, he would see Frank again. He clung to the hope that he'd paid his dues in full and would start to live his life free from further obligations. He longed to be free to make his own decisions.

It was a wet, dreary afternoon in August and Fernando sat in the chilly internet café chatting with Frank. Most of the computers were unoccupied and the guy at the desk had his feet up, engrossed in his ipad app. The air smelt of stale coffee and popcorn. Fernando blew on his fingers to warm them while he waited for Frank's word to appear on the screen. At last he was going home. His flights were booked. He'd been pleased with the implementation and there had been no major crisis since cutover. He felt redundant, his continued presence more a security blanket than necessity and he couldn't wait for his contract to finish and return to Colombia. He looked again at the words Frank had just sent.

'You must be home by September 9. The party's about to start and we want you home.'

I'm cutting it fine, he thought and typed,

'No problem. My contract ends on the sixth and I'm booked to leave Auckland the next day. Should be home on the morning of the ninth. It can't come soon enough. You've no idea how long these four years have been!'

'You've done well Fernando - we're real happy with your work. Just make sure you keep to schedule. It'll be good to see you again. Have a pleasant flight.'

They shut down their link and he headed home. Until that last message from Frank, Fernando hadn't realised how soon his concealed code might be triggered. He certainly did not want to be around when the system crashed. Tendrils of fear and guilt coiled in his belly and his heart accelerated in anticipation.

### CHAPTER 37

Pania opened the email alert from Immigration. Brady Ambler had arrived back in New Zealand. She picked up the phone and rang Tom in Wellington Central. It took them a little time to arrange a tail and to obtain a permit to monitor phone calls and so Brady had several hours free of observation.

Blissfully unaware of the interest and activity his arrival had generated, he continued as planned. Walking into the arrivals hall he noted the sign with his name, identified himself and was given a set of car keys. His associate then disappeared into the crowd and Brady made his nonchalant way to the car park and located the rental. He unlocked the trunk and grunted, reassured to see that his orders had been followed. Eight identical briefcases lay under a checked picnic rug. He closed the lid and placed his luggage on the back seat. He stopped at the first shopping mall he passed to buy a cheap prepay phone and started to send text messages. He then drove to his hotel and dropped off his bags before leaving for his first appointment. He returned to the hotel for lunch. None of these activities were monitored.

The tail was in place outside the hotel when Brady left for his afternoon appointments. While under observation Brady addressed several meetings and met with the coordinators of Change Maker groups in the area. There was nothing unusual about his activities. Each evening the photos of the people whom he met landed on Pania's desk. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack but on the second day Pania had her first lucky break. She noticed that Brady arrived at a meeting with a briefcase and left without one. She went back over the previous day's photos. Six black briefcases had mysteriously gone missing or was there only one briefcase which mysteriously found its way back to him? It was worth investigating to see what was really going on. The tail was asked to obtain more photographic evidence. In the late afternoon of the third day he boarded a plane for the USA.

Knowing it was Brady's last meeting, police set up roadblocks, ostensibly testing breath alcohol levels. While Brady was on his way to the airport the police detained his last companion and confiscated a briefcase. It contained a large amount of money and a quantity of drugs secured in a smaller locked metal box. The woman was arrested and interrogated.

There was another lucky break. The tail had seen Brady remove the SIM and casually discard the phone into a rubbish bin along with his newspaper. He retrieved the phone. Even without the SIM card communication engineers were able to identify the phone signature. Soon they had a list of all the numbers Brady had called but none were registered. A trace was put on each number.

Meanwhile Pania had informed border control and asked them to pay special attention to Brady Ambler. His luggage was isolated and scanners examined the contents of the suitcases carefully. Drug detector dogs walked their noses over them and smear samples were taken. All the tests were negative. There was not one detectable whiff of cocaine or opiates and nothing unusual showed up on the scanner. Still Pania decided to ask their American counterparts to scrutinize Brady Ambler's activities.

The investigation continued. The rental car was impounded and subjected to forensic testing. The only finger prints they found belonged to the service agent who had inspected the car. Pania felt her suspicions flare and she was glad she had a photographic record of Brady's activities. Each of his contacts, several of whom were known to police, were identified and in coordinated raids they found themselves sitting in the back of a police car beside a burly uniform, escorted to the station and invited to assist with investigations.

### CHAPTER 38

The air hostess paused beside Brady, her professional smile in place. He looked very relaxed. He declined the champagne with a confident smile and ordered a single malt whiskey. When she returned with his order, he thanked her and winked. That cheeky wink distracted her from her routine and she felt herself colour. It presumed a degree of familiarity which he did not have. Passengers sidled around her looking for their seats. He took a lingering sip, his eyes locked into hers. She wasn't sure if he was appraising the single malt or her then he glanced away and she remembered what it was that she was supposed to be doing.

Brady was pleased with himself. The whiskey was mellow, the hostess pretty and everything was primed and paid for. Wages were in the paymasters' hands and each project had been given the green light and was now in countdown mode and out of his direct control.

Brady landed at Los Angeles airport after a very pleasant flight. As he presented his passport, recognition flashed in the officer's eyes who straightened his back slightly. He asked Brady some questions and spent considerable time looking at his computer screen. Out of nowhere an armed officer appeared. Brady was over 185 cm tall and looked down on most men but this officer seemed to tower over him by at least another 30 cm forcing him to tilt his head slightly to make eye contact. He noted the man's bulk and height, his rough skin and knew it had been a several hours since his last shave. His eyes were icy blue and his stare so cold that Brady shivered involuntarily. Immigration handed Brady's passport to the man. He studied it briefly.

"Mr Ambler?" he stated rather than asked. Brady nodded. "This way please."

"What's the issue officer?"

"Just a few questions sir. Now follow me."

Brady hesitated about to protest further when he felt the man's fingers grip his arm. He couldn't quite grasp why the officer was standing over him. He shook his arm free and tried a winning smile.

"I think it's best if you come quietly sir."

Brady nodded still trying to make sense of this unexpected interruption. They didn't have far to walk. The officer stood aside and Brady stepped into the small side room. It seemed that they were expecting him. Had he made a mistake, he asked himself or had he been betrayed? No-one knew enough to betray him, Brady was sure of it. So who or what had gone wrong? He was hardly concentrating as one of the officers read him his rights and despite his vehement protests he was arrested, handcuffed and escorted to the Los Angeles Police Cells. Since their tip-off twelve hours earlier, Brady's activities had been probed and his known contacts were being interrogated.

Wesley was one of the first to be interviewed.

He reacted with obvious dismay but had cooperated fully with the authorities, confident there was no substance to the allegations and no incriminating evidence linking him. The officers were somewhat overawed by Wesley's charismatic presence and found themselves inclined to agree. Some of the officers were ESAP supporters and one had been a PB for several years. ESAP was a hugely respected, true blue American company built on ideals of freedom and equality. It embodied all that was best about the American dream. That one of its leaders might be a closet terrorist was just too preposterous to swallow and they could see nothing about Brady which fitted the terrorist model. Still they had to investigate every accusation. Sniffer dogs were brought in and swabs taken and tested. The results came back clean, no chemical residue and no evidence of drugs or explosives in Brady's workplace or condominium. They completely their scene examination, thanked Wesley for his cooperation and left. He was pleased to see them go. He secured the door to Brady's office and returned to his desk but he was troubled.

Doubts squirmed about unsettling him. What was the man up to, he asked himself? Drugs - terrorism ... whatever next? It was altogether too far fetched. He hoped that Brady had not ... He firmly suppressed those dangerous thoughts. He'd trusted Brady with so much, hadn't asked any hard questions and now he hoped this would not be something he'd come to regret.

His mind flitted briefly to Plan B. Brady was not the only one with secrets. He'd listened carefully when the experts had advised him on managing risk. He briefly considered his emergency plans but he couldn't admit to himself the possibility of needing to go down that path. First he had to get his SIC released and back by his side. He wanted Brady to be free to celebrate the success of their long planned venture.

He picked up the phone and rang one of his VIP supporters to enquire who would best counter these allegations. By the time he hung up a crack legal team was being assembled and an application for Brady's release prepared. Despite his apparent confidence Wesley remained worried and uncharacteristically glum. The bond, on top of the funds which Brady had just delivered to New Zealand would empty ESAP's main account, tipping it into unauthorised overdraft. It was a temporary situation, he told himself. They would get it back. It was the first time this had happened and he felt confident that the bank would release the funds. No doubt they would charge a hefty fee for doing so. He grimaced at the thought and refused to fret over the consequences.

### CHAPTER 39

Brady stormed out of the LA Police Detention Centre without his passport. He made no effort to hide his rage. People were quick to step out of his way but he was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to notice. What grounds did they think they had? They wouldn't get away with it, he fumed. House arrest, that's what the conditions of his bail felt like; prohibited from leaving town and obliged to report in every day. It was humiliating! He felt like a common criminal. In a few days time they'd be forced to change their tune, he reasoned grimly. Someone would pay. That thought made him feel only marginally better. He flagged down a taxi, slammed the door hard and grunted out his destination. He caught the driver observing him through his rear view mirror and glared back. They rode in silence.

Brady's office door received the same rough treatment and the water in his fish tank rocked from the bang. The fish fled to safety hiding amongst water plants, rocks and ruins. He grabbed the phone and dialled. As he waited for the call to be answered his anger boiled.

"George these charges against me must be dropped."

He interrupted George's stutter.

"Don't play the fool George. You know exactly what I mean."

More stutter. Brady felt powerful.

"Then find the right people otherwise... If it's done, your secret's safe with me. We both know what I am talking about or do I need to be more specific?" Brady smiled grimly to himself. It was time to call in a debt or two. "By God I'll bring you down with me I promise. You have a week to fix it."

Brady felt better after shouting down the line at George. He felt he was back in control, giving orders and confident that his threats would be effective. Already his thoughts had moved on. The longer he sat at his desk the more his mood improved.

The fish came out of hiding. He watched an angel fish gliding past the glass, fiddled with the things on his desk, carefully rearranging them and admired his pens. No, not pens, they were his writing instruments. Events were counting down and nothing would stop his plans now. They would be successful. He should reward himself... a new limited edition Montblanc perhaps, or... a date with that hostess. He grinned as he remembered how he'd made her blush.

### CHAPTER 40

George's eyes skittered over the crowded departure lounge but no-one was paying him any attention. He kept his responses low and held his newspaper close to his mouth. He hated the way his voice sounded, thin like an over-stretched guitar string. The menacing words in his ear trapped him and he saw his future vanish. The phone clicked in his ear and the line was cut.

He was glad that he'd been seated when he took that call. It was almost a quarter of a century since he'd spoken to Brady on the phone and yet the instant he'd heard "George!", he'd recognised the voice and sensed danger sweeping towards him. His body reacted; blood ebbed away leaving his face ashen. His face muscles locked and his teeth ached. Now reaction set in. The woman sitting along from him must have felt the bench begin to shake because she looked up.

"You all right?" she asked gawping at him.

George ignored her, still trapped in Brady's threats. They were only words, he told himself, a few electronic waves surging down a telephone wire and yet he could feel that wire tighten around his neck, constricting his airways. He caught a whiff of his own fear, a sharp unpleasant smell. It swirled around him and seeped from his skin. He could taste it at the back of his throat.

I haven't done anything wrong. It wasn't my fault.

Like a mantra the words repeated in his head but they lacked conviction and left him troubled. No matter how hard he'd tried, he could not forget. For twenty-four years those memories had played hide and seek in his mind, never buried for long. Brady had not forgotten either. If he obeyed he'd be safe. That thought too lacked real conviction. He would never be safe and George knew it. This wasn't his first warning. Subconsciously he'd known that time was running out from the moment he'd opened that email. He was on notice that one day, perhaps sooner rather than later, his secret would be exposed. He felt crushed and hopeless, as if the light was being squeezed out of his life.

Why had Brady chosen this moment from all the previous hundreds of thousands? What had changed? He couldn't think. When the facts were made public everything would change. He could almost feel his hands manacled behind him, almost hear abusive shouts of scorn and disgust and see the darkness of his cell.

The loud speaker crackled, advising passengers that boarding was commencing. George sat. He stared blankly at the newsprint he was hiding behind. His thoughts raced chaotically. How had Brady got his number he asked himself? Yet it was as if he'd been expecting that call. Brady had been stalking the fringes of his mind for some time.

Gradually the room emptied. The woman beside him stood up. She made her way to the check-in and spoke to the hostess. George became aware that they were staring at him and whispering. Their scrutiny added to his discomfort and he forced a smile on his face. It made him look worse. Shaken and feeling sick in his stomach, he pulled himself together and made his way to the counter.

"Are you all right sir?" the hostess asked as she checked his boarding card and passport. He nodded. "You look upset sir." She placed her hand lightly on his arm. Instinctively he flinched. "Is everything okay?" He felt her eyes scrutinizing him.

"Um... I just got a phone call, ma'am, with some... um bad news. I'll be okay. Thank you. It's the sh-shock." He stared at the passport in her hand willing her to return it. She hesitated. The stragglers behind him were getting impatient. He caught the edge of her nod and grabbed his documents.

"Enjoy your flight Mr Ritmeyer," she said and turned to look at the next passenger.

George had never felt this bad before a flight. Normally he enjoyed flying. His UN responsibilities took him far and wide. Being free to travel was part of his job description and he put the idle hours to good use. Without phone interruptions he could concentrate. At least Brady wouldn't be able to get hold of him, he told himself. He needed to plan and prepare for the meeting. His visit would be brief, an overnighter, planned meetings, a hotel bed and then onto the next flight. For the first time in his life he longed for the familiar comfort of home.

He continued down the ramp. The corridor sloped unevenly and he tottered as if drunk. He felt bile rise in his throat and was thankful that he hadn't eaten recently. Thoughts scuttled frenetically in his head. He had absolutely no control over them. What had Brady said? A week? He had a week. A lot could happen in seven days. The words skittered away. He needed to sit and grow calm.

"Excuse me sir." The deep voice startled him. He hadn't noticed the security officer watching him but now his eyes fell on the man's large hand hovering over his gun.

"If you'll come this way please."

### CHAPTER 41

George sank with a relieved sign into his seat. It had taken time to persuade the security officer that he posed no risk to the flight. In the small side room he'd been obliged to walk through the x-ray detection system. Not reassured by the machine's humming silence he had had to endure the guard's big hands, his cabin bag and pockets turned inside out and his breath analysed. Even then he was not cleared. The officer had insisted on ringing the UN. George had had to answer several security questions before they would confirm that he was who he was. When the hostess was finally permitted to escort him to his seat, the waiting passengers had glowered at him impatiently. One or two even clapped. He felt humiliated.

The plane finally taxied along the smooth runway. He rested his head against the chair and closed his eyes to shut in his panic. It looked as if he was trying to unwind. Most of those in the cabin appeared to be similarly occupied. Few were able to relax fully until the huge belly lifted. Now that he was on his way the waves of panic began to wash over him again. Despite twenty-four years his body reacted in exactly the same way. He shivered as the evaporating sweat cooled his body temperature. His head pounded. He could feel the throb under his eyelids and behind his eyes. It was impossible to think coherently. He needed a friend to tell him what to do, but he had no-one. He'd made that mistake then but this time he knew there was no-one. His friend had become his enemy. He was a stupid, stupid fool to have ever relied on Brady and what really happened? What had Brady done to fix it? George wished he knew. For years he had refused to open that can of worms, refused to face reality. There was no security in ignorance. His work had taught him that and yet he'd continued to ignore the facts. Now the threat had returned and it was as if he had learnt nothing. He still had an overwhelming instinct to bury his head in the sand and pray it never happened. It hadn't worked then, despite what he had believed and it certainly wouldn't work now.

An image of Pania floated into his mind. Sometimes his imagination was overactive. He sighed to himself and at the same time felt his spirits lift at the thought of her name. There was Pania walking through his mind, so close he could almost smell her fragrance. He saw her draw her eyebrows together in a frown and heard her say his name with such sad disappointment. He was a miserable cad. She'd believed in him, despite the emails and the intimidation she'd believed and now he would prove her wrong. A coward that was all he was, he berated himself. The belt tightened across his lap as he tried to stand up and it reminded him of where he was. The seatbelt light above him glowed. The plane was still climbing. He had plenty of time to work things out. He sank back.

The plane landed and George exited. He was met by an English-speaking official who escorted him to the conference centre. He knew no-one and although he looked grey with exhaustion and worry lines crossed his forehead no-one commented. He felt as if he was walking in a bubble. Voices seemed distant and faint. Everything seemed to have slowed down. He just had no energy and despite his efforts he couldn't shake his inertia. By evening his mind was dead-tired and he hardly remembered the events and decisions of the meeting. He fell onto bed, into a dark, restless sleep.

In the early morning he woke, no more rested than when his head hit the pillow. His bladder demanded action. He forced himself up. His tongue felt thick and his throat raw. He had an unpleasant taste in his mouth. The sound of water flushing reminded him that he was awake. His bladder felt better. For a long moment he stared at himself in the bathroom mirror the hot water running unchecked over his hands. He did not like what he saw. Untidy hair framed a grey, unshaven face and his eyes stared dully back at him. He grabbed his toothbrush and spread peppermint gel over the bristles. After brushing vigorously he looked into the mirror again and pulled back his lips to check his teeth. His mouth tasted better and his teeth were clean. He poked his tongue out. There was less white fur showing. Feeling more like himself, he padded out to the lounge to check his emails. Amongst the usual batch of work related memos was one from E Redpath.

### CHAPTER 42

Thanks to the late Denzil Jackson, the Blast Gang was trained for the job and had a hidden store of explosives at hand. Like all the other of Brady's projects, the cell leader had meticulously planned and analysed every detail of their task. It was like a drama production, stage managed by the producer, each act scripted in great detail.

North of Pukerua Bay Boy, a patched Hells Angels member, was in charge of the action. No-one ever mocked him about his name for he had an explosive temper. He had big hands, wide across the knuckles and when clenched in a tight, hard fist, the tattoo on its back graphically boosted its menace. Both hands were loaded with heavy gothic-style rings. Few were foolish enough to test that combination of bone, metal and force and none tried twice.

The only other patched member was the explosives expert. He answered to Bomb, not because he was a bomb expert but because as a child he had been able to make the biggest splash jumping into the school swimming pool. The nickname had stuck. The others in the team were prospects. Bomb was responsible for calculating the quantity of explosives needed, directing where to place it and when to detonate. Their allegiance was to the gang.

Every night for a month Boy had recorded the number of cars and commercial vehicles passing the rocky corner just north of Pukerua Bay. The road was the main route out of the city. One of only two exits it tracked along the Pukerua fault. It was a lonely job and cold, especially when the southerlies snapped in off the sea. At first he found it hard to sit still but by September he looked forward to the dark quiet nights. When it was clear he gazed at the stars amazed at their number for he had never taken the time to look up. Maybe he'd see a UFO but in that month there was nothing unusual apart from an occasional shooting star. No-one saw him. Traffic flows were light and few people drove along the unlit strip of road between three and five. No trains passed during his watch and he had come to the conclusion that managing the traffic was child's play.

Below his lookout spot, the road twisted around the rocky outcrop and followed the coastline squeezed between cliff and sea. At that point the railway line, which tracked above the road passed through a small tunnel. It was a rugged stretch of land, uninhabited. The hillsides were too steep for agriculture and the sparse vegetation clung close to the ground, cowed by the bitter, salt drenched, gales.

From his lookout Boy could see the dark angular crags jutting up above the rocks, foam-washed and sparkling as moonlight reflected off the spray. The sharp silhouette was a visible reminder of the land's violent past. His old grandmother had retold the myths of his people so many times that her stories had a ring of truth. She told how Maui had dropped his hook overboard and dragged up a giant fish which became the North Island. Fearful of the gods' anger he left his brothers and his catch to seek pardon but his brothers were impatient. In their greed they pounded deep gashes into Maui's fish, which twisted and writhed in agony. Its death throes left sunless gullies and ragged scrapes. Sometimes, she had whispered as if she feared the gods were listening, her words no more than puffs of breath. Sometimes the great fish still shudders remembering their blows. The shadows shifted about him and for a fleeting moment he was aware of the land's agony and his own insignificance.

Boy shook himself. It was only myth. Time and the city had tamed this place. Its scars were long buried under gardens and houses, roads and bush. Nature had eroded the hilltops exposing fractured greywacke rock while roads cut into the steepness or circled hillsides along ledges and through tunnels.

A car drove past and he dragged his attention back to counting. He felt the land sigh as if in sleep and heard the waves break against the rocks below him. It was a perfect spot, the perfect plot.

Unknown to him other teams were similarly active, each operating in isolation, each ignorant of the overall plan.

### CHAPTER 43

The name _E Redpath_ meant nothing to George and the subject line held one seemingly enigmatic word. Reminder. The mail contained attachments. George opened it. Its message was brief.

' _These will be sent to Pania Morrison at midday on the 8th. If you do not meet the deadline they will then be forwarded to the UN._ '

Rashly he clicked on the attachments. The photos were graphic, perfectly clear and date stamped. It was as if a bomb had exploded. A pounding roar of white noise deafened him. For a moment he could hear nothing, neither the traffic outside his room nor the ticking clock above the TV. The images were burned into his retina. He felt his heart lurched irregularly and his airways contracted leaving him painfully breathless. A shot of the ... that girl, another of... The pictures slapped him about making him giddy. He fumbled for his inhaler. It was utterly condemning; evidence he'd never dreamt existed. Two quick puffs. He held his breath allowing the chemicals to settle and ease his congested airways. He felt trapped, hunted and damned. It took a moment for him to see the deadline, midday on the eighth and another much longer moment before he saw the implications. That would be seven am New Zealand time and it would be the ninth there not the eighth. He would be just arriving in New Zealand and he'd be on the spot to deal with the fallout. Face to face with Pania he could deal with this. Perhaps, if Lady Luck smiled, they'd be so busy that Pania wouldn't have a chance to check her emails before the Forum started.

His resolution wavered and then strengthened. If Brady thought he was an easy pushover then he'd miscalculated. With evidence like this, George knew that he would never be truly free until he faced up to his past. He shrank from counting the cost. Whatever he did the consequences were equally grim.

He glanced at his watch. He didn't have time to brood. He had another flight to catch. Knowing there was nothing he could do seemed to calm him and he started to get himself ready for check-out.

George removed his new blue-grey suit from its plastic bag and laid it out on the bed then removed the packaging from a shirt and tie. He placed them beside the suit and stepped back to assess his new look. Everything had been bought in the same store. The minute he'd looked at the rack, this suit had caught his eye. The fabric and the colour had been different from the others. Irish linen, the assistant had said sneaking up on him, wonderful natural fabric, fabric that breathed and the texture of the weave was quite unique. George had seen that. The assistant had quickly selected the shirt and tie, insisting that there was no better combination in the store and then had offered George some classy cufflinks at half price. On impulse he'd bought those too. They would bring good luck, the assistant promised. He needed that now. George cast a critical eye over the items and was satisfied that he would look much smarter than usual. He removed the tags and stepped into the shower.

When he was dressed he stopped in front of the hotel mirror and hardly recognised himself. He looked like a successful executive. The suit hung beautifully in crisp, stylish lines. He tried a stiff smile and pulled his fingers through his damp hair. Would Pania notice, he wondered frowning at himself.

### CHAPTER 44

As the Gate lounge filled, George peered over the top of his newspaper observing his fellow travellers. It was one of his amusements, this study of human foibles. He liked to catch glimpses of the little clues which told him so much about his fellow travellers. He could tell who was nervous and who blasé; could distinguish between the novice traveller and the frequent flyer, the business person, the holidaymaker and the man going to a funeral. He also kept a wary eye out for terrorists and was thankful none had yet chosen to travel on his flights.

In the corner he could see several men deep in earnest discussion. Their dark, expensively tailored business suits marked them out from the rest of the passengers. Automatically he identified them as delegates. A row of restless assistants sat nearby fussing over their hand luggage and several beefy athletic types stood with their backs to the group. Bulked up by bullet vests and aggression, they were the easiest to label. Were they armed, he wondered? Their weapons would be well hidden before they landed. It was a game they played with immigration and security, these private armies so detested by Kiwis. He could picture Parsons' pleasure should their subterfuge be uncovered and they were denied entry or their arsenal confiscated. There would be no diplomatic incident; it would be handled firmly but discreetly. Still Parsons would refer to it later in satisfied tones.

The men constantly scanned the room looking for trouble. George ducked behind his paper. The eyes of one of the bodyguards raked towards him and he sensed that he'd become a target of interest. He started to read the article. It was in Spanish but it might as well have been in Martian. After what he deemed was a suitable time, he turned the page and risked a glance up. The man's attention had moved.

He wished that fate would similarly move its attention away from him. Where would the sword of Justice fall when his life was weighed in the balance? Would his work against terror outweigh his involvement in the cover-up? His phone vibrated in his pocket telling him that a text had been received. He lowered his paper and unlocked his phone.

The text was from E Redpath. 'I know where the girl is. ' E Redpath was obviously connected to Brady. No-one else knew what had happened to the body and locating her body would damn him in the eyes of the law. It was almost as if he had no emotions left. He had a sense that his remaining life was following a preordained path, with only one destination. Nothing could shock him anymore he thought.

The boarding call came and he watched as people lined up, keen to board. The crowd of delegates hung back until the lines shortened then they too joined the queue. George watched and waited. They wouldn't leave without him and he was in no urgent hurry to take his seat. For the next 12 hours he would be safer than Jonah in the whale. Stragglers were hurrying towards check-in. The last of the delegates had disappeared down the ramp and George folded away his paper. He had his passport and boarding card in his hand when his phone rang.

For a moment George was tempted to ignore the call. Both the insistent ring and the agitated vibration made this difficult. He answered curtly intending to keep the call short and recognised Brady's voice immediately. Adrenalin-fuelled fear surged through him and he held his breath as he struggled to hear the words above the pounding in his ears.

"I'm sure you know what to do George but if you can't make up your mind perhaps this'll help. If you miss the deadline, I've arranged a little entertainment, a mishap or two for your girl friend." George sat up in shock and strained to listen. "We've been watching Miss Pania Morrison and believe you me, she's an easy target. We know where she lives and where she works. We know when she will be at the airport and the route she'll take." His eyes darted about as if looking for the exit. The room was almost empty of people and anything he said would carry. He forced himself to breathe regularly. "What's the trouble ... dragon got your tongue?" A barking laugh sounded in his ear. Still he held his silence. "You think you have everything under control? You don't know nothing. I know everything. I tell you, nothing in your wildest dreams comes even close to what we have planned. You'll wish you'd never left America. You and your precious UN." Brady was gloating. George heard it creep into his voice. He also heard Brady's mocking scorn. The man made no effort to disguise his feelings. "Maybe you can stop it and then again maybe not. Nothing's guaranteed anymore. Just remember whose safety is in your hands. You don't want a second death on your conscience."

There was a click and the line was cut. George was left staring stupidly at the cell phone. The final boarding call came and he forced himself to act normally. He did not want a repeat of his previous boarding attempt. The UN might start to ask more questions if they were again called upon to vouch for him. He took several deep breaths and calmed his thumping heart then he stood up. He was slightly pale but he managed to smile at the attendant and make his way on board without attracting unwelcome attention. He followed his usual settling routine, shook out the airline blanket, switched his phone to flight mode and checked the in-flight magazine for distraction options.

The cabin shook, the engines roared and the big plane began its slow taxi to the runway. It waited in the queue. George sat with his eyes closed waiting for liftoff. Dimly he became aware of exclamations of alarm on the far side of the plane. The pilot's calm voice crackled overhead. He apologized for disruption to their takeoff procedures. Unfortunately the aircraft was experiencing mechanical issues but the flames passengers might have spotted on the right wing were of no real concern, merely an overheated engine.

They returned to the terminal and waited, half an hour, an hour. The time passed slowly and the cabin grew hotter. The stewards passed around paper cups half filled with tepid water. Passengers muttered and grumbled. George's anxious thoughts were interrupted as the sound system crackled. Engineers, explained the pilot, were having difficulty solving the problem and in the interests of passengers and crew a decision had been made to disembark. Everyone groaned with disappointment.

George felt events piling on top of him. The external door opened and the cabin emptied in a reluctant confusion of noisy activity. George grabbed his briefcase, papers and other belongings and joined the throng of grumbling passengers. The burly bodyguards looked tense. They did not like unexplained disruptions to their schedules and considered anything out of the ordinary a possible threat to their charges. The VIPs were herded together into a tight, nervous group by their restless minders. George knew that under these circumstances, they would act first and ask questions later.

### CHAPTER 45

The keys of the three almost identical black 4WD Toyota rentals were collected from the desk at Christchurch Airport. The girl staffing the booth had been busy all day and had taken no special notice of her customers or the rentals they hired. She checked that names, licences and credit cards matched the bookings. She swiped their cards and obtained their signatures. No booking or customer stood out as unusual or memorable.

Kaikoura locals were so used to tourists that three black 4WD Toyota's with tinted windows were virtually inconspicuous amongst the herd of parked campers and on that very ordinary day, the fourth of September 2014, no-one paid any attention to the quiet group sharing a café table. Every day thousands of tourists passed through Kaikoura attracted by whales and other marine mammals but these visitors had other things on their minds. When John and Mary Smith, Jason and Liz Brown and Tony Green stopped their rentals in the public car park, their names had already changed from those printed on the rental agreements. They acted with relaxed intimacy, but they were complete strangers. They'd been ordered to keep their real identities hidden, even from each other and each carried several false identities, forged driver's licenses and travel tickets to match. They had been instructed to use each identity only once, to discard clothing, change hair colour and style, and by the time they got to their destination they had become Manu and Maree Kirangi, and Josh and Annie Grantham. The fifth member became invisible.

The road from Blenheim passed through open country until it reached the sea and turned sharply to follow the coastline. It squeezed between the manicured green of the golf course and the wild surf-washed shore until it passed between Rarangi and a stony beach. Leaving the town, the road turned inland and twisted up into the native forest. Beyond Rarangi the hills folded into each other, unsuitable for farming and too rugged for houses.

You could hardly describe Rarangi as a town. It was just a straggling cluster of modest cottages strung out along the shingle bay. A few had been converted into permanent residences and so it was slowly getting a name as a place to retire to when you wanted to escape the hustle and bustle of Blenheim. Some rented out their houses visiting only in high summer when Marlborough was hot and dry and the sea breeze refreshing. For the rest of the year it was a lonely, windswept, deserted place.

Solo mum Jennifer lived with her 15 month old daughter in her grandparents' bach in Titoki Street. She managed the neighbouring property for its owners, greeting the holiday makers when they arrived, inspecting it when they left and keeping it clean and tidy. It was not onerous, especially in winter when visitor numbers were few. Often she had little to do but air the house on sunny days. Her duties paid for her groceries and gave her a financial reason for staying in Rarangi besides she enjoyed living on the coast away from the retail distractions of city life. The colours of the sea and the sky changed constantly and inspired her. She sold her distinctive paintings at the little art gallery in Renwick.

As she prepared the new canvas she had a clear view of the driveway next door. She would not miss the arrival of the new guests. Little traffic passed her house and before they came into view she heard the sound of a slowing engine. She had plenty of time to take off her paint splattered smock, pick up the baby and the keys before the cars stopped outside. She was outside before they had even opened her gate.

"Hello, have ya come for the key? I'm Jennifer and I'll show ya around the house. This here's Em."

Em hid her face in Jennifer's shoulder and peeped shyly at the visitors.

"Hi Em. Thanks Jennifer, we'd appreciate that. I'm Maree. This here's M-Manu, Annie and J-Josh." Jennifer caught a faint hint of uncertainty. Perhaps his name wasn't Josh, she suddenly thought, or maybe Maree was just nervous. She smiled a warm welcome and nodded.

"Pleased to meet ya. Just drive in ... there's plenty of room at the back for yer cars. I'll open up."

They drove in, parked then followed Jennifer as she led the way, dashing off instructions.

"Here's the BBQ, the gas bottle's filled. Ya need to turn on this tap here when ya want to use it and please turn it off when yer finished. Just take the cover off the Spa when ya wanna soak. It's very relaxing and always warm. The towels are here. Yer on tank water but the tanks are full so ya don't need to worry about water usage."

They followed her into the house.

"There's the information directory. It's got heaps of brochures and cool information for visitors... Have ya used a pellet fire before?"

They all shook their heads. They listened as she explained its operation and showed them where extra bags of pellets were stored.

"Before I go, can ya fill out our arrival form please?"

The man called Manu took the clipboard and pen. They sat straight-backed waiting for the sound of his pen on the paper to end.

"Thanks," she said. "Here's my mobile number in case ya need anything and I'm not at home." She wrote it on the top of the client copy and handed it to them. She beamed at them.

"I hope ya all have a wonderful stay. We're a bit sheltered from the southerly. Marlborough's lucky to have a micro climate and so the weather should be dry for most of the week."

They followed her out and waited by the cars as she walked down the drive and disappeared next door. Em had waved happily at them watching from her vantage point over Jennifer's shoulder.

They were staying for a week and so unless they needed something, the rest of the week was hers. Her kitchen overlooked the parking area and as she filled the kettle she could see them starting to unload the cars. She wondered about the visitors. She liked to imagine their everyday lives in far away cities. Still this four hadn't said much. Most tourists were only too happy to chat but these were like grumpy teenagers and there was something odd about them. They had an unlikely look. She couldn't quite explain it to herself. Geeky glasses but the guy looked more like a tight prop than a swot and one of the women had dyed her hair. It had been done recently and Jennifer had noticed the stains on her neck and hair line and on her hands. Then one of the men was definitely wearing a wig. His cap had perched oddly on the mop looking a size too small. She giggled to herself, men were so vain. The rap beat and deep bass thump of the car radio drowned their conversations and pulsated through into her kitchen. She was glad when they were finally inside, and she could again hear the steady drum of the waves against the stony beach. It wasn't that she disliked rap, she just preferred the sea filled silence.

The next morning Jennifer was washing the breakfast dishes when she heard them loading the car. Her tourists were making an early start. The back door banged shut followed by four separate clunks as the car doors slammed loudly. The engine started and they disappeared down the road. An hour later the car returned and one man got out and went inside. She couldn't tell if it was the geeky one or the wig. Later in the afternoon she heard the car leave again and return an hour later, this time with all four visitors. It appeared they had had a great day out and music, laughter and snatches of conversations could be heard all evening. At eleven the lights went out and silence returned. The next day followed a similar pattern. She wondered at their comings and goings spinning an imaginary itinerary.

It was on the third night that Jennifer first became suspicious. Em was teething and woke crying. Jennifer picked her up and rocked her. The moon was high and she had not turned on any lights. She stood near the window looking out onto the street cooing quietly to Em when she heard a car drive past and into the house next door. It had no lights and as it turned into the drive the engine was switched off and it glided to a stop behind the other two. The car door opened and shut very quietly and a shadow disappeared into the house. It was after twelve. When Jennifer got up to make Em's breakfast there was no sign of the third car. It was as if it had been a dream. She forgot about it in the busyness of the day.

That night she slept lightly and woke as soon as she heard the car pass. She got up and peered through the curtains. It was an exact replay. There was something odd going on. She felt uneasy spying on them in the middle of the night.

### CHAPTER 46

Pania arrived in her office earlier than normal. She'd been varying her routines and this morning there had been no hint that she'd been observed. It would be a busy day. Tomorrow George would arrive and by then the opening ceremony would be a mere 24 hours away. She was tense with stress and felt she was constantly crossing her fingers to ward off trouble. She stirred her coffee as she waited for her system to boot. The machine was sluggish as if it didn't want to start but at last the log-on screen displayed, she typed in her ID and password and waited. Gradually the icons displayed and finally the cursor. She opened her emails. There was one from E Redpath but the attachments had been stripped. There was no message so she had no idea what they were. She rang IT requesting their release. For the rest of the morning she was frantically busy and it was lunchtime before she had a free moment to check her emails again. The attachments were waiting.

She opened them and stared in fascinated horror at the images. In the first, she recognised George – a younger and by the look of it, very drunk George – with a girl who was, she thought, rather striking; long dark hair, a small fine featured face and stunning body. The photo was ordinary. Two students looking worse for wear. The others were different. It was the same girl but everything in those snaps was dark and grim. There was no doubt in Pania's mind what she was looking at or that George was involved. The attachments were damning and she remembered the words in that Christmas email. It was a very neat stitch-up. Had her judgement of George been so wrong, she asked herself? She couldn't believe it. She liked George and she was usually good at picking up on inconsistencies. Perhaps her emotions were blinding her. If she had been wrong then she knew exactly what she needed to do and she would do it. These files would be passed on and in the hands of the proper authorities they would provide almost enough evidence to convict him; certainly enough to detain him.

For a long time Pania sat lost in thought. She was faced with two scenarios; either it was a setup or it was real. She had to decide which option she favoured and what actions she would take.

### CHAPTER 47

George stumped up the ramp back into the departure lounge. It swarmed with disgruntled passengers who quickly scattered their cabin bags and backpacks. He picked his way over the shambles and found a spot as far away from the VIPs and their protection squad as he could. He slouched in the plastic chair and ignored the conversation flowing around him. Instead he opened his briefcase and took out his ipad. He tried to put himself in Brady's shoes. What might the man have planned, he wondered, and why? As he googled he was struck by the number of organisations which claimed ESAP as their founder charity yet on its own website little mention was made of these offshoots. Google made the links. There was AOL in Colombia and APW in Pakistan, Change Makers in New Zealand and Making Changes in South Africa, the list went on. George laboriously started to follow the links. He noted each organisation on his pad and joined up the networks. Then he started with names. People moved about. It seemed that workers in one organisation were promoted to another seemingly unrelated charity. George followed their progress and linked the organisations until his page was a riot of squiggly lines. He stared at his jottings. They formed a rather complicated and untidy web, as if made by a spider on speed. Snug at the centre of the web was ESAP. The black intersecting threads did not look reassuring. George shuddered. For an instance, he felt like an arachnophobe.

He turned his attention to Facebook. Most of the names he searched for had no Facebook pages but amongst those who did, George started to notice some common themes, phrases and words; not obvious enough to be noticed by the casual observer but George was no longer casual. He was looking for connections. He followed his instincts. George was starting to see a faint pattern. Quite what he thought he saw was not yet clear. Maybe with time the dots would connect. George closed his eyes and stopped thinking. He concentrated on the empty void and freed his subconscious to make the connections.

His phone vibrated, waking him from his contemplation. There was a new text, this time from Pania. Just seeing her name filled him with pleasure and he vowed to himself that he would protect her if it was the last thing he did. He accessed her message and his earlier pleasure vanished. E Redpath had meant NZ time and not local time as George had assumed. Pania had received the attachments. With a dejected shrug he vowed to concentrate only on the moment and ignore the worries of the past or the future; easier said than done. He turned his phone off. He needed to understand that elusive pattern and his mind was very tired.

### CHAPTER 48

The mechanics and engineers finished whatever it was that they were doing and the plane was declared fit for flying. A new crew arrived and amid tired cheers the passengers began reboarding.

George found his seat and looked around. Last time he'd been too tense to notice where he was or who his neighbours were. Now he found himself in the middle of the suits. He smiled across at his neighbour who was already enjoying his complementary drink.

"Por fin," the man said with a tired sigh. George nodded.

"At last indeed."

"You're Americano?"

George nodded again. "Hope this delay hasn't ruined your plans?"

"No no. It just means we miss some pre-conference briefings. No importa."

"You must be one of the delegates. Are you going to the ROAR Forum?"

"Si. I'm in the South American delegation." He swelled with pride. "You know about ROAR? Are you a delegate too?"

"No," George answered. "I'm not but it's an important conference."

"Si. We will make a difference. This Forum will be the beginning of a new world order."

Suddenly all George's senses were on the alert.

"Have you been to New Zealand before?" The plane left the ground and both men felt a lightness that comes at takeoff. The wheels bumped as they folded into the plane. It continued to climb. The man shook his head and drained his glass. George held out his hand. "I'm George Ritmeyer by the way. Pleased to meet you."

"Diego Moreno. Department of Commerce."

Diego was happy to chat. George only had to ask a question and make listening noises. The hostess passed regularly and Diego had progressed from champagne to Scotch on the rocks. George stuck to water. Their conversation moved in random spurts. George mostly listened and nodded.

"You heard of AOL?" Diego asked. George forced himself to relax and kept his voice casual.

"Sure. It's a volunteer group isn't it?"

"That's where I got my start." Diego leaned over and lowered his voice. "Nowadays I belong to The Chosen Way."

George had seen these words on Facebook. He smiled his interest and nodded hoping for more. Diego sipped his Scotch while George listened to the ice clinking in the glass. His arms rested lightly on the armrests and he concentrated on becoming invisible. He wanted Diego to keep rambling on.

"I've never in all my life met a more friendly and caring group; never really imagined that my dreams were possible but now I know that they're close to becoming fact. Outsiders don't realise this but The Chosen Way, it's like a brotherhood. No. More than that. We are closer than brothers."

"Are there many of you in this brotherhood?" George prodded.

"Millions," Diego boasted. "We are like life itself, made up of cells, forming, growing, and dividing constantly. We've spread all around the world, our brothers and sisters are everywhere. This Forum, this is our opportunity. George my friend believe me, at the end of this week the world'll be a different place, and you know what? I'm part of it. I count. I can make a difference."

"That sounds very exciting, but what exactly do you mean. Are you planning some fireworks? Do you intend to blow up some buildings, kill a few people?" He laughed to show he was joking. "Who's behind this new world idea?"

Diego stared at George suspiciously for a long moment. George held his stare with an innocent, naïve expression as if merely curious.

"George. I know I can trust you but I'm not at liberty to say." He lowered his voice and looked around but no-one was listening. A noise cancelling drone filled the cabin and the acoustics further deadened their voices. Not only was their conversation unheard but so were those around them. "What I can tell you is that we have enough delegates in enough regional blocks to bring in sweeping changes. No bombs. We value life not death."

He took a sip from the new glass the hostess had put before him. George wondered how much Diego knew about Brady's plans.

"Are you in charge?" George asked.

"No." Diego laughed heartily at the very idea. The Scotch went down the wrong way followed by much coughing and spluttering. The hostess handed him a glass of water and patted him on the back. Her eyes glinted with amusement as if to say, serves him right. George kept his expression neutral. Diego's face shone pepper red from the effort.

"You all right my friend?" George asked in a concerned tone when the coughing stopped. Diego slowly opened his eyes. With a large cotton square, he wiped the sheen from his face and nodded.

"I'm what we call a Defender. In Colombia our CM, our cell master is Frank, Frank Thompson."

"Ah Frank. The CEO of AOL?"

"You know Frank?" Diego asked. George nodded, yes he knew of Frank.

"Right. Wesley Smithson, he's the DM divine master." He slurred, overcome with intoxicated emotion. "He's wonderful. He has all the answers, revealed by God and we just need to obey, to do as he says. He's our inspiration."

"Mr Smithson - he's the CEO of ESAP I think. Is that the same man?"

"Yes, but how do you know all this George?"

An edge of suspicion entered his voice. George thought for a moment and then he said.

"I used to room with Brady Ambler."

There was silence as Diego digested this. Suddenly he reached over and held out his glass.

"Then George we are brothers indeed. I'm doubly delighted to meet you. Salud."

Their glasses clashed then he tipped the contents down. George waited. When he turned his head to speak, Diego was asleep. The hostess removed the empty glass and turned off his light. She smiled at George as she passed. George leaned back and closed his eyes. His mind sifted through their conversation and the litany of random facts. He had so many unasked questions.

Beside him Diego started to snore.

### CHAPTER 49

Fernando waited at the front of the slowly growing queue. The minutes dragged on and the LAN Chile counter remained closed. He'd planned to check-in early, determined not to miss his Santiago flight. He wished he'd thought to slip his stress-ball into his pocket. He felt the tension grow as passengers fidgeted in the queue behind him and complained to each other about the delay. Outside the dying southerly gale still howled around the buildings. Spring might have arrived but the temperatures were bitter. He wondered what the temperatures were like in Bogotá. A good ten degrees higher he concluded wistfully. He couldn't wait to get home. The loudspeakers crackled.

"LAN Chile Flight 807 has been cancelled due to the non-arrival of the aircraft. Passengers are advised to check at the LAN Chile counter for updates and alternative reservations."

A groan rose around him as people realized that their plans were being disrupted. Staff appeared behind the counters, turned on their terminals and Fernando moved forward.

"Lan Chile wishes to apologize, sir. The incoming flight was cancelled due to mechanical problems and is being rescheduled. You can expect a delay of at least twelve hours."

"Please you rebook me now?" Fernando asked anxiously.

"I'm afraid we must wait until the next outgoing flight is confirmed. I suggest you keep in touch by phone. You will have plenty of warning once bookings can be taken."

"Its important I leave on next flight. I wait here, at airport. Can you give ... how you say ... priority?"

"All passengers from this flight have priority over standby passengers. I can't do more than that sir. I'm afraid you'll just have to be patient and understand that we are all doing our utmost to ensure you get the first available seats. If you prefer, there is another scheduled flight tomorrow. I can check if there are any free seats."

"Please. I have appointment in Bogotá - in two days. It's important I go."

"Just a minute." Fernando saw the middle of her smooth forehead fold over into a small frown as she concentrated on her terminal screen. She nibbled at her freshly applied lipstick as she checked the reservations and the air carried the scent of her perfume, not yet faded by busy activity. He waited. "Okay, we have no economy class seating free sir but there is a business class seat if you are willing to pay for an upgrade. Your ticket will allow this. You'll have to reorganize your onward flights." She looked up her frown deepening. "Unfortunately Mr Garcia, I cannot guarantee that you'll get to your destination by the ninth. You should prepare for the possibility that you'll miss your appointment."

Fernando expression was uncertain as he struggled to decide which option gave him the earliest departure time. It was a gamble – anything could happen to tomorrow's flight. He remembered Frank's warning with foreboding and shook his head.

"Not good. It too uncertain for me. I need certainty so I wait. I come back every hour."

### CHAPTER 50

Pania was running late. She'd almost had an accident on the way to the airport and she was still shaky. It had happened so quickly. The car had come from nowhere, hadn't given way and it was only her quick reflexes that had saved her from a crumpled bonnet and whiplash. As she'd sat, the operatic screech of her tires echoing in her ears, the culprits had vanished. She'd driven more slowly after that no longer worrying about being late.

She had a full day ahead and was not looking forward to facing George. She checked the arrivals board. Damn it! George's flight hadn't arrived and the arrival time was blank. As she stared up Pania suddenly noticed that there was no departure time either. She hurried to the information kiosk.

"We're sorry ma-am. That flight is still on the ground. There is some sort of mechanical failure which is being investigated. There's an indefinite delay and I can't tell you when it's expected to take off or arrive in Wellington."

"Oh dear, today of all days!" The man nodded in agreement. Pania hardly noticed. She was already rearranging her day. She had so much else to do. No point in hanging around. George could wait, she decided. "Thanks."

She spun around and pushed her way through the crowd. A flight attendant crossed her path. Pania looked at her twice. She'd seen that distinctive face recently. The dark hair dipped into a perfect widow's peak emphasising a heart shaped face. It was the same girl, the one in the photo attachments. Pania's heart leapt into her throat and instinctively she stretched her hand out to touch the woman's arm. She looked up impatiently. Her eyes were wide, brown with a distinctive patch of green.

"Excuse me" she protested.

Pania flashed her badge, her face suddenly grim. She spoke with authority.

"This won't take a minute. I'm Detective Inspector Morrison. Let's sit down over there, out of this scrum."

The woman looked around nervously but there was no escape. Pania was taller and more athletic. She allowed herself to be led to a table and sat down. Her eyes flashed angrily at Pania, then she dropped them and began to inspect her manicured hands and red-black lacquered nails. Pania sat opposite and took out her smartphone. She retrieved her emails and opened the attachments.

"Do you recognise these?" she asked as she held the screen in front of the woman's face.

The woman stared and a guilty flush travelled up her neck and coloured her face. Her hand flew up to cover her mouth as it formed a perfect circle.

"That's you isn't it?" Pania jabbed at the screen with her index finger.

The woman nodded her eyes glued to the screen.

"Tell me about it!" she ordered. The woman swallowed, refusing to look directly at Detective Inspector Morrison.

"Where did you get these from" she asked dully?

"That doesn't matter. What matters is what this is about," Pania replied firmly.

"It-it was a practical joke. I don't take drugs, never have. We staged it. My um friend um wanted to play a trick on his roommate." She kept her face turned down to avoid making eye contact.

"Names please!"

"Um, my friend is... was... Brady Ambler... and his room mate was... George somebody-"

"George Ritmeyer?"

Her gaze shot up, eyes widening in startled surprise. The loudspeakers crackled announcing the arrival or departure of flights. Neither woman heard or listened.

"Yes," she nodded. "How did you know?"

"Again that doesn't matter. Explain the practical joke."

"Brady wanted to set George up. He was always so serious and we thought it was good for a laugh. We spiked his drink and left him in bed in a hotel room. We made it look like I'd taken an overdose. It was dead easy. George fell for it hook, line and sinker." She laughed and the sound made Pania's spine creep. "It wasn't hard to fool him; he was in a blind panic. I nearly gave it all away. I had trouble keeping still and not laughing."

"Did you tell him, later I mean, about the joke?" I bet you didn't, thought Pania. You didn't give a damn. No wonder George always looked as if he carried the world on his shoulder.

"What? No not me but I guess Brady probably did. Wasn't really my joke. I just helped Brady stage it." She shrugged indifferently and moved to stand up.

Pania grabbed her arm and she subsided back into the chair.

"Not so fast. I want your name and contact details. You'll come with me to sign a statement confirming your story."

"I have no intention of signing anything. It was a student prank. For God's sake, it happened over twenty years ago. It happened in America not here. It has nothing to do with you." She glanced at her watch.

"This is bigger than you think and," Pania's voice softened reassuringly, "if you've told me the truth you've nothing to be afraid of." Abruptly the softness was replaced by unmistakable resolve. "But if I have to, I'll arrest you. There's a police office at the airport. It won't take a minute and the sooner you cooperate the quicker you'll be free to go. I'm quite prepared to call for re-enforcements. It's up to you. Make a scene or come quietly."

Pania stood. Again her fingers gripped the woman's arm and now she forced her up. The metal chair scraped painfully along the floor as she reluctantly obeyed. Pania released her. Red marks blotched her ivory skin. She stood rubbing her arm, her beautiful eyes clouded. Pania observed her consternation.

"Do I need a lawyer?" she asked anxiously.

"Depends what you've got to hide," Pania said shortly. "This way please."

### CHAPTER 51

Jennifer glanced out of the window. Only two cars in the driveway; it was most peculiar. Her curiosity was piqued and she determined to take a closer look. After they left she wandered down the drive to look at the parked rental. It had been somewhere muddy. She memorised its number plate, then went inside to check it against the arrival form. It did not match either registration number listed.

Shortly after the second car returned and when all was quiet Jennifer took Em for another walk, again taking note of the car number. It matched one of those on the arrival form. The comings and goings of these visitors was starting to interest her.

In the evening when Jennifer checked on the cars again both number plates matched the arrival form. It was like a game of musical cars. There were definitely three cars in play; three virtually identical SUV's. She was not imagining it. That night she didn't hear the third car arrive instead it was the muffled noise of activity which woke her. She checked the clock; it was three fifteen. Just then Em cried and Jennifer swung her legs out of bed. The minute her warm feet touched the cold floor she was wide awake. She fumbled for her sheepskin slippers and padded into Em's room. Through the gap in the curtains she could see three cars parked in the next door driveway. They have no idea I'm awake, she thought as she observed the muffled goings-on. Em had settled and was back in her cot when Jennifer heard the engine start and a car drive off. She was drifting off when the second engine started and almost immediately she heard the third car leave. Maybe it was completely innocent? Maybe they went fishing at night? She'd read somewhere that fish were attracted to lights. She felt vaguely sorry for the fish just swimming around, minding their own business then seeing light. They probably think it's the sun, if they think. She closed her eyes and lulled by the regular sound of the surf pounding the beach she dropped off.

Dr Seuss's red and blue fish darted though her dreams crazily driving black vans and making Em cry. The morning sun shone through the curtain and Em really was crying. Bleary-eyed she pulled back the curtains. The two cars were back from their nighttime journey. Normally nothing happened in sleepy Rarangi, tourists rarely acted out of character and Jennifer's life followed a regular uneventful pattern. The most exciting thing to happen was Em's new tooth.

She wondered again what they were up to each night.

As she did the dishes Jennifer could see that the visitors seemed to be getting ready to leave. She was hanging out the washing when Maree, or was it Annie, appeared.

"Hi, here's the key. We're leaving early. A relative has died and we have to cut short our holiday."

"Oh I'm sorry. Please accept my condolences for yer loss. Was it expected?"

"No. Sudden. It's been a shock to us all. It's a shame we have to abort our trip. We um enjoyed the house and visited quite a few of the sights described in the tourist brochures. Thanks for your help." She looked away shuffling uneasily from leg to leg as if she couldn't get away quick enough. She's a cold fish, Jennifer thought, taking a dislike to her manner. Not at all upset and not at all thankful.

"My pleasure. I hope ya all have a safe trip home. I'm really sorry." She tried to sound sympathetic. Annie-Maree turned and hurried down the path. Jennifer heard the car door slam and the engines start. She looked at the keys in her hand and shrugged. That was that. It takes all sorts, as her mother used to say.

Later that morning when Em was asleep she inspected the house. It was perfectly neat and tidy. She checked the BBQ. It too was spotless. She stripped the beds and remade them, disinfected the service rooms and vacuumed. She hummed as she worked. When she was finished and satisfied that everything was in order she would send an email to the owners to refund the bond.

In the late afternoon Jennifer took Em down to the beach for some fresh air. They both loved watching the gulls swoop and squabble. Often a man brought his small Jack Russell Fritz, down to the beach for a run. It amused Jennifer to watch the dog chasing the gulls and the waves. Em jiggled excitedly in the pushchair when she saw them coming and clapped her hands screeching in pleasure at its crazy antics. Fritz kept them entertained for quite a time and when Jennifer turned to go, a dusty black Toyota passed. The car was the same model as the rentals her visitors had hired but she was unable to see through the tinted windows. She wondered briefly who was inside then turned her attention back to Em pointing out things of interest as they made their way home.

The Toyotas were left in the Blenheim parking lot and the keys dropped into the slot. It was evening, the streets were quiet and the depot closed. They left on foot, each carrying a small overnight bag which held their last disguises. The day before they'd answered an ad in the paper and had bought a cheap crapped out car. They had paid cash and promised to register the purchase promptly. The seller was pleased to get it sold and happy with cash. He didn't ask any questions or check their IDs. They'd left it parked nearby and barely five minutes after abandoning their rentals they left the outskirts of Blenheim behind heading to Picton. Just before Koromiko they turned onto a gravel side road, bumped over the railway line and drove until they found a turning spot. It was a dark clear night. The southerly had blown over and carried the storm clouds with it. There were no street lights, no cars and no people. They quickly assumed new identities then rejoined the main road.

In Picton they stopped briefly beside roadside bins and dumped their discarded clothes at several locations before splitting up. By 10 p. m. Jeremy and Amanda were lined up with the other foot passengers waiting to board the inter-island ferry. Keeping to their instructions, they found seats in the forward lounge. When they arrived in Wellington, Jeremy's motorbike was parked ready and they disappeared north into the night. The next day they went with their children on a school trip to Rotorua.

According to the tickets Kim Murray and Dan Ryan drove onto the 10:25 ferry that night and drove off the ferry at Wellington at 1:35 the next morning. They spent the voyage in the movie theatre. In the frosty early morning hours before sunrise, there was no-one to see them leave the main highway or bump down the rough track. No-one watched as they jumped into a waiting vehicle, rejoined the main highway and continued northwards. Many months later, a burnt out car body was found abandoned on a rarely used dirt track off the desert road. There were many similar wrecks tucked away on the desolate flats and nothing unusual about this wreck except that its identification marks pointed back to Blenheim and the registered owner was dismayed to find that the ownership papers had not been filed.

### CHAPTER 52

Pania picked up the phone on the third ring. The familiar greeting made her smile.

"Hey Pania of the reef, keeping busy?"

"Always. Have you caught any big fish recently? What's new Tom?"

"Not much but it's another piece in our puzzle. Remember we had evidence of drugs arriving here from a new source? Now we know how they're coming in."

"Congratulations - good policing by your guys."

"Thanks but it wasn't us. We had a lucky break or at least Border Control did. I'll send you the report."

"Thanks that'll be cool. I presume you've apprehended the culprits?"

"No, at least not all but we're talking to some locals. There are still large gaps but I'll keep you posted."

Pania hung up. Too many loose ends, she thought feeling discouraged. Anyway, she consoled herself, it was unlikely to be relevant. She stood up and fetched herself a cup of coffee from the machine. When she returned the promised email had arrived. As she sipped her long black she read how a routine surveillance flight east of The Bay of Islands had detected suspicious activity. Pania twisted a strand of hair absentmindedly around her finger, pondering the mystery yacht and its crew. Surely they'd seen the Orion? Why didn't they abort their activity? She skimmed through the report till she got to the part about the pickup boat, the arrest and interrogation by MAF.

The whole operation was wrapped in secrecy. None of the crew knew where their orders came from or what they had in their package. They obeyed without questioning and they were well paid. That afternoon they had been alerted to expect a delivery and to be ready to intercept it at sea. Out fishing they waited for their GPS unit to activate and once their equipment locked onto the signal, they changed course. They had no difficulty finding the container. They disabled the GPS unit, opened, emptied and sunk the metal box. They never looked up and were unaware that they had been observed. The throb of the boat's engine probably masked the sound of the Orion overhead and their full attention concentrated on a quick and efficient recovery. None of the detainees admitted to being involved in any earlier recoveries but a sample of the drugs was taken and tested. Its DNA signature matched the earlier example obtained by Bruno and, added Pania to herself, it matched the samples in Brady's briefcases. An investigation of their bank account records revealed a number of large deposits. It could be safely assumed that this was not their first assignment. The men now faced further intensive questioning. Pania doubted that they would talk. Not in time anyway but she was convinced that it was no coincidence.

She wished that they'd been able to apprehend the drop-off yacht but according to the report it had disappeared into the vast anonymity of the Pacific Ocean. It was a slick operation, Pania conceded, well organised and executed, but was it relevant to the Forum? She shook her head and stared at her screen.

### CHAPTER 53

George was strangely lightheaded as the aircraft finally touched down on the Wellington tarmac. Diego had ignored him from the moment he'd woken. He'd put on his headset and kept his eyes on the screen avoiding George's glances. Probably nursing a massive hangover, he thought and wondered if he remembered anything of their conversation. As they left the aircraft, the delegates were redirected for separate processing. George followed the crowd.

As he walked through into the customs area he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirrored glass. He stopped short and felt his confidence ebb. His trousers had lost their crisply pressed line. He could see the sag where his knees had stretched the fabric. That wasn't the worst. His suit looked as if he'd slept in it. The jacket had lost body and drooped forlornly from his shoulders. He looked down and noticed that he'd spilt something, yogurt perhaps, on his tie. He hoped Pania wouldn't notice. He eyed his reflection. He looked no different from normal. Maybe it was just as well given the emails that were circulating. It was a foolish buy. He should have chosen another fabric. Linen had failed the twenty-four hour wear test. Nothing you can do now, said the voice in his head.

A Mãori welcome party swayed and sang just inside the exit. The poi's flashed in tight circles, forwards, backwards spinning almost as fast as light. George watched briefly. His thoughts had been spinning like that all flight and now they were leaden and exhausted. His feet felt heavy with dread as he exited into the arrival hall.

He scanned the room looking for Pania. There was no sign of her and his heart sank. She's late, he told himself and then he noticed his name. There was no reception committee and the short man holding the board couldn't be an undercover agent. George made his way over and introduced himself.

"I'm George Ritmeyer." He took another quick look around. "I was expecting someone else."

"Good morning Sir. I've been asked to meet you and drive you to your meeting. Detective Inspector Morrison asked me to explain that the delay in your flight has played havoc with her arrangements. She hopes you will accept her apologies."

George's frown deepened. He nodded. He had no option but to follow the man to his taxi. The excuse was reasonable but he still he was suspicious. The thought crossed his mind that maybe this was part of Brady's schemes. As he got into the car the driver handed him an envelope. He recognised Pania's writing. At least, he thought with a grateful sigh, he knew now that Pania had ordered the car and not Brady.

As the taxi exited the airport, he opened the envelope. It contained a border security report and a scribbled note from Pania, which read, _'??? Another piece in the puzzle???_ ' He smiled at the question marks and his feelings of unease lessened slightly. At least Pania was still keeping him in the loop. That was surely encouraging. When he finished reading he folded it back into the envelope then closed his eyes and relaxed into the upholstery evaluating its importance to the Forum. He examined the facts from various angles and reached the conclusion that this was more likely to be linked to Brady than Wesley. Perhaps, he speculated with growing unease, the Forum faced two separate challenges. Could he really trust Diego's assurances, he asked himself, and were his suppositions realistic?

He felt the car drawing to a stop and opened his eyes. They had arrived outside a very plain concrete building. Its very blandness, almost as if this was its back entrance alerted him but he could see nothing to identify its purpose. Intuitively he guessed that this was Wellington's new security centre.

The driver turned to look at him. "Mr Ritmeyer, you're to go in and identify yourself at the desk. They are expecting you. I've instructions to deliver your luggage to your hotel. Have a pleasant day Sir."

George entered the building through a slowly revolving steel door. He noted the security cameras following his movements and found himself inside a small reception room. The security officer sat behind thick glass. There seemed to be no other exits. He spoke into the grill and passed over his ID. The officer nodded.

"You are expected Mr Ritmeyer. Please step through."

The side wall moved and George saw a narrow entrance. An officer stepped through and signalled for him to follow. The wall closed silently behind him and he was in the building.

### CHAPTER 54

George felt as if he was back at the airport. He faced further security checks, his ID inspected, briefcase x-rayed and he was searched for weapons. He saw Pania arrive on the other side of the barrier. She looked unusually pale, a worried frown creased her forehead and her eyes bored into his. The photos have done their damage, he thought. It was not surprising. Whatever happened he knew he'd made the right decision and he'd face the consequences. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders. She waited till he was fully processed.

"Sorry I couldn't meet you" she said. "I hope the airline looked after you properly. Did you get my report?"

He nodded instantly aware of her brisk manner. Her eyes examined him gravely as if she was trying to make a difficult decision.

"I've booked a meeting room where we can discuss the latest developments before we move on." The words seemed to George to have an ominous ring.

The cameras recorded their progress up the stairs. They reached the room and Pania stepped aside to let George in. She followed behind, closed the door and sat down. George glanced around before choosing a chair facing her. There were no cameras in the room and no obvious listening devices.

"I've got a few things which might interest you. You've read the report from border control? How relevant do think this is?"

"The report confirms that lab tests show that the drug matches the earlier samples so I consider it highly relevant. I don't yet understand how it all fits together. Were they able to identify the yacht?"

"No. It seems to have vanished. We've arrested three individuals for possession of Class A substances and for receiving illegal goods. They are currently isolated and considering their position in custody. We've also impounded the fishing boat involved. So far all those arrested have kept silent and refused to answer any questions. We are waiting for one of them to crack. There'll no doubt be further charges ... One other puzzle ... Amongst the bags of cocaine they've found several packets of capsules containing an unidentified cream coloured powder. The usual narcotics tests are negative and the other standard identifiers are inconclusive. The lab's carrying out further tests but it looks like a new drug and we have no idea what it's for." She paused then looked away. It was time to confront George. She set her face in serious lines and turned towards him. "Now, to change the subject slightly, perhaps you'd like to explain about those photos and that girl?"

This was the moment he'd been dreading. He cleared his throat wondering where to begin.

"One night," he started hesitantly. "I was in my second year of college. It started out as an ordinary Saturday night. Brady was my roommate then and it was his party. Anyway that's when I met her. You saw the photos. I thought she was the most beautiful girl in the room and she was interested in me. I could hardly believe it." George shook his head, mentally castigated himself. How could he have been such a fool? "I don't remember what happened. I never used to drink much and never enough to get drunk."

"Well, you certainly give a good impression of being drunk. Considering the photo evidence, I find it hard to believe you were sober."

"Doesn't look like it, no. I'll give you that, and no, I wasn't. The point is I didn't drink enough to get drunk. You have to believe me. I never liked losing control even then when I was a student."

"I don't have to believe anything you say George, but you'd better hope the jury will. Those photos are damn convincing."

"I had no idea they'd taken those photos not till that email came."

"So what's your version of the truth George?"

"I guess someone... spiked my drink-"

"Who?"

"I don't know. I woke in the morning in a hotel bed. I felt awful. My head throbbed and my mouth was as dry as the Sahara. I got up and found her in the lounge. She was dead. Drug stuff all a ... well you saw the photos! I really panicked. I totally lost it."

"You sure it was drugs? How'd you know she was dead? Had you ever seen a dead person before?"

George was silent as he remembered that confusing morning. Why had he gone into such a panic? Perhaps it was a side effect of that spiked drink. He remembered it all so clearly; waking in that saggy bed; body heavy; thoughts tangled; the way the air sounded filling him with foreboding. To this day he had no idea how he'd ended up in that room but he remembered the party, the beautiful flirt, the shock of the pink gown, her sprawled body, and the powder!

"No, I'd never seen a dead person, in real life that is. She looked dead, like in the movies, pale. She looked as if Michelangelo had carved her out of marble. I just knew she was dead. I couldn't think straight. Didn't know what to do. It was all so unreal."

George's eyes had that unfocussed look of someone lost deep within himself. She watched as he fought his inner demons and relived his memories. She was so cold, cold as marble. She was dead. He was sure of it. Again he fought to breathe, struggling to make sense of the horror before him. He resumed his retelling.

"I didn't know what to do so I rang Brady-"

"Why Brady, why not the police?"

"I don't know. I was scared and confused. I had no-one else I could trust. I thought he would know what to do, that he would help me ... "

"What happened then? Did he help?"

"After what seemed an eternity I heard Brady's sleepy voice."

George remembered every stammered, stuttered word of that conversation. He remembered waiting for Brady's signal. Three knocks followed by two, three knocks followed by two. It seemed an eternity before he heard the rat rat rat-a-tat signal. He snibbed back the lock. Brady stared at the body and the mess on the table.

"God, George how'd you get into this shit?"

He had no sensible answer and slumped onto the end of the bed in dazed shock, incapable of saying anything, incapable of making any decisions, leaving everything to Brady.

Pania reached out and patted his hand. He twitched abruptly as if he'd touched an electric fence.

"Sorry, tell me exactly what happened then," Pania prompted.

For a long moment George stared at her with dull hopeless eyes. Then he continued.

"Brady came, took me home, gave me some pills and fixed it..."

"How?"

"He never said and fool that I was, I never asked. I woke the next day and it was over. I supposed it was all those drugs that made me sleep. I never really gave those lost twenty-four hours much thought. All that year I waited for the truth to come out, to be arrested and perhaps imprisoned, but nothing happened and slowly I pushed the memories away." That was the end of it; except in George's head. Sometimes he wondered if it had all just been a dream. For weeks he scoured the newspapers. Eventually he stopped looking over his shoulder and his life resumed but on a different track. It was a heavy secret and he felt the colours fade from his life. He buried himself in his studies but the images of the body in the hotel room remained burned into his subconscious.

"I was a complete coward, an ostrich with my head in the sand. I never went out with Brady again. We hardly spoke to each other. At the end of that year he graduated and moved away. The next year I worked hard and passed at the top of the class. I started working for the UN. They completed intensive security checks and I was clean. Brady..." a sharp rap on the door interrupted him. They both looked up as the door opened.

"Pania, you can bring Mr Ritmeyer into the control room now if that suits. It'll get busy soon and the operator has a quiet moment."

Pania turned to look at George. He felt drained. Her hesitation was barely noticeable then she jumped to her feet.

"Okay. Let's do this now. We can resume our discussion later. I think you'll find this interesting." Her casual tone shocked him. He stood up. Had she been listening to him at all?

They followed the security guard to the elevator. He punched in some buttons, then stepped aside and said. "This'll take you to our new state-of-the art control centre."

George felt the lift drop rapidly. It gave him time to regroup his scattered thoughts and return to the present. When it stopped the steel doors opened with a smooth sigh. Pania led the way into the control room. They entered the room through an airlock, set into thick walls of reinforced concrete. The whole area gleamed in a blaze of brightness, steel and toughened glass and computer wizardry. Here hidden in the underground heart nestled a vast and watchful electronic brain. For a fleeting moment George wondered what would happen in the unlikely event of a power failure. No doubt they'd thought of that.

"Welcome to our secret defence system," Pania said with an amused smile as she saw his openmouthed astonishment. "The experts tell me that it's the most advanced system in the world and gives us a better than evens chance of managing threats. They claim that all Forum venues can be isolated and locked down within seconds of any alert originating from this room."

George whistled through his teeth in admiration.

"While you've been delayed, the delegates have been arriving. DPS has been very busy meeting and greeting. As has customs and immigration. They seem to have a sixth sense. Already they've confiscated illegal food items and several handguns. Four people have been refused entry due to invalid documentation and one person is occupying a holding cell for presenting a false passport." Pania pointed to one of the screens. "Look! There's Parsons meeting the Asian delegation." She pointed to another screen nearby. "You can see the protestors and supporters waiting there."

Placards waved above the crowd. The operator waved his hand over the screen and suddenly it split into two with a wide overview to one side while the other zoomed in and they could see close details, individuals, their faces and their actions.

He glanced at George.

"Every frame is recorded and stored for later analysis. The computers analyse each frame, using face analysis, body shape and mass and other specific recognition formula enabling us to sequentially link pictures from different cameras." He pointed to one of the terminal screens on his desk, hit a few keys and there was George exiting customs. He touched George's face on the screen. "Now the computer will collate all the images we have of you and present them in a chronological sequence." George watched himself exit immigration, pause and search the room for Pania, his scowl clearly visible as he caught his name on the board. The technician grinned. "You don't look too happy. Guess it was a long flight eh?" He smirked. "Well, it's on file. You can't deny it. If anyone breaks the law we will have enough evidence to convict. Police units have access to the images in real-time, on their new visors and patrol cars have built-in screens. It's interactive so they can control what they see but we can override their views if something crops up."

George nodded watching as the computer replayed his progress out of the airport and into the taxi.

"I guess you've also retained images from all the cameras in this building?" he asked.

"Yep. Here. This is you arriving and passing through security."

George watched as his taxi drew up, the driver opened the door and he got out. He saw himself scan the building, listen to the driver then take a few steps and enter. The angle was wide enough to capture details on the street. George thought he recognised the man crossing the road behind him from the earlier airport shot. The images were very clear.

"I think I'm being followed" he said. They laughed.

"You have clearance to watch the Forum from here if you wish." Pania said. He nodded, distracted by that thought. He would enjoy spending time in this room observing the action. This was what it felt like to be omnipresent.

He turned his attention back to the wall screens. Parsons' group had reached their cars. Then as the vehicles left the airport he followed their progress across the screens. Traffic signals along the route changed in a coordinated ballet of green lights. Finally the motorcade stopped outside one of the hotels. The Concierge hurried out to welcome the guests, he held the doors open. The bell boy took charge of the luggage. The visitors and their escorts stepped out and entered the lobby. Even here cameras monitored the area, capturing their entry.

Perhaps Parsons' had been right, George thought to himself, at least partially. Wellington was easy to secure, easy to isolate and so it would be easy to control the small central area where the Forum would play out. He felt more confident. His involvement with New Zealand was coming to a close. Now he was an observer, charged with monitoring their performances and watching that the agreed processes were being followed. Soon there would be a new host announced but he doubted he'd be reappointed, not if Brady carried out his threats. It would be over for him. He felt his shoulders sag at the prospect.

"So what do you think?" Pania asked nudging him. He looked at the screens on the walls and forced himself to smile.

"I think we have a fair chance of containing trouble within the city. Law enforcement officers are concentrated here so let's hope that's where any trouble starts. I have some intelligence which we still need to assess. Where exactly we can expect trouble is hard to say but if it takes place in the wider Wellington area then we're somewhat exposed."

"But then that wouldn't be relevant to the Forum and so not our direct responsibility."

"I hope you're right."

Pania glanced at her watch. Time was racing by and soon they were due to meet Parsons so she dragged George away from the high tech wizardry and they returned to the meeting room.

"We don't have much time just now. In a few minutes we have to leave for the last stakeholder meeting. Do you have anything relevant to that to discuss before we go? We can discuss the other stuff later. I take it you are still coming out to tea?"

George took a moment to check that her question was genuine and not sarcastic. He nodded.

"If the invitation stands I'd be real pleased."

"Okay. So do you have anything I need to know before meeting Parsons?"

"I have received threats against the Forum. It's not very specific so Parsons won't like it. I've received several phone calls from Brady. He threatened me and you and the Forum. I think we need to take him seriously."

"Can't you be more specific?"

"Right. The Forum and you are his targets. I don't know what but I suspect a bomb somewhere, maybe even a suicide bomber, or more than one. As a minimum, you'll need backup or you should go into hiding. We've got to discuss these threats with Parsons."

"Why me?"

"You're not really his prime focus. He's been trying to blackmail me and I think it's another way to tighten the screws. Brady never leaves anything to chance, so on the off chance that I don't cooperate he looked around for another angle and thought of you."

"Do you know what I can expect?"

"I don't want to scare you but he's threatened to kill you." The words shocked her. She stared at George her eyes transformed into dark troubled pools. He rushed on "He's had you followed. Claims to know where you go and when. Warned me that you were an easy target."

"I know I've been followed and been targeted. I've been harassed. There have been a few odd things happen recently so I'm not surprised by what you say."

George looked at Pania with concern.

"Why didn't you tell me earlier? When did this start?"

"I guess we both have secrets." She answered and George felt himself colouring under her gaze. "It started with emails. I think I mentioned those? Then I realised I was being followed. It was creepy and I didn't like it at all. I made the mistake of asking Parsons for backup but he told me to take a holiday and get over it. I've taken steps to minimise the risk and it seems to be working but now someone is ringing my cell and hanging up. That's intimidating too so I've switched it to silent mode. Of course that doesn't please Parsons. He thinks I am getting thin-skinned, that I'm letting my imagination run riot or worse still, that I'm heading for a breakdown. But I'm not imagining it."

George heard the conviction in her voice. Parsons was a fool to dismiss her concerns in such a cavalier manner. He rushed to reassure her. "I'm sure you're not imagining anything. Brady claimed to know all your movements. He specifically told me that."

"Let's forget about me for the moment and concentrate on the Forum. I'm not sure what we can do about it but it'll be Parsons top concern," she said. "You and I know we're running out of time. The teams are all aware of the evidence we have to date and are on heightened alert. Security's been stepped up and the Australian Police have sent some of their plain clothes officers to further protect certain VIPs who may be considered potential targets. We've got teams with dogs as well as various undercover SWAT agents cruising the venues. If we can't prevent an attack maybe we can contain the fallout but what in God's name does any of this have to do with charity work?" She sounded completely exasperated.

"I suspect that in a twisted sort of a way, it's about righting wrongs and redressing the balance in favour of the poor. On the flight in, I sat next to one of the delegates. His name was Diego and once he had a few shots under his belt he became very garrulous. Brady's boss Wesley Smithson seems to be a bit of a cult figure. Diego told me that events at the Forum were going to change the world. I asked and he denied knowledge of terrorist activities but Wesley and Brady are not cut from the same cloth and Brady might have a very different agenda. Wesley heads a secret brotherhood called The Chosen Way which spans the globe. It seems a very cult-like name to me and Diego described Wesley as their Divine Master - his exact words. To listen to him talk you'd think he was some sort of twenty-first century messiah yet I think Brady is the power behind it all. There's little concrete evidence around but what I have found has sinister vibes."

He fell silent for a moment then he sighed despondently.

"Do you remember my first visit when I talked about uniquely different threats? That's been true for every event I've been associated with but this is the first time in all those years we've no hard facts and one of my colleagues has specifically been singled out and that seems to be my fault."

### CHAPTER 55

For sixteen hours Fernando had prowled restlessly around the departures terminal at Auckland Airport. He'd had almost no sleep and he'd been forced to watch as other travellers arrived, checked-in and walked through into the customs control area totally oblivious to his plight.

To keep awake he'd refuelled on coffee, dark and strong, generously sweetened. Nothing like Colombian Coffee but then no airport in the world served premium coffee, he told himself. His mind searched persistently for alternative escape routes. He considered taking a flight to Los Angeles before he realised that he did not have the right travel documentation to be flying to the States. Besides if the party was due to start any moment, as Frank had warned, he wanted to be someplace where he could disappear more easily.

The sound system crackled.

"Passengers booked on cancelled LAN Chile flights to Santiago are requested to report to the information desk immediately."

Fernando leapt to his feet, grabbed his luggage and raced over. He was fifth in the queue. He watched as the passengers before him presented their passports and tickets, checked-in their luggage and received boarding cards. He felt his spirits lift; perhaps he was on his way at last. Once he arrived in Santiago he would be able to find a way home. He would be able to relax.

As he stepped into the plane he vowed that he would never again leave Colombia or get involved in other people's agendas. He considered his options. If necessary he would disappear. He had four years of contract payments waiting for him, money he had converted to American dollars and transferred to a foreign exchange bank in South America. It was a small fortune and if he was frugal he would be able to survive without a job for many years. At least now he had some alternatives.

Flight arrangements had been completed so quickly that he had no chance to advise Frank of his new plans. He'd remembered to ditch the phone and later he would flush the SIM card down the toilet. There would be plenty of time in Santiago to contact Frank.

Flight preparations were completed and the cabin doors secured. Fernando obediently watched the safety video and noted his nearest exit then the plane taxied onto the runway. Its engines throbbed for a moment before it started to lumber down the runway. When the Boeing lifted off, his tension seemed to levitate from his shoulders and he started to relax. He felt the thump as the wheels folded into place and the plane gained altitude. He looked at his watch. It was 6:30 PM Sept 9 2014 and he was going home. Below the land was left behind and the vast blue Pacific Ocean glittered in the evening sun, then the plane flew through the high cloud and all he could see was a darkening grey half-light. He was flying eastwards into night.

### CHAPTER 56

Parsons looked at his watch. 6:30 PM. Tomorrow, the tenth of September at ten AM on the steps of the conference centre a Mãori welcome was scheduled, delegates would be officially welcomed to New Zealand and the 4th ROAR Forum declared open. There was little he or any of his staff could do now and he was still hot under the collar that Ritmeyer had tried repeatedly to raise his conspiracy theories and unsettle the stakeholders. He knew he should have followed his instincts, and put a stop to his visits right at the start. Too late now, he castigated himself. Bloody hell the UN didn't have all the answers! Ritmeyer was a fool and somehow he'd managed to infect Pania with his fears. All that conspiracy hogwash and claims that Pania was somehow at risk; well it was a cartload of shit. She might believe it but he'd made himself perfectly clear. No extra protection and if she wasn't at her designated station in the morning, she'd be sacked.

Parsons was disappointed in Pania. He'd thought she was made of sterner stuff but ever since she'd told him that she thought she was being followed he'd lost complete confidence in her reliability. Well, she wouldn't be around for much longer. After the Forum, when he'd been proved right, she'd be encouraged to resign. Perhaps he'd been a bit heavy handed at the meeting but sometimes one had to be firm and maintain control. He refused to listen to the pair of them. Ritmeyer had no right to question the administration arrangements. He smiled grimly. He had seen it coming – more unfounded scaremongering. Change Makers was a perfectly harmless organisation with guarantees from one of the top law firms. He'd met Ms Baildon at a function recently. He grinned to himself when he remembered her long legs under that pencil thin skirt. She exuded confidence and knew what she was talking about. She was, in his view, exceptional even amongst lawyers. Everything about her shouted style; from that expensive pen of hers, classy leather bound stationery to her immaculately polished fingernails. Indeed, she'd impressed him, so he was in no mood to listen to a wolf-crying Yank. He'd shut down their protests very effectively. It was unfortunate that the other stakeholders had witnessed their spat but he'd shown leadership, he told himself, confident he'd be proven right.

### CHAPTER 57

Deeply dissatisfied Pania and George left the meeting feeling bruised, frustrated and sidelined by their encounter with Parsons. All their concerns had been ignored and despite their united front, George's warnings had been rubbished as conspiracy hogwash and his concerns for her safety overruled.

Pania led the way towards the railway station where they would catch the train to Petone. They walked along in uncharacteristic silence, absorbed in their own thoughts. George hardly noticed the route. They passed near Parliament Buildings but Pania did not point them out and George did not spot them. The path led down though an underpass. It was nearly seven o'clock; past the time when tired commuters crushed into the tunnel determined not to miss their trains. Now only the occasional straggler hurried past them.

At the entrance a paperboy called out to attract their attention, his words accompanied by the guitar being played at the other end. The acoustics in the subway were perfect for the buskers who regularly filled the space with their music. As they entered the tunnel someone dropped coins into the guitar case. The clink echoed. Pania looked up briefly. There was only one person coming towards them. The sound of George's shoes and her heels on the hard surface echoes loudly. The approaching shoes made no sound. Sports shoes or sneakers, she thought and looked down. Frayed jeans covered the approaching shoes and as the distance between them shrank she heard the swish of fabric on the ground.

They were in the dimmest part of the tunnel where yellow overhead lighting cast a feeble light. Despite his self-absorption George caught the flash of light on metal. He reacted instinctively. He lurched sideways shoving Pania towards the wall. A blade slashed through the air catching his sleeve and slicing a long tear through the linen then it clattered onto the concrete floor. The assailant sprinted away. Before they fully realised what had happened. Before George had time to spin around, he had reached the tunnel entrance. The skirmish was over almost before it had begun. Pania rubbed her shoulder. It was bruised from the force of her impact into the subway wall.

"Are you all right?" George asked. She nodded.

"How did you know?"

"I don't know - I didn't have time to think. I saw a flash and realised that he had a knife and it was coming at you. Are you sure you're okay?"

She nodded and gave him a shaky smile. They stared at the knife abandoned on the ground then Pania saw the gash in his suit.

"Are you cut?" she asked reaching out to touch his arm. He looked down and saw the slash. He felt his arm and shook his head. "It was meant for me wasn't it? They can't have known you'd be with me ... He must have been waiting for me," she whispered, "but how did they know I'd be here?"

George shrugged. "I guess they've sussed your routines. You got here by train so there's a good chance you'd go back that way too. Maybe they had another plan ready in case you'd taken a car. Brady's not one to leave things to chance." Already they both knew that Brady was behind this. George pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket to cover his hand and picked up the knife. As his fingers grasped the handle the blade slid away.

"It's a flick knife, good for street fighting. Most gangs carry them," she said watching as he wrapped it, careful not to rub away any fingerprints.

"We need to report this to the police. It's proof that we're not exaggerating." They both recalled Parsons' lashing. George looked around and shook his head. "There are no security cameras here and no witnesses. Great place for an ambush." The tunnel silence mocked him. "The busker's vanished! He could have given us a description."

"Perhaps he was an accomplice." Pania shuddered. "What else has Brady planned?"

She got no answer. Her thoughts flashed back to their hostile meeting with Parsons. When George had enquired in passing about the staffing of the venues they'd been aghast to hear that Change Makers was to be responsible.

"The enemy's within, CM's our Trojan horse!"

The words had slipped out of her mouth and seeing their horror Parsons hadn't waited to hear what else she might say. He had threatened her with dismissal in front of all the stakeholders. She'd been mortified. Then he'd had turned to George.

"Stop your bloody interfering Ritmeyer. You have no jurisdiction or authority. You're only here at ROAR's insistence. I will not be bullied or intimidated by a know-all Yank and I don't care what your credentials are, you're a waste of bloody time."

"You're a fool Parsons if you ignore our advice. I'm perfectly aware that it is my duty to pass on intelligence and yours to consider it. You're responsible for action and if you refuse to hear me out then you'll be held responsible. Just imagine the consequences if I'm right. We have uncovered a threat and I have absolutely no doubt that it is very real-"

"Real? I very much doubt it. I'll take on those imaginary consequences. We'll all see who was right and it won't be you Ritmeyer. I suggest you start looking for a new job. Once the UN gets my report it'll be curtains for you. Now stop wasting my time."

"How many others will suffer because of your arrogance? For God's sake Parsons listen to me; not because I tell you to but because it will save lives."

"Get lost Yank."

Parsons turned on his heel and left them standing. He'd slammed the door hard. Embarrassed and uneasy, the stakeholders had followed him avoiding eye contact. They'd offered no support. Just sat on the fence, Pania thought bitterly, waiting to see what happened. They were blind to the threat. Perhaps they'd taken George's warning to heart but they hadn't had the guts to stand up to Parsons. The meeting had ended leaving everyone with an unpleasant taste in their mouths.

After the knife incident she had no more doubts. George was right. An attack was coming. Now they were both alert, on the lookout for further trouble. The caught the train just in time. The doors closed behind them and the train drew away from the station. She smiled at him as they found seats in an almost empty carriage.

"Thank you. If it hadn't been for your quick reflexes I could be dead. That knife was very sharp. I'm sorry about your suit. It's new isn't it?"

George nodded. "The suit doesn't matter and I'm so glad you're okay. We were lucky."

She laid a hand on George's arm. It was time to discuss the issues and here they could talk without being overheard.

"I think it's time to continue our conversation."

George sighed. She wouldn't be smiling at him soon he told himself.

"I thought it was forgotten, like a bad dream but it's caught up with me. I still don't know exactly what happened but I do know I made the wrong decision. You see Brady was the popular one. Where he went, I followed. He was my friend and I trusted him. Where was I?"

"You joined the UN and your security check was clean."

"Oh yes. I never saw Brady again until my first visit to New Zealand in 2010. After that we occasionally passed each other - I should have realised something was up but I didn't want to think.

"Then Brady rang and ... I'm totally sewn up... and you're at risk. I'll do everything I can to protect you but I won't give in to blackmail. Once Brady passes on his information to the UN I'm finished. I'll probably spend the rest of my life behind bars."

"On what charges?"

"Murder of course or being an accessory after the fact."

"I'm sure the murder charge won't stick."

"How can you say that? You've seen the photos. They're clear evidence as you said yourself. They'll find the body. I've no idea what else they have but I'm sure they have a lot more evidence."

Pania's next words exploded so fast it took time for them to make sense.

"They have shit all, pardon the French. I know where the body is and that fact will save you." George's mouth dropped open. She grinned at him. His thoughts flashed over his face, doubt, fear, disbelief, hope, uncertainty. He didn't know what to think. "Wh-what do you mean?"

"I met her, yesterday, here at the airport when I was waiting for your flight. She's very much alive and kicking. It was a hoax, a complete hoax and I have her statement to prove it. Brady's little game is over. You have my word."

The carriage wheels clattered filling the silence as George struggled to make sense of what she had said. He looked at her and Pania glimpsed a spark of hope in his eyes.

"Are you sure?"

She nodded vigorously. George's brain was rearranging the pieces of his puzzle. The end of the tunnel seemed a long way away. She might be able to prove his innocence but Brady didn't know that yet. George was in no doubt that Brady had every intention of carrying out his threats against Pania and the Forum.

"Brady's threats against you and the Forum still have to be taken seriously and I won't rest easy till it is all over. If Brady knows that his hold over me is gone, it might make him even more dangerous."

The grin faded from Pania's face as she remembered her near miss. Was that Brady's really up to? Surreptitiously she crossed her fingers and touched the wooden seat.

"There's not much we can do now. Parsons won't listen to us and anyway we're still in the dark on what's planned." As she said that the train slowed and pulled into Petone station. "This is my stop. Let's put the Forum issues and Brady's threats on hold. Perhaps we'll think of something in the morning."

He nodded and followed her onto the platform. They both glanced suspiciously at the people getting off. Pania recognised most as locals. They were not being followed. Of course it meant nothing because Brady's thugs knew where she lived. She smiled at George, glad of his company and, determined not to let her anxieties spoil her evening, she chatted brightly as they walked to her house. George looked about him, interested to see Pania's neighbourhood. The light was fading and curtains were pulled across most of the windows. The only signs of life he saw were the occasional bright flickers from TV screens escaping from the cracks in the drapes or cats squatting sphinx-like on verandas out of the wind. People were inside and the streets were still except for scraps of paper tumbling erratically along the road. His lips felt dry and when he licked them he tasted the saltiness in the air.

It was George's first visit and Pania had been looking forward to playing host. She put on a brave face and showed him around the section. It was green and thoughtfully planted to give maximum privacy. George nodded as she described how on a summer's day, she could lie on the lawn under the tree and forget the city for a time. He had raised an eyebrow when he'd glimpsed her bright VW in the shed which aspired to being a garage, but had made no comment. Inside, the house was furnished with an eclectic mix of old and new. Liberty stood beside the armchair.

George was happy to see that the lamp suited the room. He'd struggled to find something appropriate and had examined the lamp several times before he decided to buy it. The desire to give her something had made him nervous and he'd wondered if he'd done the right thing, wondered if she'd take it as a friendly gift, nothing more. He hadn't many female friends and none that he'd ever wanted to buy a gift for but whenever he thought of Pania in her little cottage he'd felt moved to get her a keepsake. Their paths were unlikely to cross after the Forum and for some reason which he refused to analyse, he didn't want to be forgotten.

"You've got it all so neat, nothing's out of place," George complimented as she set out some glasses and took a bottle of wine from the pantry.

"Yeah, I'm a tidy Kiwi." She laughed, handed him a glass of wine and told him to perch on the tall stool. They chatted as she busied herself preparing dinner. The wine eased the tension and slowly they relaxed. When she started to set the table she handed George some secateurs and directed him outside to cut some flowers for the table. He returned holding some daffodils and jonquils which she put into a vase and set in the middle of the table.

"You've got a lot of rose shrubs in your garden. My mother used to grow roses and it was often my job to pick them for the house." A nostalgic smile lit his face. "She had many varieties in her garden, all different colours and types, but her all-time favourite was named Peace. It had the most beautiful pale yellow blooms with a touch of pink on the petals. It always seemed to be in flower. Whenever I see roses I think of my mom."

Pania listened in surprise. This was the first time she had heard him volunteer something personal.

"I love the old-fashioned varieties. They don't last long in a vase but even when the petals fall they still have their own beauty. My neighbour Edith told me the climber on the veranda is called Birthday Present. It starts to flower in late November. The people who owned the house before me, loved roses and they left many varieties in the garden. I'm looking forward to summer when the garden looks and smells wonderful. This year I want to extend the borders and put in a vegetable patch. Rex, he's Edith's hubby, he's offered to help me. It's very relaxing in the garden."

She was an excellent cook and mouthwatering aromas soon filled the little kitchen.

It was a relief to sit down. There was a companionable silence as they concentrated on their dinner happy to leave the worries of their work for a few hours. The wine and the food worked their magic.

"Who's that?" George pointed to a photo on Pania's mantelpiece.

"That's my cousin Mira with her husband and little girl. Remember I visited her a while ago."

"Cute baby. They look very happy," said George.

"Yeah. Rawiri is director of three small country schools in the back blocks. I arranged for..." Pania noticed George's head drooping. He was almost asleep as jetlag and tiredness washed over him. The events of the last week had piled up on him and he could hardy keep his eyes open. "You look done in. Why don't you stay the night? I've a spare room and the bed's made."

He was too tired to argue. Somewhere at the back of his mind it seemed a good idea to stay around and keep an eye on Pania. The instant his head hit the pillow he had fallen into a deep sleep unaware that he was quite incapable of keeping an eye on anyone.

As she sat staring into the bright flames she reviewed her Forum responsibilities. Was she vulnerable? For the opening ceremony she was responsible for crowd control and would be very visible. A cold shiver ran down her spine. What extra should she do to keep people safe? Had they done enough, she wondered, and what did the involvement of Change Makers mean? The wood crackled as it burned sending little sparks up the chimney. She'd be glad when it was all behind her. She felt jaded and her mind bruised. Soon she could look forward to some new challenges. Maybe that was not something to look forward to. Perhaps Parsons was planning to shunt her out. She checked her phone - 8 missed calls, no messages, no identifying numbers. A flare of anger sent blood to her head. She felt vulnerable and alone even with George snoring in the spare room.

Later that evening, Pania carefully banked up the fire and placed the fireguard in front of the opening before heading for bed. At least the room would retain some heat in the morning and the fire would be easier to restart.

Pania tossed and turned, unable to sleep. They had been preparing for ROAR for the last four years and needed to be on their toes to face Brady's threat but anticipation of trouble and the tension she'd held tightly contained till today, kept her awake. Nothing was quite as it seemed. Eventually she drifted off into a troubled sleep.

### CHAPTER 58

Most people were asleep when the ninth of September 2014 ended and the tenth started. Few watched the big hand on the clock move past twelve. Nothing unusual occurred on that moment. It was neither the end of the world nor the day of the second coming. In truth few were aware of the exact moment when the new day was born.

In those shadowy hours before the sun's rays brightened the eastern sky, dozens of small bands of people were about. Temperatures were still a chilly 8˚ and the forecast was for dry settled weather with a light north westerly. Wind was never far from Wellington. The southerly had died off and a northerly gale was on the way. In the monitored heart of the city all was calm.

Overlooking Whites Bay, a short distance from Rarangi where the Cook Strait Submarine Cable entered the chilly waters the mystery driver of the third rental sat in his black Toyota and impatiently checked his watch. At the appointed time he sent a text message and immediately took the SIM card out of his phone. As instructed he waited. He had been trained by Denny and was confident that he would complete his task and achieve the required outcomes.

Poor bugger. He was a good bloke was Denny. Strict, fair, a good teacher, he thought and again he wondered if the accident had been arranged. Denny's Gang had been badly shocked. Being questioned by the cops was a bloody nightmare. He shook his head at the memory. Only two of them had seen Denny signal. But it hadn't been Denny or he'd not have been killed so who in the hell had they seen? He was damm glad it hadn't been him who'd detonated the bloody explosives. They'd all felt uneasy after that, each secretly relieved that their contract was finished. I'll watch my bloody back and make sure I'm not next, he'd decided. I think I might take a bit of a holiday, lie low and keep out of trouble. Waiting was hard work for time seemed to have slowed and everytime he glanced at his watch the hands had hardly moved.

State Highway 1 out of Pukerua Bay was blocked. For the last three nights it had been reduced to one lane and between 2am and 5am trucks blocked part of the road leaving only the seaside lane free. Temporary traffic lights controlled the flow at each end. During the day all sign of activity was gone. No-one took much notice; road works were not unusual, especially in the six months leading up to the Forum. The council was determined to impress its international visitors and prominent roads had been upgraded and the streets tarted up.

On the third night, the morning of the tenth of September, each member of Denny's Blast Gang was busy. At Pukerua Bay Boy's gang were busy. Under Bomb direction explosives had been carefully placed at the foot of the cliff, along the road, inside the railway tunnel and on the hillside above. Traffic had been stopped at a safe distance from the explosion site and heavy machinery blocked the road at both ends.

Further along the highway at Otaki, six men laboured in sullen silence, following the clipped instructions of their leader. Dressed all in black, hoods pulled over their heads and wearing dark gloves they completed their tasks. Even in the moonlight it was impossible to see them clearly, like stagehands between acts, they appeared as fleeting shadows. They had laid explosives along the bridge supports, stopped the traffic and set the timers.

Near the summit on the Rimutaka Hill two more teams were following similar instructions. Just after 4 a. m. , the leaders of the teams working on State Highway 1 sent text messages confirming that all was ready and threw away their SIM cards. High in the Rimutakas there was no cell phone coverage so neither team had been able to fulfil this directive. Undeterred they completed the rest of their instructions and disposed of their cell phones and SIMs separately.

### CHAPTER 59

The cell phone with the blood-red sleeve lay silent beside its green twin. As electronic signals beamed across the Pacific Ocean they triggered a flurry of beeps and buzzing convulsions. Brady picked up the green phone.

"53 new messages," his voice quivered with suppressed excitement and satisfaction. Each message confirmed that another team was in situ, unopposed and undetected. The outcome was never in doubt yet still he felt inordinately pleased with himself. The future was now his. Nothing would go wrong. He'd thought of everything.

The emails had been a brilliant strategy. George was a soft target, fair game. He hadn't heard from the gutless coward but he was sure his threats had had the required effect and the charges would be dropped. He could see George paralysed by his fear of exposure. Nothing had changed since college days.

What luck that George's minder had been a chick. She presented new possibilities. The tail and the phone calls had been afterthoughts. He'd enjoyed pushing Pania out of her comfort zone. That she hadn't caved in had surprised him but he knew that her equilibrium was gone. At least it distracted her and undermined her trust in George. They were fair game, he thought dismissively.

Brady was determined to win and nothing and no-one could be allowed to stand in his way. He felt like Hannibal crossing the Alps - the world lay open before him. He could taste success.

"Wesley you can relax. I've taken care of all the details and the stage is set for you." He laughed. "Internet access to New Zealand will be out for some days so it may be a while before we get confirmation from all our guys." His legs moved in a spontaneous jig in front of Wesley's desk. "I've done it, actually done it. The ogdoan, thanks to Frank's man have a new and unstoppable computer virus replicating undetected and migrating freely. There's no antivirus software and already thousands of computers in New Zealand have been infected, millions of zombie computers around the world are all focussed on New Zealand's Gateway Servers, and thousands of botnets are coordinating their denial-of-service attacks. Not only that, they're supported by an army of hackers making sure that when one server is down the backup server follows. It's incredible. It's unbelievable. It's pure magic. No-one saw it coming. By daybreak New Zealand will be on its knees." He was drunk with success.

Wesley grinned back. He couldn't help it, Brady's joy was infectious. His worries from the past few days melted away. He'd been right to trust Brady; the other stuff was just coincidental.

### CHAPTER 60

The hillside exploded. The tunnel above the road was destroyed and tonnes of rocks and soil plunged into the sea. It was exactly four thirty. The discarded SIM card, the road just north of Pukerua Bay and the railway line above, all reduced to rubble. In the confusion of the blast the gang slipped away leaving a small queue of increasingly impatient and concerned drivers waiting at each end of the road for the lights to turn green. Here and there in the queue of cars the local radio stations fell silent. Faint music, throbbing beats or the pulsing rhythm of rap filled the silence as ipods played on.

Eventually losing confidence in the workings of the traffic light, the leading car drove slowly along the road. Its headlights picked out the landslide. It was impassable. On the other side of the rubble a similarly tentative driver had been forced to halt his futile journey. Both drivers tried to use their cell phones and found they had no reception. It was an inconvenience and gave little cause for alarm.

Almost simultaneously two explosions were detonated high in the Rimutaka hills. One in the middle of the Rimutaka railway tunnel caused the roof to collapse; a mountain of rock covered the track and completely blocked the tunnel. The noise was muffled by the hill although the impact was felt by the men standing near the Featherston entrance.

Far above them, the excavated ledge, which carried State Highway 2, was covered in a landslide as the second blast went off. Traffic was delayed behind road blocks. The teams responsible made their way back to Masterton as planned and as instructed kept their mouths shut.

The destruction of a small bridge across the Otaki River completed the isolation of Wellington. The noise of the demolition and collapse of the bridge was heard in the township.

From his vantage point above Whites Bay, the fifth agent witnessed the flare as the explosion destroyed the cable. No-one else was on hand to observe the flash. All the delegates were asleep when the buildings and street lights were swallowed in darkness as the power failed. Those few night owls still about in the city stumbled in the sudden darkness before their eyes adjusted. Above the city the sky sparkled with innumerable pinpoints of light as distant stars pierced the blackness. Here and there the hum of generators disturbed the dead silence and lights flickered back into life.

Haywards, the substation receiving power from the North, was destroyed by a small rocket. Rockets also destroyed the satellite earth stations at Mahanga Bay and Mt Crawford. High voltage transmission lines were brought down and telecommunications were cut at Hawkins Hill, Mt Kaukau and at Makara. All key radio, television, cell phone and telephone transmission towers, substations and exchanges were destroyed. At the same time a concerted attack on the country's internet servers added to the isolation.

In the electronic security centre deep below Wellington's streets, the lights flickered as the generators took over. The operator was too stunned by the wall of black images to register. It seemed that all the CCTV cameras had failed at the same moment. He frantically pushed reset buttons on his computer without a single image reappearing. In growing panic, he reached for his phone but the line was dead. It was the middle of the night and he was under strict orders never to leave the room unattended. He pressed the emergency alarm. There was nothing he could do but sit and wait.

Pania was in a deep sleep. Outside, high in the ink-black sky the full moon's cold brightness glimmered whenever the wind moved aside the veil of cloud. Its light fell onto the other side of the house, not into her room. Here it cast vague shadows, shapes which grew and faded. The first fingers of dawn were still an hour away and next door the sleeping hens roosted peacefully in their straw-filled nesting boxes, feathers fluffed to keep out the cold.

George slept on. At 4:30 am he awoke briefly to note the beep of a distant house alarm. He drifted back into exhausted sleep knowing she would wake him in due course.

Having witnessed the success of his mission, the fifth agent drove away, and less than half an hour later he had parked beside the other two cars outside the rental depot. He dropped the keys into the slot and started walking. In his pocket was a plane ticket in the name of Marc Childs. Across the road in the railway station car park, a leather-clad biker watched. He took a final drag of his cigarette then stubbed it out, grinding the remains into the road. The Harley roared into life and across the road. He picked up the agent and headed towards Nelson. No-one noticed them. As the Harley rumbled across the Wairau River a small black cell phone flew from the passenger's hand into the dark water. The men stopped at Pelorous Bridge. Beside the car park was a standard council rubbish bin stuffed almost full with ice cream wrappings, paper cups, banana skins and worse. The SIM card slipped between the debris and a week later was buried in the nearby landfill dump. They resumed their journey to Nelson.

### CHAPTER 61

Wesley clapped Brady on the shoulder.

"Congratulations, well done. The Forum opens in just over five hour's time. Soon we'll be in total control."

"Yeah. I've done my job. Nobody died and no-one's injured as you specified. I'm sure you'll approve of my little projects. Everyone in Wellington will get a taste of what it means to live in a third world environment. Can't you just see the flap! Officials running around like headless chooks. The delegates will all be aware of the threats they face. Wellington is just a prototype of what's possible."

"Good - right. I'm pleased you've avoided any collateral damage. Once the remits are tabled it'll get interesting. It's finally time for the richest nations to take responsibility for the poorest, time to become our brother's keeper."

"No doubt there'll be plenty of debate before the vote is taken. You've got that under control Wesley?"

"Sure. We start high, create some anxiety and when we drop it down to our target, they will think they have won a bargain! One thing I've learnt from years of negotiations; it's all about perceptions and creating a win-win solution. I've instructed our Defenders to drink only bottled water. You've arranged supplies for them haven't you?" Brady looked offended that Wesley had even asked, so he rushed on. "Thanks to that new drug which they'll be sipping with their iced water, the other delegates will be susceptible to our Defenders arguments. They'll want to agree unable to imagine any opposition. It's in the bag!"

As he finished speaking he was suddenly transported back to his youth. He was sitting in a pew planning the week ahead not having listened to a word of the address, when the pastor's voice exploded into his thoughts, finishing his sermon as was his custom with a quotation. His voice insistent, resonating with prophetic authority, echoed around the high ridged ceiling as his finger pointed directly at Wesley ' _and it is written, Do not boast about tomorrow for you do not know what a day may bring forth_ '. A spark of fear flared in the pit of his stomach just as it had so many years before and he felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Unaware of his thoughts, Brady nodded.

"Food, water, drugs, it's all under control Wes. It was so easy to win that contract and put our people in place. It should be child's play to contaminate the iced water and turn down the air-conditioning. Lots of salty savouries on the menu for morning tea. That should make them thirsty. You're right though. It's an amazing drug, custom made for us."

"When I first heard about it I didn't give it any thought. Native peoples are so gullible, all that old hocus-pocus stuff but then I observed it being used and it blew me away. I watched the shaman control the crowd and bend it to his will. People lost their ability to reason or think logically. All they wanted was to obey. It's a useful drug don't you think and you've handled the transition from tree sap to synthetic copy perfectly."

"Right place, right time eh Wes? Another Chosen Way task completed successfully without any information leak. Its certainly proved worth the effort. Our tests showed that it's hard to overdose. Once a certain amount has been ingested people start to feel progressively more nauseous and sleepy. It's a handy side-effect. Eventually they vomit, the body cleans itself and they sleep it off. We don't expect that to start happening until late in the day. In the meantime, they feel relaxed and unconcerned, ready to follow the crowd.

"The Forum subcommittee thought they were getting staff at a bargain." He grinned and Wesley glimpsed a brief flash of pure evil cross his face. "Instead they got us. There'll be no possibility of any form of contact for a while so we must be patient. I'm sure we'll hear some news soon enough."

He looked up. Wesley looked a bit sick himself, grey and drained. "Come and have a drink in my office. We need to celebrate this moment, celebrate my... um our... success. The first time I was in New Zealand I bought a bottle of wine just for this moment. It's a premium award winning wine. I'm sure you will enjoy it."

Together they walked to Brady's office. Despite Brady's confidence Wesley felt the knot of anxiety twist like a knife deep in his gut. There was always a chance things would go wrong. For the first time he felt the possibility of failure. Had it been a mistake to trust his SIC? His thoughts touched briefly on the mountain of mortgages, fraudulent loans and falsified accounts, a paper kingdom which would today rise or fall. With a jerk of his head, a nervous spasm he had recently developed, he forced himself to fake his normal aura of confidence.

Behind Brady's desk, the pin board was a riot of colour. Hundreds of postcards, each different, each apparently sent by friends on holiday, competed for space. The Robert Frost poem in the centre was yellowing with age and the first cards were now almost hidden. The bottle was placed centre stage on the desk. Two large, tulip-shaped, crystal goblets stood on either side as if on sentry duty. Brady had anticipated success.

Wesley picked up the bottle and read the label, admiration creeping into his voice. "A Larose from Stonyridge Vineyards Waiheke Island 2008. Wow, that must have put you back a bit! I've read about that winery. It's one of New Zealand's premier wine brands. You need to open it now. It needs an hour or so to develop a bouquet."

With conspicuous ceremony Brady pulled the cork and examined it. The wine had stained the cork evenly but not over its entire length. He passed it to Wesley with a grin. "It's worth every dollar I paid and all the self-control I possessed to leave it unopened!"

The wine in the opened bottle breathed, gaining depth and smoothness.

"So Wesley, tell me, now that I've completed my projects and set the scene for you, how have your arrangements gone and what comes next? I've been so absorbed in details I've neglected the wider picture."

"Just like you I'm not relying on one tactic. We've lobbied hard to get our people into strategic roles and now we dominate the African delegation. The years of aid which we've poured into their countries convinced them that we have the resources and willpower to effect significant change; that we're on their side and so they gave our candidates their votes. We didn't use any trickery.

"We have Defenders scattered amongst the other delegations too. They make up almost all the South East Asian delegation, excluding the Singaporean block, who are unlikely to support any of our remits. Fortunately Singapore is like Wellington, and the message won't be lost on their leaders.

"Almost half of the South American delegation is made up of our people. Amongst them are some high profile leaders who have considerable influence within their region. I'm confident their vote will go our way. That's three out of ten regions which we control... We need another three regions on our side and I have a number of negotiators in Wellington waiting to influence known independents. As they sip their iced water our tasteless chemical will start to disengage their logical brain and exaggerate their need to conform. Our strategy is to persuade them that our solution is the only logical option. If the drug fails we may be forced to take a hard-line approach. We know the North American, the Middle Eastern and European delegates will be the hardest to influence. Those regions are controlled by the wealthiest nations and they are unlikely to vote against their own interests without our help. That said, some European delegates have strong socialist leanings and they may well support our remits. It would be to our advantage if the European Region vote was split. Greece, Spain and Portugal are on our side and will vote against the EU. I've directed that those most opposed to us are to receive a higher dose... I am sure when smaller countries understand that the remits only target the top four or five economies, they will see the value in casting their vote with us."

"Which countries have you selected for this honour?"

Wesley looked at the papers in his hand. "This is a draft of the speech I intend to make once our delegates have swung the vote. I've chosen Norway, Kuwait, Singapore and the USA as our foundation donors. Together they have a population base which almost mirrors that of the fourteen poorest nations so I think it is a serendipitous match."

"Once you have the majority vote what exactly will you do?"

"As you know our remits will impose a levy on the rich to lift living standards amongst the poorest. That fact will not be obvious initially. First we will get agreement that achieving the Millennium Development Standards by 2020 for a subset of our nations should be the focus for the next four years then we will start to implement the resolutions needed to achieve this. I'm intending to set the annual levy at $1,000 per head of population. We literally transfer $1,000 from each person in the rich world to each one in the poor. That's not much but it'll make a tremendous difference to the poorest. By the time the fifth Forum meets I know we will have such a success story that our influence will be unopposed."

"Have you considered how this will affect our organisation? Will my role change? I want to focus on more positive strategies, have more influence where it really matters."

"You're right. Our strategies will change immediately and your organisational skills will be vital. I'd like you to take control of finances. I've arranged for you to be invited to become the foundation director for each newly established National Funding Bank. This banking system will be crucial to raising living standards. Funds to improve healthcare, education and deliver welfare will originate with you. You'll set up the systems and processes by which aid monies are transferred from the central pool into each bank and you will be responsible for establishing sound banking systems in each country and for the appointment of suitably qualified and trustworthy nationals to oversee the distribution and investment of the levies. The biggest pool of talent is likely to be the graduates from our training institutes. Are you interested?"

Brady smiled. If Wesley could have heard the thoughts rushing through his head and seen the images of personal wealth flashing before Brady's eyes he would have been aghast.

"Sure. Sounds like an exciting challenge, something to get my teeth into!"

"Great. There is something I need you to do. We ... um ... I mean ... ESAP and its offshoots have some unpaid debts and a few creditors who'll be banging on our doors. Until we've cleared these debts you're to divert the aid monies and use the interest you earn to repay our debts. This'll only require a small delay and will be easily concealed while the new systems and process are being established. I'll leave that in your capable hands... Once the aid levies are deposited into the new banking systems your first responsibility will be to refinance and restructure all external debt so each country will have a clean slate and their new banks will hold the guarantees and securities. Do whatever it takes to divert funds into infrastructure projects. Again I leave the detail to you. This strategy should provide your bank with an income from day one and stop repayment liabilities draining each economy. The remaining funds can be used to start upgrading key utilities ...

"After the first year there should be no external debt to cripple the economies and the entire aid levy will be available for internal development. I've prepared a presentation highlighting the essential facts and figures so that we can finalise the details. We'll have time over the next week to work on these strategies. Thursday week, I'll call together our advisors and work out more details. Imagine the world we're creating!" Wesley almost jumped out of his seat in his excitement; he had already forgotten his earlier premonition. "You've no idea how great I feel to see my predictions fulfilled and I know it wouldn't have been possible without your support and encouragement. Fast asleep in Wellington they've no idea a new era is about to dawn; an era when resources will finally be transferred out of the hands of the privileged few." Wesley looked over at the bottle of wine; its aroma of rich complexity reached him. "This'll be a moment worth celebrating."

They settled to wait, each lost in their very different musings. Wesley dreamed about saving the world while Brady was busy devising a scheme to cream off his private fortune. They anticipated the moment when their success would be reported and they could drink to certain victory and a dazzling future.

### CHAPTER 62

A small crowd of motorists had gathered to discuss the problem of the landslip and the blocked road. Suddenly the ground bucked under them. They staggered and tripped in their haste to move out of danger. The earth moved under them in unexpected directions. The initial jolt further destabilised the hillside and more land broke away from the cliffs above. Large rocks bounced down the slope like tennis balls accompanied by the rumbling cacophony of smaller stones and debris. The normal roar of the waves against the shoreline rocks was muted as the ground wave neutralised the onshore currents. It was terrifying.

George woke abruptly. His bed swam over the floor somehow blending into his nightmare. It crashed into the opposite wall. Somewhere a door slammed shut. For a moment he thought he must have been lying on a waterbed. The mattress rolled and swayed as if alive. It made him feel ill. Glass from the window had showered into the room. His confusion was absolute.

There's a fox in the henhouse, he thought, hearing the frantic cackling of hens then he remembered that New Zealand had no foxes. He could made no sense of the crashing and splintering noises he heard, then it hit him, God this is an earthquake, a big one! It seemed to continue forever everything slowed. He heard every crash, felt every movement. Dust leached into the room and he sneezed loudly. When will it stop? What do I do? For a moment he was terrified. He had no idea of the time and the bedside light was not where he remembered it had been when he went to bed. The room was in darkness and only the moonlit outline of the window, now directly above the end of his bed gave him any sense of direction. George scrambled out of the window as the aftershocks continued, unaware that he was dusted in glass shards. There was no sign of Pania.

He tried to remember the layout of the rooms. Where was Pania's bedroom? He saw the glow of a fire coming from the right corner of the house. The lounge. He ran frantically around the house to Pania's bedroom. Her window had also shattered and he yelled through the empty frame

"Pania are you all right?"

There was no answer so George climbed in. For a few seconds the scattered cloud cleared. George saw Pania's bed against the lounge wall. It was pinned under her colonial oak wardrobe and one side of the bed had collapsed under its weight. Pania was unconscious and trapped. Through the shattered wall he could see the glow of the fire increasing as the wooden house started to burn. The floor was covered in broken glass but he was not aware of it as he focussed all his attention on freeing Pania.

He had very little time and yet time seemed to slow. As the fire grew he started to feel the heat. The crackle and small explosions as dancing flames fed on the dry wood increased his panic.

The wardrobe was very heavy and George struggled to move it. It was awkward to get a firm grip and the position of the bed made it impossible for George to lift it off and at the same time free Pania. He ran to the window and shouted loudly.

"Help! Help!"

### CHAPTER 63

On the other side of the Pacific, Brady and Wesley waited impatiently for news. The minute hand followed with nerve-racking slowness its ordained circuit over the clock face. An uneasy silence sat between them.

Brady picked up and examined each of his Montblanc pens. He admired their colour and shape, the weight and balance of each one. He removed the top and checked each nib carefully then with a flourish, signed his name on the desk pad before screwing the top back on and returning it in its velvet lined home. Soon he had a row of signatures. Each pen produced a slightly different effect. The ink was a different colour or the nib stroke thicker or finer. He'd need another tray for the pen he'd ordered. Maybe, he thought, one made from maple would look good, or ebony to remind him of Africa.

He looked up at the fish swimming calmly around the tank. Fish watching was one of his favourite techniques for easing stress. It was sometime before he realised he was watching his red Siamese fighter hunting down the newly born Gouramis fry. The speed of the attack and the instant disappearance of the fry diverted his thoughts. He admired the aggressive beauty of his prize fish and moved closer to observe the life and death race for survival. When all the fry were eaten, Brady lost interest. He watched Wesley for a few moments in silence, aware that he hadn't turned a page for some time. He reviewed the four major targets again, power, communication, road and rail links.

"I'm confident everything's on track. I've had reliable confirmation. Only one team was neutralised and we had a backup in place. Every target had two independent cells to ensure against failure and so I know all the teams were in place and ready to complete their missions as scheduled. A few were out of cell coverage but I am sure they also were in place as arranged." He looked again at the clock. "It should all be over now. I wonder how long it'll be before we hear something."

Wesley looked up from his book and nodded. Unconsciously he twisted the ring on his left pinkie. The diamond glittered icy-blue as it reflected the light.

### CHAPTER 64

"Coming." George heard Rex answer. He appeared out of the night in his dressing gown and slippers and climbed awkwardly into the room.

"I'll lift the wardrobe. You pull Pania away." George ordered. He put all his strength into raising the weight a few centimetres off the bed. Rex heaved and pulled Pania towards him. "Hurry I can't hold this much longer."

With a last desperate tug Rex pulled her clear. She groaned. George dropped the weight onto the bed, bent and picked her up in his arms and stumbled towards the broken window. Once Rex was outside George passed Pania through then climbed out. Behind them flames licked through the gashed wall.

On the front lawn, at a safe distance from the fire, George gently lowered Pania to the ground.

"Where am I? What happened? Oh my head!"

"You're okay; you're safe now. There's been a big quake and the wardrobe fell on you. You've a big lump on your forehead and bruises. How do you feel?"

"Everything's sore! What happened? An earthquake? Are you sure? Ohhh," she groaned. "My head hurts. Where am I?"

By this time other neighbours had appeared to help fight the flames. They wasted no time and formed a line passing buckets of water from the Sargeson's pool to the house. While their parents passed the sloshing buckets hand over hand, the kids carried the empty buckets back to the pool. It was exciting and scary and they felt proud to be helping. A few neighbours rushed over with their emergency fire extinguishers and these were emptied onto the flames.

"She's got the shakes. It's shock," Rex whispered in George's ear. "I know the symptoms. We have to keep her quiet and still. I'll get some blankets from Edith." He disappeared into the night to return shortly after, carrying two thick woollen blankets and a torch.

George wrapped her up and sat on the ground beside Pania. He held her close to reassure her. Rex shone the torch into Pania's eyes. She blinked in the sudden glare.

"Thank goodness! Her pupils are the same size so she's probably only got concussion, not that that's always straight forward. Look after her George. Keep her awake and if she gets worse give me a yell. Edith or I will be within coo-ee."

George nodded. "I'll look after her. You go and see if others need your help. We'll be fine."

Patiently George answered Pania's questions as her mind circled around the same track, accepting the answers then forgetting them a moment later. As George held her close in his arms, the fragrance of her hair scented the air. He was glad to be alive and felt an unexpected rush of tenderness and yearning. He'd never felt like this before, never allowed himself to feel like this, he corrected himself. His conscience was free at last. He had no more secrets to protect. He was intensely glad that Pania knew the truth, knew every sordid detail. He thanked his lucky stars that tiredness and jetlag had prevented him from returning to his hotel. It could all have ended so differently.

The grey cat appeared out of nowhere its tail large with fright. It jumped onto Pania's lap and turned around several times to settle. Soon the compact ball of fluff started purring. It was a comforting sound.

Slowly the fire was brought under control. The lounge and two bedrooms were badly burned but the rest of the house was spared. The new wall linings on Pania's room slowed the flames but everything was blackened and soaked.

The earth kept moving, shuddering and shaking as the taniwha sleeping beneath the ground twitched and tossed about. It was terrifying. Nothing worked. There was no power or running water. The phones were useless. Rex set the radio frequency to the emergency station but it spat and crackled at him. None of the normal stations worked.

"It's dead," he said in frustration. Between the rumbling tremors, a peculiar silence pressed down on their eardrums then the protesting creaks of swaying timber, the crash of things falling and muted cries of alarm rushed in. The simultaneous sounds seemed distinct. With every tremor the sky lightened as day crept onto the shattered city. George forgot about everything except the woman in his arms.

### CHAPTER 65

The violent jolts woke all the residents in Rarangi and further away in Blenheim. Jennifer was sure that she was at the epicentre of the quake. She'd never felt a shake like it in her life. It woke Em too and she rushed to comfort her daughter. After the first massive jolt there was complete silence. It was eerie. She could not hear the waves pounding on the stony beach. There was no wind. It was as if the universe was holding its breath in fear.

The fire-station siren suddenly filled the silence. It went on and on as the aftershocks continued to jolt the house. Jennifer dressed quickly. Even without the shrill noise she knew it was an emergency for Rarangi was exposed to the sea and at risk from tsunamis. She had no idea how much time she had but she didn't dither. She stuffed things hurriedly into a bag and strapped Em into the car seat. She could see the moving headlights climbing the hill as other panicked residents fled to higher ground. She joined the exodus.

### CHAPTER 66

Brady pointed to the big monitor and Wesley dropped all pretence of reading. This was what they had spent the last hour waiting for and they grinned at each other. The wine was ready to be poured into the glasses. They sat forward, alert with anticipation.

"We interrupt this program with breaking news from New Zealand. An earthquake registering 8. 2 on the Richter scale has been recorded in New Zealand."

The words grabbed their attention. Brady's grin became a tense grimace, his eyes widening in shock. Wesley's face lost all colour and his hands gripped the arms of his chair, his alarm clearly visible.

"Monitoring stations around the Pacific Rim were the first to report the quake which occurred at 5am local time. It is calculated to have been centred on the capital Wellington. No confirmation has yet been received from sources within New Zealand. Satellite communications have been disrupted due to an unknown failure at the INTELSAT earth station which is no longer transmitting. This station is located outside the earthquake affected areas so the failure is believed to be unrelated. Alternate means of communication also appear to have broken down."

As they listened intently, their visions of success vanished.

"Wellington, host city to the Fourth Reaching Out Across Regions Forum was today poised to become the focus of the world's attention, as delegates from around the globe meet together to formulate regional financial policies for the next four years. Many of our economic and trade leaders are attending and we have been unable to confirm their safety. It's as if Wellington has disappeared from the face of the world. The US government will deploy one of its satellites to give us on the ground images. It will be some hours before New Zealand is within range and we have a better understanding of what is happening."

They listened in disbelief. Brady glanced at Wesley hunched forward, his attention fixed to the TV. Colour had washed from his face. He looked up and Brady saw his thoughts written all over his face. It was a disaster in every sense of the word. He had played and lost. Worse still Brady knew that they were now in danger of being exposed. Gone were his cocky feelings, gone his triumphant anticipation, chased away by visions of ignominy. No-one would remember him after this. He slumped, unable to utter one meaningful sound, paralysed by the devastation which had totally undermined his meticulous preparations.

Regularly the news reports were updated.

"A state of emergency has been declared in New Zealand as a series of tsunamis have been recorded around the coastline of both the North and South Islands. There has been considerable damage along the shoreline of the Marlborough Sounds. As it travelled down the Sounds the wave gained height and power, inundating low lying areas and causing considerable shoreline damage. Officials evacuated the township of Picton and surrounding areas with no reports yet of deaths resulting from the tsunami. The town itself has sustained significant damage ... Tsunami warnings have been issued for the Islands of the Pacific and the western coastlines of South America.

"Scientists have determined that the epicentre occurred 15 km below the CBD and officials fear that the death toll will be significantly higher than at Napier and Christchurch, the sites of New Zealand's most significant quake events in the last one hundred years.

"We have been unable to establish any direct contact with survivors in Wellington however observations are coming in from surveillance planes which report that the city is isolated with landslips blocking both State Highway one and two. Bridges have collapsed and the geography of the city has been changed with large areas of the seabed exposed. At the epicentre almost half the buildings appear to be damaged or destroyed. In contrast to the uplift which is clearly visible at the Petone end of the harbour, land around Wellington airport seems to have slumped. The runway is currently under sea level and the suburbs of Miramar, Strathmore Park and Seatoun now sit on a newly formed island. It appears that this forms a new channel or entrance into Wellington Harbour. Fortunately the timing of the quake meant most locals were asleep. Helicopters have landed the first emergency crews and relief agencies are mobilising. By all accounts the situation on the ground is chaotic."

Brady and Wesley looked at each other, neither giving voice to their thoughts. The news report continued.

"Scientists have known for many years that the Australian Plate is moving rapidly north northeast over and against the Pacific plate. These tectonic plates rub against each other under New Zealand and specifically under Wellington where three major fault lines converge. Over the years immense forces build up which are eventually released as earthquakes. Wellington's last major quake occurred in 1855 and was of the same magnitude as today's tremor. More recently several large quakes devastated Christchurch, the largest city in the South Island. New Zealand is not known as the Shaky Isles for nothing."

Forgotten, the bottle of wine continued to breathe. It was losing its freshness.

Wesley dragged himself up from the chair. Brady hardly heard Wesley' speak or noticed him leave. His mind was in turmoil and Wesley's warning made no impression. His attention was glued, in stunned incomprehension, to the TV monitor. When he finally looked up Wesley was long gone.

Too late, he thought with guilty relief, to tell him about the attacks, the sabotage and the disruption he had unleashed. Tomorrow or the next day it would no doubt fill the tabloids and the TV news.

Wesley would find out soon enough.

### CHAPTER 67

As night became day the remodelled streetscape emerged and residents looked around themselves in dazed bemusement. Rex and Edith set about encouraging and organising their neighbourhood. Their Civil Defence training was finally being put into practice and they knew what to do. Water, shelter, safety and reassurance were priorities and they knew not to expect outside help for some time. During training it had been emphasised that communities had to concentrate on helping each other and on finding their own solutions to immediate needs.

They worked together with the smooth efficiency of people who understood each other. Survivors needed to be organised and given tasks so Rex sorted out the activities and allocated responsibilities; long drops were dug, bucket toilets improvised, water bottles collected, shelter organised and children were reassured and cared for. Food was recovered from devastated kitchens and assessed. Thanks to their regular Civil Defence reminders, the residents were in good spirits knowing they were prepared.

George sat with Pania and watched the sky lighten. The ground under him continued to shudder at unexpected moments, just when things settled another jolt remined him it was not over quite yet.

"How's Pania?" Edith's voice startled him and he looked over his shoulder to see her peering over the fence at them.

"She's okay I think. Bruised and battered but no bones broken."

Pania stirred. "What's happened," she asked.

"Why don't you both come over to my place," Edith suggested. "You'll be more comfortable on my veranda. There's a lounger you can use and bottomless cups of tea and coffee. Apart from a few broken plates we've weathered the jolts quite well. Some of the neighbours are there all ready so you'll have plenty of company. If we get any more big ones it'll be easy to make a quick exit."

George could smell toast cooking and it reminded him that they hadn't had breakfast yet. He felt Pania move to get up and quickly stood to help her. Together they skirted the rose bushes, Pania groaned under her breath with every step. As they came closer he could hear snatches of conversations. Everyone stopped talking when they came into view and several women rushed down the steps to greet Pania. They fussed over her like mother hens and soon she was comfortably settled on the lounger, the rug securely wrapped around her and a mug of steaming tea in warming her hands. George watched from the sidelines, the slightly burnt toast covered in a thick layer of honey crunching between his teeth. It was obvious that Pania had not broken any bones but the knock on her head worried him as she repeated the same questions over and over, unable to remember what had happened.

All that long day the earth shuddered, jolt after bone shaking jolt. With phones out of action, electricity cut and radio broadcasts inoperable it was impossible to coordinate citywide rescue efforts. Those in the inner city above the epicentre of the quake felt utterly abandoned and alone. Their confusion and terror grew with each shuddering uplift, each thundering explosion as buildings collapsed. Rex and Edith worked tirelessly, comforting and reassuring their neighbours in the relative safety of the valley suburb.

With Pania being fussed over by the capable Edith and her helpers, George felt redundant. He felt himself an outsider and wandered aimlessly deep in thought. Rex noticed him pacing around the garden.

"George, now that Edith's watching Pania I wondered if you could see what the situation's like in Wellington."

George nodded relieved to finally have something to do. "Sure, I can do that."

"Let's see if we can find Pania's bike. I've often seen her on it. There's no point in driving, the roads will be impassable but you might get further on a bike."

"A bike! It's years since I was on two wheels. I guess it'll come back to me. You're probably right about the roads."

They found her mountain bike. It was undamaged although the shed had a distinct lean. It was then that George noticed Pania's VW. All its tires were slashed and graffiti danced across the bonnet. His shocked gasp alerted Rex who stared at the vandalism.

"Who would do this? Poor Pania. She'll be heartbroken when she sees this."

George knew who was responsible but now was not the time to explain things to Rex.

"Let's not tell her for now. She doesn't need to know yet. It must have happened earlier before the earthquake. Perhaps I can fix the tires and we can clean off the graffiti before she sees it? She's had enough to deal with on one day. Do you agree?"

"You're right George. There's nothing she can do about it at the moment and telling her won't make it better. Let's get this bike out and you on the way."

"Sure. Let's keep this between us for now. I'll just tell Pania what I'm doing and where I'm going. Won't be a minute!"

Rex waited holding the bike, a troubled frown on his face. It seemed incomprehensible that anyone should deliberately set out to upset Pania. Around him everything was so quiet. It felt like Sunday morning before people woke and filled the air with noise. George returned and took the bike. Together they walked out to the kerb. Rex gave directions.

"Head that way, towards the sea and then once you hit the Esplanade turn right. That should take you to the Hutt Road and Wellington. Don't forget to ride on the left side of the street and take care at the corners! Good luck."

George laughed. His laughter sounded strange in his ears after all the terror.

"I won't forget. I'll report back when I return. See you!"

He started pedalling in the direction of the city. It took him a minute to master the gears but in no time he felt confident and started to enjoy his mission. He soon found his way blocked. About an hour later he returned. He was greeted like a long lost friend. Everyone gathered around him to hear his news.

"I couldn't get far. The roads are a mess and several times I had to get off and lift the bike over a crack in the asphalt. I reached the Esplanade and turned right but then couldn't go much further. The access onto the freeway is destroyed; the over-bridge has collapsed onto the road below and the land has been lifted. I could see the fault line clearly. The shoreline's all different; where yesterday there was water today I could only see a muddy expanse. There is no way we can get to Wellington."

"What did the city look like?"

He was silent as the images appeared before his eyes. He swallowed.

"I didn't recognise it. There are some buildings still standing but those next to them are just clouds of dust. I couldn't believe my eyes." His hand moved over his eyes as if he could wipe away the impressions. "Looking around I saw smoke rising. I'd guess it's evidence of earlier fires. There are lots of landslips on the hills and it's really quiet. No traffic noise and no city hum. On the Esplanade I passed groups of people standing around trying to understand what they were seeing. I spoke to some and I got the impression most people in this area seem to have survived. Houses totter in various states of collapse but I didn't pass any that were completely destroyed."

"What do we do now?" someone called.

"I was told they're calling for volunteers to meet at the Rec grounds. There they'll be assigned to relief work and anyone homeless can go to the nearest school ... You're doing a great job here Rex; and Edith too. Perhaps someone should report that we can survive on our own for a few days? What's your assessment? Three or four day's water and food?"

"More," Rex quickly assessed the situation. "If we're careful and ration things fairly we could probably get by for a week that is unless there are further massive quakes and things turn belly up. Water will probably be an issue before we run out of food. We can use the water in the Sargeson's pool if we run short. If it comes to that, Edith and I have a supply of sterilising tablets. In the meantime, that water should be okay for washing and cleaning and we have plenty of buckets." He pointed to the buckets lying on the lawn. "Is everyone willing to cooperate, agree to rationing and prepared to pool resources?"

He looked around the people gathered on his lawn. Worry lines etched their faces and young children were held firmly in their mother's arms. Even the older children, usually boisterous, were subdued, staying within sight of their parents. With every tremor they flinched in anticipation that it would be another big one and some burst into loud sobs and clutched at their mums. They all showed signs of stress but they were resourceful and down-to-earth and would get by. They trusted him and all nodded or mumbled agreement.

"I need a couple of volunteers to help Edith and someone who will go with me to the 'Rec' grounds to report our situation. I can understand that power and phones are down but not why the radio is dead and cell phones not working. At CD they always told us the radio would broadcast directions but I can't get anything." A worried frown creased his forehead. He shook his head. It was no good focussing on what they couldn't do. CD always taught that they had to concentrate on the possible and make do. They had to rely on ingenuity and number eight wire technology, or so he remembered from the manual. It was a bit like the role-plays he and Edith used for training the new volunteers, only this time it was for real.

### CHAPTER 68

It was the afternoon on September 9, when the LAN Chile flight carrying Fernando finally landed in Santiago. It felt so good to be back in South America, to hear Spanish spoken and to be amongst people who looked like him. He felt more alive when he stepped out of the plane than he had in all his time away. He made his way through passport control, located his luggage and exited customs. He asked for directions to the LAN Chile bookings desk where he planned to get replacement tickets. As he passed, the TV screen caught his attention. Mid step, he stopped in shock. Frank had told him the party would start but surely he hadn't meant this? He listened carefully as the news reader concluded.

"A tsunami warning has been issued to exposed areas along the South American coast line. It is expected to be some hours before the first waves hit the coast. Experts predict a series of waves of varying intensity and force. People in low lying areas are urged to leave immediately for higher ground and are warned to avoid returning until the all clear has been issued."

Fernando found a seat to consider the news he had just heard. It would be wise to cover his tracks. He considered his options. He'd converted his last Kiwi dollars into American ones at Auckland so carried enough funds to survive. He would go native... on foot... catch an occasional local bus or train ride... find unsuspecting tourists with little Spanish and even less sense... avoid border posts and officialdom... hide amongst crowds of ordinary people.

He would disappear.

It would take longer for him to get home but suddenly Fernando wanted to become invisible. He was glad that he hadn't had time to let Frank know of his plans. He'd done his job and his sister would be safe. They would keep their end of the bargain even if he disappeared. Nevertheless he had to create some dead ends – just in case they came looking. He got up and resumed his search for the ticketing counter.

"Buenas tardes. I've just landed. My Auckland flight was cancelled and I missed my connecting flights and my appointments. I have some unexpected free time and would like to travel around Chile for some weeks. There's heaps I'd like to see, explore the city and visit Patagonia, maybe take a side-trip to Peru to visit Machu Picchu. Is this possible?"

"Your ticket can be changed and we can rebook you. What dates were you thinking?"

"Can I get an open ticket? That way I can be more flexible. If things are interesting I'd like to stay a bit longer here or there."

"That's possible. Your time's a bit limited. Your ticket will expire in five months."

"Oh I don't expect to stay that long. A few weeks are all I am thinking about just now."

The open ticket was handed over.

"Gracias. Adios." Fernando thanked the official and headed out to the bus stop.

### CHAPTER 69

Wesley sat in shocked disbelief, his mind searching for ways to turn this terrible disaster to his advantage. No matter which angle he explored he could see no hope. With his eyes on the TV he forced himself to consider the facts. ESAP and its many subsidiaries would collapse as financial debts were called in. Brady had no idea how vulnerable they were. He felt weighed down by guilt and fear. A voice in his head shouted that he would never help save another person; instead he would face incarceration, perhaps even die in prison. He refused to listen and remembered his risk management contingency plans. He had to be free. He could at least save himself. That thought gave him purpose. It was time to execute his backup plans. He took a deep breath and shifted in his chair.

"Brady I've had it. There's nothing we can do at the moment. I need to get some sleep. We can meet again tomorrow to determine how we can recover and what we need to do to protect our people. Perhaps you should send out some texts from Emery Redpath then you should get some rest too." He stood up. "'Night Brady," and headed quietly to his office.

He logged into his laptop and set in motion the emergency software. Investigators would find nothing incriminating on his machine. He looked again at the Robert Frost poem on the wall behind his desk and nodded to himself. God help me, I'm definitely taking the road less travelled, he thought with growing dismay. At the last minute he took the page down and put it into his briefcase. He looked around for one last long moment burning the scene into his memory then he walked out the door.

He scuttled home and shoved essentials into his half-packed bag. His false passports were already sewn into his jacket lining, hidden behind its pockets. From the bookshelf he selected a couple of battered paperbacks and pocketed them to hinder the x-ray machines, then he drove his car downtown and parked it in a badly lit side street, halfway between two ineffective street lamps. He left the key in the ignition, his passport and wallet in the glove box and walked to the nearest hotel. The lobby was empty and the desk unattended. He stood outside and dialled a taxi then dropped the phone in one of the many trash cans obstructing the sidewalk. By morning they would be emptied and the car gone.

He intended to disappear without trace.

At first light under an assumed identity and fake passport, he boarded a plane heading south. For the next few days he travelled, always south, each flight under a different identity, each destination more insignificant and remote. Three days later he stopped flying and vanished.

### CHAPTER 70

Hanna was the first one into the office the next morning. She waited impatiently for Wesley to arrive. Several hours later Brady straggled in looking sick. Still she waited until at last her anxiety forced her to knock on his door.

"Do you know where Wesley is?" she asked.

"No. Said he'd be in today. Haven't you heard from him at all?"

"No. I rang his home and his mobile but there's no answer. The phone's been ringing nonstop; almost all of our overseas project managers have rung. They sound desperate. I need to talk to him. It's really important."

"Can I help?" Brady asked in a half hearted manner, his mind clearly on something else. Hanna looked at him for a moment and then she blurted.

"Yesterday's cheques have all bounced including my wages. I checked the bank account. It's way beyond its overdraft. All the others are the same. Everything's in the red. There's no money. Not anywhere!"

She had Brady's full attention.

"Are you sure?" She nodded vigorously. "Show me!... Please," he added as he realised how abrupt he sounded. Together they looked at the figures. Hanna logged in to one after another of the company bank accounts and Brady watched in horror as the red numbers he'd scribbled down added up.

"What does it mean?" she asked hesitantly. Brady didn't answer instead he marched to Wesley's office. She followed him and they both stared at the tidy room. Its silence mocked them. Everything was normal or was it? It took him a moment to see the fade mark on the wall behind Wesley's desk and remember what had once hung there. He tried to remember Wesley last words. ' _Emery Redpath_ ' Why hadn't he taken note? It was their red alert, the password for disaster. Then Brady remembered Wesley's words ' _Protect your people_ '.Brady turned and retraced his steps. He pulled out his chair and slumped into it. Hanna waited in the doorway. He looked up and a tired smile flitted across his face.

"You should go home Hanna. It's finished. ESAP is bankrupt and the receivers will be here in a few days. Make sure you take anything which might link them to you and disappear."

He fished in his pocket and drew out his wallet.

"How much do we owe you?"

She just looked at him her face frozen in horror.

"Here's two hundred dollars. It's all I have."

He stood up and pressed the money into her hands. Hanna could see that he was too ashamed to look her in the eye. His glance skittered across his desk. Brusquely he picked up a pen and pushed it at her.

"Take this as a souvenir of your time with us. I think it'll mean something to you, perhaps not now but one day. It's one of only 240. Now I need to do some things before the police arrive. I'm sorry Hanna," he muttered. "It's over. Best you go now while you have time. Good luck."

She stood rooted to the spot, staring at the Mahatma Gandhi Montblanc in her hands. She knew that it was his favourite and she knew it was his favourite because it was the most exclusive pen he owned. Her eyes brimmed as she looked up. Brady's handsome face twisted in angry frustration. He pushed her roughly and slammed the door.

Hanna stood stunned. She'd always thought him an attractive man but this was a different Brady. He'd had never given her anything and now suddenly she had two hundred dollars and a collector's pen. She heard his voice echo ' _It's over'_ , then she remembered the word ' _police_ '. It galvanized her into action. Tears welled in her eyes and ran down her cheeks. She brushed them away with the back of her hand.

She hesitated, she hadn't thanked him. She raised her hand to knock, then reconsidered and reluctantly returned to her work station to clear up. As she tidied up, shredded documents and erased files, she feared for her family. What would happen to them, to Niger and the kids, now that ESAP was bankrupt? Her usual sense of optimism failed her and the days ahead seemed to stretch bleakly before her. She couldn't make sense of what had happened.

### CHAPTER 71

Brady sat as if frozen behind his desk. He glance fell on his Montblanc collection. Already he was regretting his generousity.

He heard Hanna begin to shred documents. He shook his head as if to clear a fog. He looked at the fish tank and thought that his red fighter looked a bit jaded. Then he remembered what he had to do. Abruptly he triggered the emergency texts, opened his computer and clicked on the red icon. Immediately the screen turned black and gobbledegook danced across the screen, line after line, till it filled the display and the lines started to march up the screen. That'll delay the investigators, he thought but it gave him little satisfaction. He wondered if he should clear Wesley's computer but discarded the thought quickly. He tried to ring him but the message storage on both phones was now full and he was cut off. It was every man for himself. He didn't give the earthquake a second thought, his mind was completely absorbed in his own plight. There was nothing left to do but wait.

The thought of waiting hung heavy and he could feel himself falling into the jagged blackness of despair. He moved in restless agitation as if looking for escape. It wasn't his fault, he told himself, he'd only done what Wesley had instructed but deep down he knew that no-one would believe him. Did it all have to end like this, he wondered as he watched the numbers and letters racing across his screen as the computer erased its storage and memory. It erased all evidence of his careful schemes. All those years of planning lost. He felt like a pathetic nobody, a feeling he'd never experienced before and he didn't like it. They'd still get him, he thought, as surely as his red fighter had hunted the Gouramis fry. It was the end of the road and he had no plan B, even his passport was in Police custody. He had no savings and no future outside of a prison term and a lengthy incarceration. No-one could help him now, not the absent Wesley or even that coward George. He felt the children on his wall jeering at him, their big eyes glowered accusingly and their smiles had turned into sneers. He pulled them off the wall and shoved them out of sight into a drawer. In his haste some of the picture glass broke but he ignored the sound. He could see the pale images of their frames on the blank wall but at least eyes no longer stared. He sat on at his desk, no longer seeing the computer screen or the fish tank growing brighter as the light faded. He picked up the pens and examined them carefully before placing them back on the tray. His screen was blank and he shivered. It had finished its cleanup and he turned it off. He forced himself to move from the desk. Hanna had disappeared sometime before and he was glad that he was alone. There was no-one to gloat.

He fed the fish, then grabbed a box from Hanna's stationary cupboard and emptied his drawers. He left his laptop and the tray of pens on the desk and walked away. At the door he looked back. A steady stream of bubbles rose from the little diver and his red fighter was on parade. The room already had an abandoned feel.

### CHAPTER 72

On the second day after the quake, George joined the volunteers looking for survivors while Pania stayed behind with Edith. She was still feeling fragile. She'd never reported for work and doubted if even Parsons would carry out his threat in the circumstances. Somehow Parsons and the Forum were irrelevant. She was determined to count her blessings and practise being thankful. She turned to Edith.

"I don't know what we would have done without you Edith. I never imagined buying my little house would lead me to such wonderful people."

"It's nothing Pania dear – you would do the same. It's George you should be thanking, not me. Without his help you might have been dead. It was lucky he was staying with you."

"Wasn't it just? It wasn't planned. Spur of the moment." She paused looking confused. "What was I saying?"

"How you didn't plan for George to stay."

"Yeah. Yesterday - was it yesterday? No, the day before, he arrived in Wellington and for once I wasn't there. I observed his arrival on the new security cameras. He looked shattered when he came off that plane. His flight had been delayed but looking at him you might have assumed he'd had a hard night partying. Poor man, usually he can't sleep on the flight so his body clock is all messed up when he gets here. He looked even more rumpled that usual.

"I'd arranged to show him my new house so on top of a busy day, he came to dinner. Suddenly he fell asleep, there at the table in the middle of talking. It was clear that he was too tired to make it safely back to the hotel so he bunked down in the spare room. That's the last thing I can remember." She shook her head as if to try to clear her thoughts. "I must have done the usual things, cleared the table done the dishes, banked up the fire. I always put the fireguard up so I'm sure I must have done that too but I can't remember. Perhaps it will come back to me. You're right. I'm lucky to be alive, lucky George was here. I wish I could remember it all."

"It'll come back, just give it time. George too needs time."

"What do you mean?"

"I reckon George is falling for you," Edith teased.

"No, what makes you say that? We just happen to work together but we're good friends."

"Both Rex and I saw how concerned he was for you and how he cared for you. I would go as far as to say he's in love. I've seen how his face lights up when he sees you and his eyes follow you when he thinks no-one is watching. He may not know it yet. The shock of the quake is overwhelming but I've seen it before. Disasters and traumatic events tend to shuffle things of importance to the front."

Pania shook her head. "It's just the circumstances. We've both had a lot to cope with but when he gets back to the States he'll forget me. On his last visit he told Parsons, he's my boss, that he hadn't met Miss Right yet. This was to be his last visit anyway." She sighed.

"Maybe he just didn't know that he'd met her and now he's starting to realise. That's what my intuition tells me. I guess time will tell."

Pania frowned dubiously and Edith changed the subject.

"Why did you choose policing as a career?"

Pania explained how she'd enrolled as a foundation student when the Pre-Police Proficiency Certificate was first offered.

"When I completed the certificate, I was accepted as a police recruit. It was my twenty-first birthday the day before I started Police College training. Nineteen weeks later and started walking the beat in Levin."

"Did you like that?"

"Oh yes! It felt as if all my Christmases had come together. I was in my element. It was very rewarding work. I was transferred around a bit and some years later I saw a vacancy with the Diplomatic Protection Squad."

"Is that where you work now?"

"Yes, I'm employed by the DPS. It was a change of direction and I was ready for a something fresh. I've so enjoyed the new challenges, the variety of work and the people I now have the opportunity to meet and protect. I'm not allowed to name names but I've been close to some amazing people, famous people. On occasion I've been known to pinch myself to prove I'm not dreaming. Sometimes I'm assigned directly to an individual and at other times I'm responsible for the security of a special event. That's how I met George. We're both on the Forum Security committee. He represents UN interests. None of it matters now. God I've hardly given it a thought! I hope all the delegates survived."

When she felt able to face it, Edith took Pania to see the damage. She wandered sadly through the burnt cottage. The sight of her wardrobe toppled onto her bed reinforced her wonder at having survived at all. Yet even in the shattered house her sense of humour helped her. Her blackened fridge, washing machine and cupboards full of smashed crockery and glassware had all relocated, rearranged in the strangest of places but standing firm in the middle of the mess was her hot water cylinder still strapped in place.

Later she had dragged Rex over.

"Look," she joked. "Why didn't you tell me to strap everything else? You should at least have told me to anchor the bed then it wouldn't have ended up under the wardrobe! And if I'd strapped the wardrobe then the bed would still be in one piece. You need to update your recommendations."

Rex had laughed with her. "I'll bring up your suggestions at the Civil Defence debrief Pania."

They needed something to lighten the horror. It was another day before George and Edith agreed Pania could volunteer. Like George she felt driven to help, desperate to make a difference and assist where possible with the rescue efforts.

Pania joined the two police women at the local station. They visited the makeshift relief centres hurriedly set up in undamaged schools. She held hands, made cups of tea, bandaged cuts and listened to traumatised survivors. Her very visible bruises gave her words of comfort meaning and empathy. She played with the children and reassured them during the aftershocks.

George joined the teams digging through the rubble of collapsed buildings, carrying the bodies and the survivors out. For the most part it was heartbreaking work. There were more bodies than survivors and they worked in a race against time. Yet every survivor found gave them hope. It made the hard labour worthwhile. The mood of cooperation and selfless service inspired him to greater effort.

At the end of each day they returned exhausted to Edith and Rex's house and shared the basic meals Edith prepared from the emergency food caches. In the evening they bunked down on borrowed bedding. Lying on the lounge floor brought back forgotten memories and lent a degree of casual intimacy to their conversations. They talked about their pasts. Pania remembered sleeping on the marae with her cousins, Mira and Cheryl. She told him about sun filled days and the fun they'd had in the surf. George recounted his days as a Scout. Both were acutely aware of each other.

All week the community waited for outside help to arrive. George found time to get Pania's tires replaced and Rex had been busy cleaning off the paintwork. By mutual agreement they kept the vandalism secret. Finally CD officials reached them. Things started to happen. A temporary water tank was left at the end of the street and refilled daily. Port-a-loos sprouted on the kerbside and food parcels began arriving. Communal meals became unnecessary and people stopped gathering in Rex and Edith's lounge. Life started to return to normal. It wasn't long before Rex and Edith could hand over their responsibilities to the professionals.

Soon the evacuation of nonresidents began. George heard he was on the list to be bussed out to Palmerston North Airport, then flown to Auckland, and from there back to the States. Pania too learnt that she would be moving temporarily to Auckland. There was no talk of redundancy.

Insurance assessors had wandered up the street making notes and filling out forms, taking photographs and speaking with owners. Pania's house would need extensive renovations before she would be able to live in it again but she was glad to be alive and knew that it was a miracle. In a micro-moment of time, everything had changed, not just in her life or in her street but around the world.

Much of the city had been destroyed, hotels, apartments and office blocks once sitting proudly along the fault line had buckled and swayed under the successive waves only to collapse. The luxurious suites of those premier hotels had housed dignitaries from the wealthiest and most influential nations. Many probably never woke. Rooms that had been spacious and roomy folded into nothing more than a small pile of dust and rubble. Smashed glass, twisted steel, broken concrete and snapped beams remained the only indication something else had once stood there.

Delegates from the world's wealthiest nations were dragged out of the rubble and few survived. Poorer delegates allocated to low-rise, decentralised accommodation fared better. Wesley's African delegation was badly shaken, their high hopes shattered but they all survived.

Those delegates who survived the disaster returned home with a new understanding of what was important and a new determination to fight for justice and equality. They had seen death close at hand and their chance survival had taught them new lessons. Wealth and privilege were no protection against the forces of nature and a rich man corpse was the same as a poor man's.

### CHAPTER 73

Edith hugged George. It was time for him to leave them. She hoped that they would meet again one day and she was convinced that Pania shared her hope.

"Come back and visit us George. You're part of our whãnau now. You've walked in our shoes. Both Rex and I are so glad we had the opportunity to get to know you. Thank you for everything you have done here."

Rex shook his hand firmly.

"Things won't ever be the same but do come again. You've been a wonderful support for all of us."

"You're welcome Rex, and Edith, it has been an honour for me. Thank you for your kindness and hospitality. I don't know how Pania would have survived without your help. I couldn't do it on my own and my respect for the work of CD volunteers has grown enormously. It has been an awesome privilege to have been involved. I promise one day I will be back to visit. I won't say good bye instead I'll say see you later!"

When the army truck arrived to drive George across the Rimutakas to link with the waiting bus, he took Pania in his arms and hugged her tightly. He cleared his throat, his voice sounded gruff.

"Goodbye Pania. I hope things go well for you in Auckland. Send me an email when you're back at work, please, and keep in touch. I'm really sorry about your house but so glad I saw it as it was. I'll really miss you. You know that don't you? I wish..." He cleared his throat and added, "The world's not that big and I promise that we'll see each other again once things are back to normal."

She answered, smiling brightly her eyes fixed on his.

"I'll send you an email when I'm settled. Goodbye George and thank you for saving my life. I'll miss you too."

Pania was sure George was going to say something more but after hesitating he released her, smiled tentatively then turned, climbed aboard and found his seat. He waved down at her and blew her a kiss. Pania stood and watched the vehicle until it disappeared around the corner. She felt gutted. That was it; she was on her own again. Time to get on with life, but she missed him already. It was a good thing, she told herself, that she had heaps to do before she escaped to Auckland.

### CHAPTER 74

It was as well Jennifer left Rarangi quickly. Those slow to realise their danger had been swept away and were declared missing, presumed drowned. It was weeks before they were all accounted for. The sea did not want to give up its victim's bodies easily.

About a week later Jennifer and Em returned to a damp house and a section covered in stones. Windows on the seaward side were shattered and floorboards covered in debris but at least their house had withstood the big wave better than some of those along the main road. There they had taken the brunt of the Tsunami and few were left standing. Rarangi Beach Road had been buried in sand and stones and there was no vehicle access to Jennifer's house. The only way in was via Port Underwood Rd and they had had to walk the final stretch to the house. Jennifer set to work to make the house habitable. She pulled up carpets and threw out sodden and damaged furniture. It was a depressing smelly job. Builders from Blenheim were busy. The screaming whine of their circular saws outdid the screeching gulls and the rapid staccato beat of hammers lent urgency to their efforts. Residential homes had priority over holiday houses and she was grateful when they arrived to re-jib the rooms most damaged by the seawater. When things were liveable she and Em moved back in and she started to paint.

Her experiences were expressed in stunning artworks, paintings full of power. In the gallery they were often sold as soon as they were displayed and she was commissioned to create several works which the Forum committee presented to surviving delegates.

It was much later, when the police started making enquiries about strangers visiting the area before the tsunami, that Jennifer remembered the riddle of the third car. She'd written the extra registration number on their arrival form. It had survived the wave, safe in her tin box and so she provided them with a copy. They commended her for being so observant and thanked her for the evidence. Their investigation into the demolition of the Cook Strait Cable at Whites Bay was aided by a series of unique circumstances.

As a direct result of the disruptions caused by the earthquake, the cars had languished in the rental yard uncontaminated by other drivers. A detailed forensic examination recovered finger prints, hair, soil and traces of explosive matter. Four people were later arrested. The fifth member of the Whites Bay assault team fared better. Neither his phone nor SIM card was ever found. He was the only one of the five left in the South Island that night and he flew out to Auckland on the first flight the next morning to vanish into the early morning crowd. By then the focus was on Wellington and the devastating news reports dribbling out.

Not all the saboteurs followed their instructions to the letter. The leader of the Otaki assault team did not destroy his phone. Instead assuming he was untraceable, he loaded a new SIM card and used the phone regularly. The police, meticulously searching for clues, had identified the source of each confirming text received by Brady and tracked this phone despite the new SIM and apprehended its user. It was a success for technology. His arrest exposed the others and they were all arrested and charged with the destruction of the Otaki Bridge. One of those arrested had worked for Denny. Once this was known the police quickly detained the other members of the blast unit and so like dominos one team after another was exposed. The fifth member of the Whites Bay assault team was identified and brought to trial. It was a limited victory because Denny's unit was small and involved in only a few of the events of interest.

Gradually, piece by piece, answers were uncovered. Links between Change Makers, The Chosen Way and ESAP were eventually exposed as facts were ferreted out and theories put forward. Only a few ever fully understood what really happened in the hours before the earthquake. The attacks so carefully planned and executed which would normally have attracted front-page exposure, passed by unreported. They were certainly unnoticed by the public who were still concentrating on recovery. When investigators finally unravelled the clues, the breadth and detail of the attacks shocked them.

None of the saboteurs could be directly linked to Change Makers or the other entities which Brady and Wesley managed. They were hired hands, mercenaries operating under contract. Not all those responsible were traced; some fled the country before their roles were uncovered; others died in the earthquake. Sleeper agents outside of New Zealand were suspected but never identified and Brady's suicide complicated the investigation and raised more questions.

Fernando came to investigators attention and a warrant was issued for his arrest but he'd left the country before the quake and his involvement was suspected rather than proven. His arrest would have assisted investigations but his trail dried up in Santiago. It was another dead-end. Interpol kept the files open.

It soon became apparent that Change Makers was deeply in debt. The trust had multiple accounts with local banks and finance houses. These were massively in overdraft and with no means of repayment the organisation was put into statutory liquidation. The trustees were aghast, totally unaware of what had been done in their names. Starved of resources and finance, one by one the clubs closed. The shockwaves spread out affecting the most vulnerable.

Investigating the outstanding borrowings guaranteed by Change Makers led police to look more closely at the networks they worked with. It was a painstakingly slow process and information was uncovered only after diligent and thorough investigations. They arrested and interviewed many suspects but the cell structure, under which they had worked, protected and isolated them. Occasionally they struck lucky with a frightened suspect, who succumbed and named a few names. Despite this, few links could be found between those detained and the crimes committed. Eventually most were released and the charges dropped. Sometimes other charges were laid unrelated to the pre-quake activities but uncovered as part of the investigations. In particular police were able to crack down on gangs and their drug related networks reducing both their influence in the community and their powerbase. It was a small satisfaction.

### CHAPTER 75

A year later many countries took time to remember their dead and Pania was part of a large contingent of New Zealanders who attended the commemoration services in Washington. George too made the journey and they stood together caught up in painful memories. The Mãori rituals set this event apart from all others which George had witnessed here.

As the darkness lightened, the karakia echoed in the still air. Around them families and friends of those affected gathered to remember the tragedy and honour the dead. They had assembled before dawn to commemorate this first anniversary and the unveiling of a specially commissioned sculpture. As the words rose and fell, they relived the horror and panic of that night. The plaintive incantations tumbled over and shattered into them. Then it was over as abruptly as it began. They felt a deep stillness settle on them as the memorial was unveiled and in that perfect silence they observed the first rays strike the sculpture. An inner glow began to transform the jagged dark tower into one of light, movement and colour. It appeared to sway and turn as a slight breeze stirred.

No-one moved, no-one spoke, all watched spellbound as night fled and a new day was born.

It was a highly emotional moment for Pania. The painful memories rushed back yet she also felt a wave of pride as the Mãori chants echoed; pride in her heritage and in her neighbours' courage.

After the service they walked to a nearby café. As they entered Pania breathed in the sweet aroma of freshly roasted beans. The barista greeted George warmly and looked inquisitively at Pania.

"Hey George - where you been man? Haven't seen you around. You got yourself a sweetheart?" He grinned at them. George grinned back.

"I've been away. Have you missed me? May I introduce this lovely lady? She's come all the way from New Zealand to sample some of your wonderful coffee."

"Pleased to meet you ma-am. Any friend of George here is welcome. You've sure come a long way for your caffeine fix but you'll not regret it I guarantee. Coffees for two?"

George nodded and led the way to a window table. She followed taken aback at this new George. He glowed with health and high spirits. His stride was purposeful and his back straight. For once he was not wearing grey. She noticed that they were being discreetly observed over the top of newspapers. George smiled at the watching eyes as he passed. They settled in the window seat.

"It's great to see you Pania. You're looking wonderful."

She blushed at his compliments. She'd made a special effort and knew she looked her best.

"Thanks George – you're looking pretty good yourself. I haven't seen that suit before. Is it new? And a new tie too? I like your choice of colours."

"Yes well, the old suit was getting tired and I felt like a change from depressing grey. Glad you like the tie ... you don't think it's too loud?"

"No I think it suits you."

"Thanks for all the news you sent me. I was very pleased to hear that Rex and Edith got some recognition for their selfless dedication. They thoroughly deserved it. They're an amazing couple... I was really interested in your investigation. It's hard to grasp the extent of the attacks that Brady planned. I still can't believe he managed to organise it all in total secrecy!"

"Our investigators feel the same way. I'm frustrated that we had no real warning, not one decent lead. Just think what might have happened, if the quake hadn't ... Their sabotage made everything so much worse. What bugs us most is that those most responsible have escaped arrest. They should be brought to account."

"You heard that Brady took justice into his own hands before he could be arrested? I've come to realise that he was always a bully but in the end he proved to be... I guess he just couldn't face the consequences. I can understand how he must have felt when he realised he had nowhere to turn. I wonder if he was sorry for what he'd done?" George fell silent remembering how he'd felt that morning in the hotel. Would he have considered suicide if Brady hadn't turned up, he asked himself? He couldn't answer the question. He just didn't know how he might have acted. Perhaps he would have taken Wesley's way out. "Wesley's still out there, somewhere. One day we might find him. At least we've been able to follow his initial steps although where he finally went to is mostly guess work. Still he must be continually watching over his shoulder knowing that he is being hunted. What an existence!"

Pania nodded in agreement. She stared out into the street automatically checking faces.

"Interpol hasn't given up and if we get any further leads we'll definitely pursue them. It's a little known fact but Kiwis have long memories." She grinned at him, then her face became serious, a frown line forming between her eyebrows. "I'm still astounded at the sheer scope of Wesley's vision and Brady's planning, utterly shocked that they almost carried it off. What a sad life; all that charisma, that deluded genius ... wasted!"

George put his hand gently over Pania's, capturing her full attention and nervously cleared his throat.

"I've really missed my visits to New Zealand, missed seeing you waiting for me, missed you. I know we both went through a terrible time together but I feel I'm now much closer to you than I was before the earthquake. Do you feel the same way?"

"I've missed your visits too, b-"

George butted in not wanting to hear what she might say next.

"You know almost everything about me... more than any other woman ever has. You know all my dark secrets."

He paused. Pania felt the heat flow from his hand into hers. He was speaking from his heart and she waited for him to continue.

"I'd love to spend lots more time with you." She saw his clear eyes fill with warm affection, then he rushed on. "There's a vacancy at the UN. You have the experience and the qualifications and I could support your application; if you were interested that is? It would mean we could live in the same city and well who knows what the future might bring? I'd really like that you know, the opportunity to spend more time with you. What do you think?"

### ###

### Appendix

UN Millennium Goals

(Source UNDP)

1. Eradicate extreme poverty and hunger

Halve the proportion of people living in extreme poverty by 2015. Halve the proportion of people who suffer from hunger by 2015.

2. Achieve universal primary education

Ensure that by 2015, children everywhere, boys and girls alike, will be able to complete a full course of primary schooling.

3. Promote gender equality and empower women

Eliminate gender disparity in primary and secondary education, preferably by 2005, and in all levels of education no later than 2015.

4. Reduce child mortality.

Reduce by two-thirds the under-5 mortality rate by 2015.

5. Improve maternal health

Reduce by three-quarters the maternal mortality ratio by 2015

6. Combat HIV/AIDS, malaria and other diseases

By 2015 halt and begin to reverse the spread of HIV/AIDS By 2015 halt and begin to reverse the incidence of malaria and other major diseases.

7. Ensure environmental sustainability

Integrate the principles of sustainable development into country policies and programs and reverse the loss of environmental resources.

Halve by 2015 the proportion of people without sustainable access to safe drinking water and basic sanitation.

By 2015 achieve a significant improvement in the lives of at least 100 million slum dwellers.

8. Create a global partnership for development with targets for aid, trade and debt relief

Develop further an open, rule-based, predictable non discriminatory trading and financial system

Address the special needs both of the least developed countries and of landlocked and small island developing countries.

Deal comprehensively with the debt problems of developing countries through national and international measures in order to make debt sustainable

In cooperation with developing countries, develop and implement strategies for decent and productive work for youth

In cooperation with pharmaceutical companies, provide access to affordable essential drugs in developing countries

In cooperation with the private sector, make available the benefits of new technologies, especially information and communications.

Revised estimates indicate 1. 4 billion people live at or below the $1. 25 a day poverty line and a similar number of people live on more than $10. 00 a day.

Poorest Countries

(source CIA - The World Factbook)

Richest Countries

### Wesley's Draft Forum Presentation.

The four countries we propose as compulsory donors of aid are purely indicative at this stage. There may be sound reasons for adjusting the list and we are open to suggestions. Other rich countries not currently under consideration may be substituted. We will encourage other first world countries to join the program on a voluntary basis.

The selected countries provide a combined total population of around 320 million. The combined population of the fourteen poorest countries is around 290 million. This is an appropriate population match.

I propose to levy each of these countries $1,000 per head annually for four years and use this money to improve the status of the poorest. All recipient countries are required to work towards the UN Development Goals. Targets will be set in negotiation with governments and the UN will monitor progress and compliance.

The money is to be divided amongst the poorest countries on the basis of $1,000 per head of population leaving a balance after expected costs of $20-25 million. The funds in the first year are expended solely for the following purposes -

To clear external debt. If they wish to take part in the program, countries will not be permitted to take on any further external debt.

To provide welfare payments to raise the income level of every citizen to a minimum of $1. 25 per day.

To improve infrastructure and living standards, education, health services and public utilities.

The Republic of Liberia will be the exception in the first year requiring additional aid to meet these targets due to its current high level of external debt. I propose that a $5 million supplementary grant will be applied to Liberia in the first year to cover this gap. Countries are invited to apply for additional funding for specific projects under (3 above). The remaining $15-20 million will be dispensed to the 14 participating countries on application approval.

In years 2 to 4 clearing external debt will not longer be relevant. At the end of year 3 a full UN review of each country will be undertaken in readiness for the next Forum.

Other wealthy countries will be encouraged to form a one-on-one relationship with a country struggling under significant poverty, or join forces with others to work bilaterally to alleviate poverty.

For example Hong Kong might volunteer to join the program. With a population of around 7 million it might partner with Papua New Guinea which has a population of around 6 million. It might authorise ESAP to manage the program or it might work alone. Such details are open to negotiation.

Our primary driving force is the achievement of the Millennium Goals and the eradication of poverty in our recipient nations.

Wesley's List of Target Countries

(Excludes countries with a population under 1 mill)

Wesley's Proposed Distribution for Year 1

The Road Not Taken

By Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveller, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim

Because it was grassy and wanted wear,

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I marked the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,

I took the one less travelled by,

And that has made all the difference.

### ###

### Connect with Me Online.

### My Blog: http//www.lastdrafts.blogspot.com

Due for release end 2012.

### The Patu.

When Lucy disappears without trace, her mother Moana and her baby daughter Cheryl return to New Zealand. Cheryl grows up to become an Art Historian specialising in the works of C. F. Goldie. An invitation to produce an exhibition of Goldie's works in Ireland is the catalyst to discovering the mystery behind her mother's disappearance.

Moving back and forth in time between Moana, her daughter Lucy and granddaughter Cheryl, we learn what happens to Lucy and the Patu. Full of twists and turns the book explores the bonds between mothers, daughters andgranddaughters; how time changes their world view, their beliefs, their hopes and dreams. The power of the ancient Maori spirit world weaves through their lives in unique ways. The title refers to the greenstone Patu which is a treasured heirloom; an ancient taonga and Lucy promises to wear it constantly. Moana believes it will protect her daughter and bring her home safely. Lucy shares her mother's belief and whenever she needs reassurance or protection she is aware of its quiet power.

This is a story which will appeal to book club readers. It is a twentieth century story about three generations of women separated by place and time and yet held together by their family bonds and deep love.

### ###
