The Radicals

The Radicals Alan M. Brooker

Copyright (c)2003 by Alan M. Brooker Amber Quill Press, LLC www.amberquill.com Suspense/Thriller NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Duplication or distribution of this work by email, floppy disk, network, paper print out, or any other method is a violation of international copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. THE RADICALS by ALAN M. BROOKER ISBN 1-59279-142-5 Amber Quill Press, LLC www.amberquill.com

Also By Alan M. Brooker An Angel's Revenge The Battle Of Barnstable A Conflict Of Interest Killer Turtle The Mean Green Machine What Price Paradise? Tharne's Quest Warrior Of Earth Saga Book I: Dreams Of Charni Book II: The Ride To Revenge Book III: Battle Of The Space Moon Book IV: The Evil Ones Book V: Mountains Of The Moon Book VI: The Nightmare Dies

DEDICATION Special thanks to Jenny Cocurullo and Liz Goodland for their encouragement.

CHAPTER 1: A VAN IS FOUND Al Brookes leaned back against the grassy bank, trying to hide his amusement as his wife Jan struggled to cast a trout fly into the fast-running Akatarawa stream. Jan had never tried her hand at trout fishing and she had only agreed to come on the picnic so she would be company for their adopted teenage daughter Jannine. The lush growth of the Akatarawa valley was a far cry from the wind-blown deserts of the Persian Gulf that had been Jannine's home before her rescue by Brookes from the slavers holding her prisoner. Water was a luxury in her homeland, she loved nothing better than to walk ankle deep in the cold streams of her new country. Jannine didn't understand fishing. She had only seen fish in the market in the Middle East, never in their natural environment. She watched in amazement as Jan managed to get a fly to hit the surface of the water without getting entangled in the low branches that grew out from both banks. No sooner had it touched the surface than a silvery brown shape surged up from the shadows and struck, taking the barbed point into its mouth. The trout shot down the stream, the reel screaming as the line followed the flight of the captive. "The brake," Al called out excitedly. "Use the brake to slow it down." Jan fumbled for the lever on the reel. The fish slowed as the tension on the line increased, then it turned 180 degrees and rushed back up the stream. Frantically Jan reeled in the line, trying to keep the tension on the fish. It was her first strike; she didn't want to loose it. She played the trout as it changed course, trying to shake the hook from its mouth. Slowly the fish tired. Jan reeled it in, bringing the fish gently over the rocky bed until it lay exhausted at her feet. "What do I do now?" she asked. "Do you want to eat it?" Al asked her, a smile on his face. Jan shook her head, staring down at the slim speckled body lying at her feet, mouth open as it gasped for breath after its desperate fight for freedom. "Then let it go free, but be gentle taking out the hook. You mustn't damage the mouth too much." "But won't the barb hurt and tear when I try to pull it out?" Jan protested. "Yes, unless you cheat..."

"Cheat? What do you mean?" Jan asked, looking up in surprise. Her husband took a small pair of pliers from his pocket and handed it to her. "Don't tell any other angler I told you to do this," he growled in mock seriousness. "Clip off the barbed point, then the hook will slide out easily." "But your hook..." "Can be replaced for a few cents, so I don't really care," Brookes said. "Hurry, before the fish gets a second burst of energy and starts to run again." Jan knelt beside the fish and gently lifted it from the stream. She eased the hook forward through the jaw, trying to do as little damage as possible, then snipped off the barb. The hook slid easily out of the soft flesh. She lowered the trout back into the water. It hovered for a moment, then with a flick of its tail was gone. "It was so beautiful," Jannine said, looking towards the deeper water where the fish had disappeared. "Will it live?" Brookes nodded. "Until it gets hooked by another angler, who might rather cook it than release it." "I don't want to do any more fishing," Jan said, pouting prettily. "Let's go for a walk instead." "Fine by me," Brookes agreed. "We'd better load the gear into the car first, in case anybody comes along while we're away." "This far away from the road?" Jan asked in surprise. "You never know who's around, even in the bush," Brookes said, his voice serious as he thought back to the television news report the previous evening about two missing French tourists in the Ureweras. It was an isolated patch of forest, far from the nearest town, and should have been safe for tourists and trampers. The Brookes family was much nearer to a city, in an area often _visited_ by drug growers, so the risk was considerably higher and it wouldn't hurt to be careful. They wandered up a narrow track, which followed the course of the stream. A canopy of the trees closed over their heads as they walked farther along. He could hear the whisper of rushing water. They came to a small clearing beside a tiny waterfall. A narrow swinging bridge crossed the stream, and then the track continued into the dense

bush. Brookes pointed to the bridge. Jan shook her head; the other side looked much steeper and less inviting. They turned around and walked back the way they had come. A bright flash of light caught his eye; the sun glinting off something metallic behind the bushes. Brookes moved gingerly forward. The bushes had been pulled down to conceal a mobile camper. It was empty. The bonnet was wedged open, the engine stripped of all the easily removable parts. Brookes tried to open the doors, but they were still locked. It was a surprise to find the vandals hadn't forced their way in and stripped the interior as well. Brookes noted the registration number, then they quickly returned to their own vehicle and drove away from the parking area. He drove to Wellington and called in at Central Police Station. Brooks asked to see Chief Inspector Jim Gilliard, an old friend of theirs. He had been recently promoted in recognition of his success in breaking a white slavery network operating out of New Zealand. Brookes had helped the inspector on the case. Gilliard was surprised to see the Brookes' entering his office. "Don't tell me you're in trouble again," he joked. "It has been peaceful for ... how many months ... five ... six?" "At least six," Jan said with a smile. "Honestly, we haven't done anything this time." "That's what you always say," Gilliard muttered. "You come in looking so friendly and innocent, but usually something crops up when you leave. So what brings you here this time?" "We were trout fishing in the Akatarawas and stumbled across an abandoned camper hidden in the bush. Something doesn't smell right." "Maybe they forgot to put their fish in the refrigerator," Gilliard said, keeping a straight face. "Or maybe somebody's getting ready for a dirty weekend, and they didn't want to be seen." "Doubt it. The engine has been vandalized. That vehicle won't be going anywhere under its own steam. It will be difficult enough to tow it out from where it was hidden." "Got the registration?"

"ZX3792." "Hang on, I'll get it checked out," Gilliard said, taking the slip of paper Brookes handed him. He squinted at the number, then called into the intercom for the duty constable. "Sounds like it might have been stolen, stripped and them dumped." "Stolen, yes. Stripped, only partially," Brookes told him. "The doors were still locked and the interior looked intact, but there wasn't a lot of the engine left." "I suppose it could have been stolen for engine parts," the inspector mused. "There's been a lot of that happening around Wellington over the last few months. It is cheaper to steal a car for parts than take it to a garage. The tougher licensing laws make it essential to keep vehicles road-worthy, but some of the garages are really raking in the repair costs." "I know that only too well," Brookes said with a rueful grin. "Took old Gertie in for a warrant last week and the garage tried to tell me I needed over $400 worth of repairs. But when I took it to the Testing Station they told me nothing was wrong and gave me a warrant right away. Right rip-off." The young policewoman to whom Gilliard had given the vehicle number hurried back into the room, a grim look on her face. She handed the inspector a piece of paper, then stood waiting for his reaction. He looked at the note, his lips tightening. "Tell Sergeant Norris to get a car and meet me at the entrance," he ordered. "I want a photographer and a search team at the site by the time I get there. And a fingerprint operator and forensics." "Done it again, haven't you," he muttered, turning to his friends, "and on a Friday before my weekend off. Why can't you just find simple things like other people do, or walk around with your bloody eyes shut?" Jan looked at him, a quizzical expression on her face. "What do you mean, done it again?" she asked. "We've been scouring the country for that camper for days," he said. "Do you remember seeing the story of the French tourists who went missing near Lake Waikaremoana?" "Vaguely, didn't take a hell of a lot of notice of it." "Well, the registration number you brought in matches that of their missing vehicle."

"What the hell is it doing this far south?" Brookes asked in surprise. "Wouldn't have the foggiest idea," the inspector said, shrugging his shoulders. "Hopefully there's something still on board that will give us a clue." "Do you want us to come with you, Jim?" Jan asked. "Might as well; seeing you know exactly where the van is; it will save us blundering around the bush obliterating any evidence that might have been left behind." "What about Jannine?" Jan asked. "She can stay here, or else I'll get a car to run her home," Gilliard told her, looking over at the young girl standing by the window gazing out over the busy city streets. "Maybe she'll be safer here. I'm still not too happy about leaving her on her own at the house." "Why don't you stay with her," Brookes suggested. "Not much sense in you coming back to Hutt a second time. I'm sure Jannine will be much more comfortable if you stay with her." "If you get bored, you can take her home and I'll drop Al back when we've finished the site examination," Gilliard added. "And while we're on our way back to Upper Hutt, you can fill us in on what happened to the tourists. I didn't take too much notice about what was on TV..." "You never do," Jan interrupted her husband with a giggle. "If you're not asleep in front of the set, you're reading or playing with Zorba." "At least Zorba doesn't burble anything like the amount of garbage that comes out the goggle box," he muttered, at the mental image of his very large but friendly German Shepherd. Most nights she sat peacefully curled up at his feet ignoring the endless flow of recycled rubbish that passed for television programming on most channels in New Zealand. He was sick of reruns and repeats and remakes, and... "Hey, are you still with us," Gilliard interrupted his reverie. "We have a missing van to investigate." "Sorry, Jim, I was daydreaming," Brookes said, a guilty grin spreading across his face. "I was thinking about television..."

"As long as it wasn't obscene videos," Gilliard replied. "Let's get a move on; I'll fill you in on the way to the Hutt."

CHAPTER 2: AN UNPLEASANT EXPERIENCE The more the Inspector told him about what they had found in the Ureweras, the more concerned Brookes become for the safety of the two tourists. He had tramped through the area often in the past and could remember the view from the top of Mount Manuoha was magnificent. Standing on the peak, which towered more than 1,400 meters into the cloudless blue sky, he had felt he was melding with the mountain to reach into the heavens and share the serenity of the scene with the Gods. The dense jungles rolled down the steep slopes towards the valley floor, an interwoven canopy of a hundred shades of green that sheltered all below it from the prying eyes of those not enveloped by the spreading branches. But not that many people reached the peaks to stare down over the wonderful scene. The mountain was far off the normal tourist tracks, buried deep in the trackless vastness of the Huiarau Ranges on the edge of the Urewera National Park on the north-east coast of New Zealand. It was not an area that the Department of Conservation opened to unescorted tramping parties. The roads and camping areas were safe, but it would be easy to get lost if an inexperienced tourist wandered too far into the dense undergrowth and became disoriented. Take the wrong turning, and it could be many kilometers of rugged terrain before you got back on the right path, if you were lucky. More than likely the tourist would became another statistic of the bush. "What caused this concern for the tourists, Jim?" Brookes asked. "And why this interest in the Ureweras?" "Chain of circumstances, I suppose," Gilliard replied. "They could be related, or we could be looking at two totally separate cases. It started off with a missing person inquiry from Interpol concerning a tourist couple overdue in France following a visit to New Zealand. A check of the airlines showed they never made the connection with their outbound flight from Auckland. They had been traveling around New Zealand in a camper van, and the camper still hasn't been returned to the hire company, and now it won't be until after forensics finishes with it. The registration number of the missing van is the same as the one you saw in the Akatarawas. The tourists itinerary shows they were due to visit Wairoa some weeks ago, so we faxed the information through to the local police for them to check out." "And?" Brookes probed, his interest aroused.

"A check of the records at the Wairoa Motor Camp showed that a camper with matching registration had spent two days at the camp, although originally booked in for a week. The manager remembered the young couple. His wife had spoken to them several times about the local tourist sights. They had loved the solitude of the New Zealand bush and lakes after their hectic lifestyle in France. They pointed to Lake Waikaremoana on their map and asked if there was a camping ground at the lake. When they were told a small camping ground was on the lake shore, they had pulled out early so that they could spend their last few days in New Zealand beside the sparkling blue waters." "I only hope it wasn't their last days alive, as this was nearly ours," Sergeant Norris muttered as he took evasive action to avoid a large truck that swung on to their side of the road in a reckless overtaking maneuver. Gilliard rubbed his chin, thinking back to the report he had received from the north. Jim Mathers, the manager of the Lake Waikaremoana Motor Camp, remembered the young couple and was able to confirm their bookings. However, he was unable to throw any light on their subsequent movements. They had paid for the three days they booked, when they arrived, but he wasn't sure of the exact day or time they left. They arrived on a Thursday. He had been away at Wairoa for the following weekend. "When we got his news we began a concentrated publicity campaign seeking news of the whereabouts of the young couple. Their pictures appeared in the papers and also on the television news, but the response has been disappointing." "Disappointing?" "Yes. While callers have reported their movements up to a sighting of them approaching the motor camp at Waikaremoana, from that point on they appeared to have disappeared into thin air. There was no sign of their camper, even though the registration number was given equal publicity alongside the photographs of the young couple. It was as if they had ceased to exist." "Surely somebody must have seen them," Brookes said in disbelief. "I would have thought so, but we even ran a reconstruction of their disappearance on the weekly television program TV Crime Scene, and the response to that has been equally non-existent." "I thought you always got a good response from Crime Scene," Brookes said in surprise. "Usually the public is bloody brilliant," Norris said. "They've helped solve many

crimes with their telephone calls, but the lines have been dead on this one. If anybody saw anything, they're not talking." "I sense something more behind your concerns, Jim. You seem too upset for it to be just a missing person inquiry." "I suppose I'm just hoping it doesn't turn into a double homicide," Gilliard said with a sigh. "What! Why on earth would you think that?" Brookes gasped. "Because of the body that was found at Mount Manuoha, not very far from where the tourists were last seen." "What body?" Brookes asked, his surprise obvious. "I've heard nothing on the news about a murder. Do you think it's one of the tourists?" "I don't know," Gilliard muttered, looking out the car window as they sped along the Western Hutt Motorway. "We don't know who the victim is, other than it's a darkskinned male." "Surely you could identify him if he was the tourist from his passport?" "We don't have any documents, just a body." "The why don't you send a photo to the French authorities; they should be able to find out quickly if your worst fears are justified," Brookes said, looking at Gilliard with a puzzled frown on his face. Jim was an experienced policeman; surely he would have already been through all these basic search channels. "It would be easy, if I could get a clear photo of the body," he said. "There was only one small problem, the head had been severed from the torso and the Wairoa police have been unable to find it." "No head," Brookes gasped. "And no fingers," Norris added. "You're kidding," Brookes gasped. "Why on earth would anyone do that?" "Maybe to make identification impossible. Anyhow, all we have is an unknown body found in the same area as the tourists went missing, and no other people reported missing in the area. Could be a coincident, or could be related, but at this stage I don't

know. I need more evidence, but I never expected the van to turn up this far away from the Ureweras." "Who found the body?" Brookes asked. "A party of trampers escorted through the mountains by a National Park Ranger. They stumbled across it when they stopped for a rest at the summit of Manuoha. According to Inspector Gibbs, the ranger was attracted by the smell and thought they had come across the remains of deer slaughtered by poachers. Instead they found the body hidden in a small cave beside a mountain tarn." "Unusual place to hide a body," Brookes said in surprise. "Surely all the killer had to do was to toss it over a bank somewhere and leave it to the wild pigs to dispose off the evidence." "That would have been my choice," Gilliard muttered. "The pigs don't leave much, not even the bones." Gilliard looked out the car window. They were just crossing the bridge that marked the official end of the motorway. They would be at the Akatarawas in another ten minutes. "What annoys me most about this case is the callous and deliberate way the killer went about hiding the identity of the victim," he said. "He has left nothing to chance." Brookes stared at him blankly. "They even stripped the body and removed all the clothes from the scene. There was nothing in the cave to point to the person's identity," Gilliard muttered angrily. "How about in the tarn?" "Gibbs thought about that and flew in two police divers by helicopter. They searched the walls and floor of the lake and found nothing other than some skeletons of small animals that had fallen in and drowned." "Do you think this could be a gangland killing, maybe a drug deal gone wrong?" Brookes asked. "I had thought about that, but it doesn't fit the patterns. If it's a reprisal killing, then it would be done out in the open to gain maximum publicity and act as a warning to others. This was done to try and hide the crime, and it was just lucky the trampers were in the area before the body decayed sufficiently for the smell to stop. Without the smell

attracting the ranger, they would have never found the body." "Do you think...?" "No time for that now," Gilliard interrupted as the car turned into the parking lot. "We've got a camper to inspect. Lead the way, my friend," he added as the car pulled to a stop. "I hope the vehicle has something to tell us and isn't another dead end."

CHAPTER 3: A CAR LOAD OF SURPRISES The camper was clean. The forensic expert could find no sign of prints inside. _Why go to all the trouble of wiping everything clean?_ There should have been a multitude of prints, and it would have been impossible to trace most of them. Only the criminal's prints were kept on file in New Zealand, and the majority of the camper's users would have been tourists. Somebody had gone to a lot of trouble to remove all traces of their visit to the camper, which indicated it had to be somebody with a criminal record. Surprisingly all the equipment belonging to the French tourists was still neatly packed in the cabinets and their luggage was stored in one of the wardrobes in the sleeping compartment. Two wallets, complete with unused travelers cheques and credit cards, were in the top drawer of the bedside unit, with the passports alongside. It was clear that robbery hadn't been the motive for the tourists' disappearance. _Then what could have made them disappear so completely?_ The search team stripped the inside of the camper, methodically checking through all the equipment. Behind the rubbish sack in the kitchen compartment they found a Canon 35mm single lens reflex camera. It must have slipped behind the bag accidentally. After it was checked for fingerprints, Gilliard handed it to Sergeant Norris. "There's still film in it, Ken. Get it developed. It might show us where they were before they went missing." The camper was towed back to Wellington and handed over to the technicians from the police laboratory. Gilliard's instructions were simple -- strip the vehicle and check

everything inside, no matter how insignificant it might appear. There had to be something that would cast light on what had happened to the couple, or where they had been just prior to their disappearance. The photographs were typical tourist shots, concentrating on scenery and location that would make up a history of their journey to show their friends. The last three pictures showed the camper in the background, with a mountain range behind it. One prominent peak stood out on the horizon and it would make the location relatively simple to pinpoint. The foreground in all three shots was filled by a group of people, in the middle of which the two tourists were the only white faces in a sea of brown. They stood smiling happily with their friends, but just who were these friends? "Something seems odd about these three shots, Ken," Gilliard muttered, frowning, as he passed the photographs over to Sergeant Norris. "Look all right to me," Norris muttered. "Take another look." "So?" "Can you see any faces, other than those of the tourists?" Norris examined the photographs more carefully, frowning. The inspector was right. There wasn't a single clearly recognizable face. All the men in the group had either moved just as the photograph was taken, or had their heads bowed, or their hands in front of their faces. It was too consistent to be accidental. The only clear feature about them was the patches roughly sown to the front of their jackets. A bulldog and a black swastika was emblazoned over a red, black and gold flag. Gilliard had seen such emblems before, on the jackets of the local chapter of the Maori gang that had been terrorizing Wairoa for years. They had been surprisingly quiet recently and he had hoped they'd gone into recess, but the pictures showed they were still very much in operation. On the last photograph, one of the members in the back row had been slow to move and his face was more clear than the others. "Get the lab to enhance that one, then get me a mug shot blown up to A4 size, Ken," Gilliard said, pointing to the surly brown face staring out at him. "I want it circulated to all the papers and TV channels, asking him to contact the police on a matter of importance." "Fat chance, Jim. You're wasting your time, he won't call."

"I know, but somebody might recognize him and let us know where he is. It's worth the effort." "I suppose that's possible; but more likely, when he sees his photograph, he'll go to ground until the heat passes. I don't think he'll want to be found." "They never do, but that's a chance we have to take. We don't have anything else to go on at this time, and we need something to point us in the right direction." On the morning of the third day after the media blitz a mysterious envelope, addressed to Inspector Gilliard, was delivered to the police station. Inside, in words cut from newspapers and pasted on an old piece of brown cardboard, was a cryptic message telling him that a missing luxury car had been abandoned in the North Wairarapa town of Pahiatua near the Mangamuka River road bridge, if he was interested in collecting it! _Why tell me about an abandoned car in the Wairarapa?_ The Wairarapa was well outside his jurisdiction, and he wasn't really interested in missing vehicles. That was a case for the uniform branch to handle, and locally, at that! A fax to the Pahiatua police would sort out the problem while he concentrated on the missing French tourists. Within an hour of dispatching the fax he received a frantic call from Sergeant Cook of the Pahiatua police. "Inspector, I've found the car you mentioned in your fax, but what do you want me to do with the contents?" "Hold it in lost property until the owner claims it, I suppose, unless it is insured, in which case you'll need to contact the insurance company." "I don't think either of them will want it, Inspector Gilliard. There was an envelope addressed to you inside the boot, stapled to the torso of a headless corpse!" "Bloody hell. Hold everything. I'm on my way." The inspector slammed the receiver down and yelled for Sergeant Norris. "Get the Liaison Office to get us the Westpac Rescue helicopter, Ken. We have to get to Pahiatua in a bloody big hurry. The car had a present in it for me, another headless body."

The missing vehicle was well hidden under a grove of weeping willow trees on the

Mangamutu River bank, not far from the bridge. The graceful arching branches concealed the metallic green body from the view of casual observers. But fishermen used this stretch of the river regularly, and they stayed on the rocky dry riverbed. With the water running low, there was little need to wander along the overgrown banks, fighting their way through a combination of gorse and blackberry. The car was hidden from anybody on the bank. Gilliard stared at the body, still folded in the boot of the car. The police photographer finished snapping his pictures, then the ambulance crew eased the corpse from the car and laid it on a stretcher. It was still pliable enough to be stretched out without too much difficulty, so it couldn't have been in the car for very long. "Can you give me an idea of how long the man's been dead, doctor?" Gilliard asked the local General Practitioner who had come out with the ambulance from the local hospital. "Hard to say, Inspector," the young doctor muttered, looking at the corpse lying on the stretcher. "Algor mortis hasn't set in yet, but then the weather is cool so that will be effecting the temperature of the body. Rigor mortis can take from 5 to 10 hours to set in after death, but that can also be effected by external causes, and disappears completely after 3 or 4 days." "That gives a very wide time frame," Norris muttered, just loud enough for the doctor to hear him. "Not really, sergeant," he said with a smile. "I think we can rule out the longer time frames because the body is showing no signs of decay, and that would be clearly evident if we were looking at the 3 to 4 days." "In that case we could be looking at around 5 to 10 hours," Gilliard said thoughtfully. "That would be my estimate, without a thorough post mortem, which will have to be done due to the circumstances," the doctor said. "Even if the murder was done at the shorter end of the time frame, they would have had plenty of time to dump the body here before daylight," Gilliard muttered. "And the message could have been delivered by associates of the killers in Wellington," Norris added. "I wonder where he was killed, there is no sign of struggle in the car or in the surrounding bushes." "Which could mean more than one person involved," Gilliard muttered thoughtfully.

But why was it there at all? Who was the deceased? Why send him a message in Wellington? A message... Sergeant Cook had mentioned a message attached to the body and addressed to him. "Where is the message that was left?" Sergeant Cook appeared alongside and trust a plain brown envelope with the inspector's name on it into his hands. Again the words had been cut from a newspaper. Inside was the picture of the man that had been printed in the papers. A heavy black cross was drawn over the face with a felt-tipped pen and the previous day's date scrawled across the bottom. Was this the body of the missing gang member? It must be, otherwise why attach the printed photograph to it? Was the date the day he was killed? But who was he, and why had he been killed? Identification wouldn't be easy. The body was bound naked and headless, and the killers had roughly hacked off the tips of the dead man's fingers and thumbs. While the police had a photograph of the deceased to work from, they would now find it impossible to prove they were both the same person. This victim had been treated as callously as the one found in the Ureweras, showing an utter contempt for human life. Were they the work of the same person? He must be a psychopath or very determined to hide the identity of his victims. Could it be that proof of the victim's identity would link them directly with the killer? But why go to all this trouble? The links between the victims were tenuous at best and what were the chances of finding the tourists alive? If the Maori member had been killed because of the photograph of the tourists, then it was unlikely the young couple would still be alive. Were they also lying headless somewhere in the mountains of the North Island? Exactly where would they have been dumped? At Lake Waikaremoana, in the Akatarawas, or in any of the thousands of bush-covered valleys that lay between the two points -- a distance of over three hundred kilometers? It was a frighteningly large search area.

CHAPTER 4: THE KILLER STRIKES AGAIN Inspector Gilliard stared moodily at the map on his office wall. The blow up of the North Island showed the major topographical features. Two red flags marked the locations of the two headless bodies. A blue flag marked where the camper was found. If the killings were related, and there was every reason to suspect they were, then why were they so far apart? The camper could have been dumped anywhere, why bring it south as far as Upper Hutt? Unless, of course, the killer had to travel south for some other reason and had decided to use the camper, and return by other transport. Did he have contacts in the Wellington region, or was this his home turf and he had traveled north to get his kicks? Gilliard heard a soft knock on the door. It opened at his call and a young policewoman entered with a fax, which she handed to the inspector. His fingers tightened on the paper as he read the message, knuckles whitening as a surge of anger flowed through his body. He swore softly, then quickly apologized to the policewoman when he realized she was still in the room. He asked her to send Sergeant Norris in when he got back. "Have a good lunch, Ken?" Gilliard asked when Norris joined him a few minutes later. "Not too bad," Norris muttered. "Wish they'd have a change in the canteen menu; always the same every day. Gets bloody boring." "Well, you can have a change tomorrow." "Why?" Norris asked, looking at him in surprise. "We're going sightseeing at Lake Waikaremoana." "What the bloody hell for? We've got to much to do down here." "They've found another body." "Not headless again?" "Headless, naked and bound." "Just like the other two?" "Yes. That bastard's struck again."

Norris tensed, then his shoulders slumped. "I'm getting tired of headless bodies. Where did they find this one?" he asked. "Roughly in the same area, but closer to the road from Wairoa to Lake Waikaremoana," Gilliard told him. "These bastards seem to have an affinity with the bush. This one was found in a deep gully by a pig hunter who had brought his dogs into the bush on a short training run." "Just as well he found it, and not the pigs," Norris grunted. "The hunter doesn't think so. He wasn't to impressed, judging by the sounds of that call from Wairoa. The dogs had rushed into the bush and refused to come when he whistled for them. He swore at them as he clambered down the steep bank to haul them out on their chains. He found them in a small clearing, fighting over what appeared to be an old tramping boot. The hunter vomited when he took the boot away from the dogs and found that it still contained the remains of a human leg. The rest of the body was only meters away, jammed in the forks of a tree." "Not a pretty sight, I imagine," Norris said, shaking his head. "I suppose the dogs were able to reach the boot by jumping up and hooking their teeth into the leather, because most of the ones I've seen can jump quite well." "And fortunately the pigs can't," Gilliard added. "If they'd been able to jump, there would have been nothing left for the dogs to find."

The police photographer had finished his work by the time Inspector Gilliard and Norris reached the scene and disembarked from the helicopter. The remains had already been placed in the plastic bag and the police ground party started their minute search for evidence but they didn't really expect to find anything. By the appearance of the corpse, a considerable time had elapsed since the body was dumped, and the weather had not been the best for the last few weeks. Broken branches at the top of the gully above made it obvious it had been thrown over the edge in the hope it would never be found. "At least we'll be able to identify this one," Sergeant Collins told the inspector. "He still has his fingers intact." "In that case it may be our missing tourist," Gilliard said thoughtfully. He returned to Wairoa with the police pathologist and waited until the fingerprints were checked. As he had expected, the prints were easily identified as those of the missing French tourist Jean Baptiste. But where was his missing companion Marie

Deneuve? Was she also somewhere in the bush, or had the wild pigs already removed all traces of her existence? The exhausted ground party returned to Wairoa by nightfall. They had combed the steep banks around the area but found no signs of the missing woman. Five hundred meters farther down the road, in a small parking area, a large vehicle had apparently tried to turn and become bogged in soft mud. The tires had left deep gouges around which the mud had hardened. Also they found well-preserved footprints of the group who had pushed it clear. Sergeant Collins took plaster casts of the wheel marks and the footprints. The tires had a strange, uneven wear pattern. Any vehicle with this amount of tire wear would be difficult to steer, and would possibly attract attention at any garage where it stopped for petrol. The left front tire was almost bald, the right rear not much better. The inspector sent the casts to Wellington by courier to be compared with the camper. He had a niggling memory that the tires on the van had shown uneven wear. He hadn't been paying too much attention, but he had heard one of the search crew mention that the van would be _a dog to drive._ Would that be because of the condition of the tires? The casts matched perfectly. That put the camper at the right location, but so what. Many vehicles could have been there, both before and after, but the camper belonged to the dead man. There could be no disputing that fact. Gilliard now had a positive link between the van, the site and the tourists. Had the camper been used to bring the dead body to the site, or had the victim been killed in the vehicle and then dumped? Gilliard discarded the second scenario. The vehicle would have been splattered with blood if the killing had taken place inside and that would have been difficult to remove. No trace of human blood was found in the vehicle. But why bring the body to this isolated place if he had been killed elsewhere? The police now had three bodies, scattered many kilometers apart, and yet the signs all pointed to the same killer. The first body found near the peak of Mount Manuoha and this latest killing were less than 50 kilometers apart, the body delivered to Pahiatua was more than 150 kilometers away to the south. The missing van was even farther to the south, nearly 300 kilometers from Manuoha, so the killers were mobile, but just how far

were they prepared to travel and what other surprises did they still have up their sleeves? Gilliard wondered if the latest victim had been killed at the site, maybe on the roadside, then thrown over the bank and into the gully. This was a very isolated area and the killer or killers would have heard any vehicle approaching long before the driver would have seen them. If the murder had been done at the scene, the heavy rains that had struck the area repeatedly over the weeks since the tourists had been reported missing would have washed any signs of a struggle away. This was the most likely scenario, but he still had to find evidence, positive or negative, to support his theory. It was lucky that the heavy clay soil had held the impressions of the tracks and footprints. They must have been made when the soil was wet, then had a chance to bake solid before the rains came or he wouldn't have even had any tracks to prove the camper had been in the area. Gilliard rang Wellington again and ordered another detailed search of the vehicle, this time with particular attention to any stains that could possibly be blood. Any such stains, no matter how small or insignificant they appeared, were to be immediately drawn to the attention of forensics. Gilliard wanted facts. He was becoming frustrated with the lack of firm evidence. The new search left him even more frustrated. All they found were some small leaves and a few isolated pollen grains. The botany department at Victoria University had no difficulty in identifying them. In minutes they had confirmed that both samples came from the phohutukawa tree. This was no help at all to the inspector. It merely confirmed that the camper had been in the northern regions of New Zealand at some stage, and this was already known from the itinerary of the young travelers. When he returned to Wellington, the inspector flooded the newspapers and television with new photographs of the young couple. The pictures showed them at various tourist areas and gave the approximate dates they were there. The public was asked to convey any information, no matter how insignificant, and this time he only asked for possible farther sightings of the young female tourist. The story grabbed the attention of the national media and within days, the international media also began chasing the story. The renewed interest brought a flood of reports, both from within New Zealand and also from other tourists who had made contact with the young couple while they were traveling around the country. Until then, most of the public had listened to the news without really understanding it.

Gilliard checked out every report. He soon built a more detailed picture of the couple's travels but had received little extra information and nothing that pointed towards potential killer or killers. The inspector was certain there had to be more than one person involved. There had been at least six sets of footprints around the van. Had the men raped the girl and taken her with them after they killed her companion? That was a possibility, he supposed. The pictures showed the girl was young and attractive. The couple would have been powerless to resist so many men. But what were the links between the tourists, the killers and the other two headless corpses? There had to be some link, there was too much similarity for the deaths to be just a coincidence.

Al Brookes leaned back on the couch, his arm around Jan's shoulders. She nestled against him as they watched the evening news. Her face wrinkled with worry as she listened to the police appeals for information about the missing tourists. "The poor girl," she murmured. "I wonder what's really happened to her?" "Hard to say but, reading between the lines, I'd say the future looks grim for her, but not as bad as it does for her companion," her husband said. "What makes you think that?" "Just a hunch, and the fact that the reports are concentrating on the young woman and not on them as a couple." "You mean..." "I wonder if they've already found the man," Brookes interrupted his wife. "Maybe he's already dead." "I hope she hasn't been kidnapped and sent overseas like they did with Josephine Kingston," Jan said sadly, looking across at Jannine sitting quietly in a chair reading. She let her mind wander back to the young Wellington woman who had been kidnapped by white slavers and sent to the Arabian Gulf, only to be eventually rescued by her husband. Jannine was a constant reminder of that dangerous rescue, being brought back to New Zealand with Kingston when the New Zealand government agreed to their

adoption request. Jan's eyes were filled with tears at the thought of the pain and anguish the girl's parents must be going through waiting for news of their daughter, alone and missing in a strange country many thousands of kilometers from her home. "This hasn't got the hallmarks of the slavers," Brookes assured her, lifting her chin and looking deeply into her eyes. "Far too messy." "Then what could have happened to her?" "Most probably raped, then murdered and tossed into some gully near where they found the man's body." Jan shuddered, visibly upset. Brookes drew her into his arms, lifting her face to his as he fastened his lips over hers. He felt her tense, then she pressed against him. He let his hands caress her back, easing the tension from her muscles. Slowly she relaxed, and started to breath deeply. "I love you so much," Jan whispered in his ear. "When you're not with me, I want to reach out to be with you." "I know. When I was in the Gulf, I could almost feel your presence." "I was reading a book on psychic travel," Jan said with a smile. "I was sure I could reach you if I tried, but I never knew if it worked or not." "Psychic travel?" "Yes. Many people believe that the mind can travel outside the body in moments of stress, and that this can be harnessed by people who are trained in the paranormal sciences." "Stop using such big words," Brookes joked, giving her nipples a playful squeeze. "I might learn the trick and go on a misguided tour of a few of the bedrooms around the city. Might be interesting." "Nasty old man," Jan giggled, jabbing him in the ribs. "Watch it, or I might stick up a few psychic barriers. There must be something that can be done to block unwanted guests, especially randy ones!" Brookes stared at her. Jan had never been interested in anything paranormal, and

psychic travel was not something they had ever discussed. "Have you ever tried to do something like this before?" he asked. "No, but I was so lonely and frightened while you were in the Gulf that I just wanted to be near you. The book made some suggestions, so I thought I'd give it a try." "What book?" Brookes asked, his curiosity aroused. As far as he knew there was nothing in the house about the subject. "It was an old book I found in a secondhand bookshop I was browsing through," Jan said. "The title was _Dreams of High_ _Significance_ and was written by a Dr. Robert Crookall in 1974. It sounded interesting, and it was because it covered a lot more than just dreams. He wrote about psychic travel, and gave a few pointers about how to give it a go, so I did..." "And scared the hell out of me," her husbands told her with a smile. "I never expected to feel you so close to me in the desert." "It wasn't easy," Jan said. "You have to meditate until you're deeply relaxed, then reach out with imaginary hands and pull yourself towards your target. Unfortunately, I didn't know where my target was." "Just as well I wasn't in one of the pleasure tents when you made contact," Brookes said with a grin. Jan giggled and punched him in the ribs. "I might have been educated, but I doubt if I would have seen anything we haven't already tried." "Do you honestly think a person with the right abilities could reach someone over a distance without actually leaving their own body?" Brookes muttered, quickly changing the subject. "That's what the book claims." "I wonder if there is anyone in Wellington with those abilities." "Why?" "Maybe they could reach the missing tourist, if she is still alive."

"I'm sure I read in some overseas journal that they have tried to trace missing people using their psychic vibrations in both America and England," Jan said. "How did it work out?" "I'm not sure but I think they were partially successful in some of the cases." "I wonder if the police would be prepared to give it a go in this case?" "They've got nothing to lose," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "Why don't you give Jim Gilliard a ring and see if he's thought about it?" "He might think I'm interfering." "Like you did last time, and the time before that? After all, you're only making a suggestion. He doesn't have to do anything about it if he doesn't want to." Brookes nodded. That was true. The decision to contact a psychic would be the inspector's. If it worked, he would get the credit. If it didn't, he could always blame somebody else.

CHAPTER 5: THE PSYCHIC Inspector Gilliard listened with interest to the suggestion put forward by Brookes. Initially he had been a skeptic when it came to paranormal happenings but psychics had helped in some difficult police investigations in the States recently and these had gained considerable publicity in the police journals. Three headless bodies, a missing female tourist and no clearly definable clue warranted the tag _difficult_, especially with the recent spate of media attacks on the efficiency of the force. The minister wasn't happy at the apparent lack of progress on such a high-profile case. He had recently gone on record praising the new emphasis on the use of technology. He had even gone so far out on a limb as to suggest the drop in manpower wouldn't be noticed because the advanced technology would fill the gap more efficiently and cost-effectively. _Fat chance,_ Gilliard mused. Technology had to have the _facts_ to work from -- and getting these facts still needed fieldwork. Fieldwork required human resources on the ground to carry out the many hours of painful and slow site inspections and one-on-one interviews with witnesses. You couldn't send a computer into the trackless mountains around Lake Waikaremoana looking for the missing tourist. The computers had suggested the odds

were strongly in favor of her being dead with her body somewhere in the same area as her companion. Fine. He had arrived at the same conclusion before they entered the information into the computer, but he still had the responsibility of proving that the theory was right. Just because the machine suggested the obvious, you couldn't just shrug your shoulders and walk away from the case. Sure, the computer assessment was based on logic, but was it factual? What if the young tourist had not been killed by her attackers, but had been taken with them for later use and then her body disposed of somewhere else? What if she was still their prisoner? If they had been able to reach Wellington with the camper undetected, how far away could they now be if they had transferred the young woman into another vehicle after dumping the camper? What if they had sent the camper south with just a single driver and gone elsewhere with their captive immediately after the attack? That was assuming there had been a rape. What if she was still alive? Should she be abandoned because some computer said the odds were against such an eventuality? _So many questions -- so few facts._ Maybe a psychic would help. It was grasping at straws, but at least it was doing something positive instead of sitting around waiting for the killer to strike again. "I think your idea is worth a try, Al," Gilliard told Brookes over the telephone. "Do you have anyone in mind?" "Jan has heard of a lady on Fergusson Drive, Upper Hutt. We don't know her personally but Jan knows a friend of hers. Shall I get her to contact the woman?" "Please. Have Jan set up a meeting as soon as possible and she had better find out what the woman will want us to bring with us. I suppose she will want something belonging to the tourist to act as a link." The woman asked the inspector to bring a piece of clothing worn by the missing girl, preferably something that had not recently been washed or dry cleaned. She also would like a recent photograph. These items would carry the psychic vibrations and act as a directional beacon to beam in on her present location, even if she was no longer alive. The old woman led the inspector, Sergeant Norris and the Brookes' into her small lounge. The curtains were already drawn, even though the clock hadn't reached midday. In the subdued light Brookes could see the room was cluttered with furniture and curios collected over a lifetime. They ranged from small ornaments made from glass, porcelain and gold to large vases filled with artificial flowers. Lounging along the top of the china

cabinet and hearth were a number of cats in various stages of repose. Brookes saw Jan staring at them in fascination. Why weren't they moving, surely they would be disturbed by the presence of so many strangers. Lucky, her own cat, would have long since left the room, aloof and wary of invaders of what she considered her kingdom. Jan moved forward to stroke the nearest, a small ginger feline curled in a position of sleep. She tensed, stepping back with a gasp, her hand still stretched out towards the animal. The old woman smiled at her. "My companions over the years; they still keep me company in my old age. Only Tommy is still with me," she said, pointing to a large grey cat curled up on the hearth. It watched them with an unflinching stare. "I get them preserved so I can keep them with me after they have crossed over to the other side." "You have brought the articles I asked you to bring?" She asked, turning to the inspector. "Yes, I have, Mrs. Thomas," he said, opening the bag he held. He handed her a blouse and skirt, some underwear and a pair of sandals he had taken from the camper. He had also brought the photographs taken with the Maori group near Lake Waikaremoana. As far as he knew, they were the last pictures made of the young couple. Mrs. Thomas settled herself in her padded armchair, holding the articles in her hand. She closed her eyes, settling more comfortably into the cushions. Her breathing deepened. The muscles in her hands tensed as her fingers tightened around the clothing, then she let the garments slowly slip from her fingers and drop to the floor. Faint guttural sounds echoed from her open mouth as if from very far away. Beads of sweat appeared on her forehead as she tried to speak, then she fell back in a faint. Slowly her breathing return to normal and she opened her eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "Something is there, someone in deep trauma, but it is far away and weak. These things have not been in contact with their owner for a long time; the vibrations are weak. I need something with a stronger link to the missing woman." "Damn," the inspector muttered. "We don't have anything else." "What about the van , Jim?" Jan suggested.

"The camper?" "We know that the van was near where the murdered man was found; maybe there are still psychic vibrations around it," she said. "Murdered man," Mrs. Thomas asked. "What murdered man?" "Her companion. We know that the camper in which they were traveling was within five hundred meters from where the man's body was found. We think that her companion was killed close by or maybe even in the vehicle." "Then the psychic vibrations would be very strong in the camper, both from the missing young woman and from her companion. If she saw her companion murdered, agitated vibrations would hover around the site for many weeks -- some spirits have been known to remain in the vicinity of their death for many centuries, especially if the death was violent." "It was certainly that," Brookes muttered. "He literally lost his head." "Then we must try again from within the camper-van," Mrs. Thomas urged. "If vibrations left by the man are still there he will assist me to contact his companion." The camper was still at the Wellington police vehicle pound, safely secured. Mrs. Thomas told the inspector not to have it moved in case the vibrations were disturbed by yet another sudden change of location. Mrs. Thomas entered the camper and looked carefully around as if deciding where the center of any vibration pattern would be. She ran her hands over the walls and the couch that doubled as the bed. Her eyes glazed and her movement slowed. There was a padded seat against the rear bulkhead, she settled into it and closed her eyes. Her breathing became more ragged and she started to gasp for breath, her hands crushing the articles she held in her fingers. Her mouth fell open and a low wail echoed through the vehicle -- a cry of despair. The clothing fell from her fingers as she crushed the photographs to her breast, rocking back and forth in the grip of some deep emotion. The wailing stopped, to be replaced by a steady flow of tears. Jan took a step forward to sooth her, but Brookes held her back. They must not break the trance that had Mrs. Thomas in its grip. Slowly the tears dried and Mrs. Thomas stopped rocking. The tenseness in her

muscles eased and she flopped back into the chair, totally exhausted. Silence descended. All eyes were riveted on Mrs. Thomas as she lay back, her breathing now calm and regular. Her eyes opened and she looked around at the others. Her gaze settled on Jan. "Can I have a cup of tea, please, dear," she whispered, her voice hoarse. Jan rushed away to a small take-out next to the entrance of the police vehicle yard. The owner was standing in the doorway, staring towards the yard, his attention attracted by the wailing that had carried into his small shop. He quickly gave Jan a pot of tea to take back. Mrs. Thomas looked at the inspector. "Marie Deneuve is alive," she said. The inspector's mouth opened in surprise. He hadn't told her the missing girl's name. True, she could have linked the camper with the missing French tourists or remembered the girl's name from the newspaper reports, but it still came as a shock that she would mention the name. "Yes, she is still alive," Mrs. Thomas nodded again. "Alive, but I sense that she is a prisoner." "Can you be more specific?" the inspector asked her, as Jan handed her a cup of tea. "I saw many things through the eyes of the young woman, but some do not make sense to me. I'll tell you what I saw, then you will have to put the pieces together like a jigsaw." Mrs. Thomas settled back more comfortably in the chair, balancing the cup of tea on her lap. The others gathered around her, waiting to hear what she had to tell them. A policewoman waited with pencil poised over a pad to record the details. "The young woman is definitely still alive but is held prisoner. I could see bars set high in the bare walls of the room. The windows were quite small and above the level of her head, yet outside I could see a wall with barbed wire stretched along the top. Either the wall was very high, or it is close to the side of the building. I couldn't see from inside the room. I could hear many fowl and also running water. It didn't sound like a tap running, more like a small stream. It sounded quite close, and I think I heard what sounded like dogs at a distance."

Mrs. Thomas shook her head. She handed the cup back to Jan and asked if she could have a refill. "Although I couldn't see outside the room, I did not feel the presence of any trees. You can usually tell this from the sounds of the insects, but I could hear no insects such as crickets or cicadas, yet the gardens should be full of them at this time of the year. I did hear distant vehicles, so the building must be fairly close to a road. I got the feeling it is very low and part of many of the same type." "Was Marie able to move freely," Gilliard asked? She shook her head sadly, telling the inspector that the young woman appeared to be secured by her arms to a hook in the wall, but that her feet were free. "Do you think that you would be able to give us an indication of the area where she is?" "That I don't know, inspector," Mrs. Thomas said with a sad smile, "but I will try. Do you have a map?" "North or South island?" "North, I would say. I sense the closeness of a large area of water surrounded by mountains." "Could be a lake," Brookes muttered. "With vehicular traffic it would have to be either Taupo or Rotorua," Sergeant Norris said thoughtfully as he stood looking down at the map. Mrs. Thomas closed her eyes, letting her hands wander over the paper, guided by the vibrations that were still present in the camper. Her hands hovered over Lake Taupo, then moved slowly away. As if drawn by a magnet, they returned again and hovered over the western shore of the lake, then descended to cover that area. "This is the region where I sense Marie is held. I'm sorry I can't be more specific. I hope you can find the young woman from what I have told you." "I'm sure it will help us greatly, and when we find the girl, it will be thanks to your help. We would never have looked in this area. Nothing indicated the camper had traveled near Lake Taupo." "Maybe it didn't," Brookes said with a grim smile. "Maybe she was transferred there

by other means." Mrs. Thomas gave him a tired smile as she was helped from the vehicle. "I'm afraid I'm not as young as I used to be, inspector. I feel quite exhausted." "I'll get a car to take you home," Gilliard told her, holding out his hand to steady her on the ground. "My, won't my neighbors talk," she said with a delighted giggle. "Escorted home in a police car -- at my age!"

CHAPTER 6: BROOKES GOES FISHING Inspector Gilliard continued to stare at the map long after Mrs. Thomas had left the impound lot. While the map showed the natural features of the area, there was insufficient detail of the man-made structures and it was essential that these were shown if they were to pinpoint the location of the complex described by the psychic. A series of Automobile Association road maps were brought in and spread out on the floor of the inspector's office. He stood in the middle of Lake Taupo and stared down at the western shore. "No bloody good," the inspector said, a frown on his face. "We need even more detailed maps." Brookes scratched his head. Maps would never show the amount of detail they needed. No map would show buildings in any way other than a dot or square. They needed to know layout and design as well as location, the type of information normally only found on building plans, and to get those you needed to know exactly which one you wanted. They were not designed for public use. "Photographs," he blurted out. The inspector looked at him in surprise. "What do you want photographs for?" he asked. "Aerial photographs, Jim," Brookes said, a note of excitement creeping into his voice. "Aerial photographs would give us the detail we need on building types and layout. When we see any that could be potential targets, we could plot their position accurately on the map from the topographical features on the photograph."

"Have to get awfully high to get a photograph of the whole target area." "Not so; they would take a time lapse series as they fly over the region, then develop and overlay them into one composite picture covering the area in minute detail, even down to stock and vehicles!" "And the detail would be as it stands today, not as it was several years ago when the maps were produced," Sergeant Norris interjected. "Who can we get to take the pictures in a hurry?" the inspector muttered, a glimmer of interest in his eyes. "The local aero club could do it," Norris suggested. "Take too long," Brookes said. "Also, I doubt that they would have access to the high resolution equipment necessary to give the detail we need." "Then who?" Gilliard asked. "The air force," Brookes said with a smile. "Their maritime recognizance squadron is constantly on standby and they are equipped with the high resolution surveillance equipment necessary. They could have the photographs taken, developed and printed, and the composite ready within twelve hours, depending on the weather!" Inspector Gilliard reached for the telephone. Within minutes he was speaking with the Commanding Officer of the maritime squadron based at the Whenuapai Air Base just outside Auckland. He explained what he was after and the commander was happy to help. An Orion recognizance aircraft was already in the air off the West Coast of the South Island doing a survey of fishing boats for the marine department. They would be diverted via Lake Taupo on the way home. The completed composite was sent down by overnight courier and was waiting for the inspector when he arrived at his desk the next morning. It covered an area of 1.8m by 3.2m. It was in colour so the buildings would stand out better from the surrounding countryside. The sun had been low in the sky at the time of the aerial passes, which was good. The sunlight reflected off the many small streams that flowed through the hills and into the lake. The shore of the lake formed one border of the picture, the main road between Turangi and Whakamaru the other. Over the years most of the land between the two had been cleared for pasture, while only a few isolated patches of trees left standing. A few remote river flats were the only level land that could be seen from the air.

Brookes pointed to two building complexes set a couple of kilometers apart on the river flats. They each seemed to be a combination of several low buildings set alongside streams. One appeared to be surrounded by a high wire fence, the other by a far more substantial structure. "What the hell are those?" Brooks asked. Sergeant Norris had the road maps. He traced the road from Turangi, carefully reading the legends as he reached the various signs. "Ah, ha," he said at last. "Chicken farms." "Fowl," Brookes muttered. "And running water," Norris added. "Check them out," the inspector instructed. The local police knew the owners of both farms. They had not been in any strife with the law and, as far as the local police knew, were not engaged in any illegal activities. Inspector Gilliard was not convinced. Other _clean_ operations had turned out to be excellent cover for criminal activities. He needed to search the premises to ensure they were not just a well-camouflaged scam. He needed a search warrant. The magistrate was not impressed. "Are you telling me the only evidence you have for wanting to search these premises is the ramblings of an old woman who claims to be a psychic, inspector?" he scoffed. Gilliard fumed, but managed to control his anger and frustration. "That's right, sir," he said politely. "Such assistance has proved valuable overseas in helping solve confusing crimes. I think that Mrs. Thomas is genuine in her beliefs." "She could well have been very sincere, but most charlatans are. Surely you don't expect me to issue a search warrant on the unsubstantiated ramblings of an old woman who claims to have seen the inside of some prison through the eyes of the captive? You don't even have any evidence to prove the missing young woman is still alive, and all logic would indicate that she has already been murdered!"

"But we must..." "Grasp at straws, Gilliard," the magistrate interrupted. "You might be prepared to, inspector, but I am not. It is my duty to ensure that the laws of this land are followed to the letter, and that does not include breaching the privacy of an innocent citizen on the unsupported evidence of some strange old woman who hears the voices of the dead." The magistrate turned to look out of the window. "When you have some hard evidence, come back and see me. I might then accede to your request, if you can convince me that the needs of our country warrant the disturbance of the civil rights of our citizens. Until then, you are wasting my time, if not also your own. And I believe that I, as a taxpayer, am meeting some of your costs as you go chasing after mirages." "Pompous old bastard," Gilliard muttered under his breath as he turned and left the room. Without a search warrant he couldn't risk forcing his way into either of the two chicken farms. In the present political situation the Council of Civil Liberties would be sure to create a stink if it was brought to their attention that the police had launched an _invasion of privacy_ after being denied a search warrant. They would know the government would have to react to the complaint or be accused of fostering a police state. If either of the owners were Maori, or even had the smallest trace of Maori blood, then the outcry would be even greater, with appeals to the Waitangi Tribunal for racial harassment. It was a no-win situation playing into the hands of the criminal elements in the country. Regardless of the magistrate's ruling, he had to get into the farms to check them out. In his own mind he was certain that Mrs. Thomas was no fraud. He had been skeptical at the start, but now he was prepared to give credence to her information. Many of the points she raised could be verified from the photographs, too many to have been just good luck or shrewd guesses. Brookes stared pensively at the composite and turned slowly to face his friend. "They tell me there's good trout fishing in that area, Jim." "So?" "I could do with a couple of days fishing -- at your expense, of course." "What the hell would that achieve. I need somebody inside the farms, not walking around the edge of the lake."

Brookes nodded, then smiled mysteriously. "I'm a lousy navigator," he said. "Jan's always telling me I'd loose my way if it wasn't for her guidance." "Hang on," the inspector interjected. "If you think that I can authorize you to break into the..." "You wouldn't know a thing. All you need to know is that I've gone to Taupo to do some fishing. What I do when I get there is not your concern. If I get caught, tough!" "What if the killer is still there?" "I think the odds of that would be less than of me winning Lotto. My guess is that the farm is only a holding area. Why, or for whom, I don't know, but it is a very long way from where the deaths occurred." "It's too much of a risk, Al. I don't want another headless corpse." "I should imagine Jan wouldn't be to thrilled at the prospect, either," Norris added. "Then I shall have to take great care to return intact," Brookes said with a smile. "I'm rather partial to my head sitting on my shoulders, it's a convenient place to park my ears. I don't intend to loose it, if I can help it." "You'll need to take a companion," the inspector said, turning to Norris. "Any new faces on the force?" "A couple, but can we risk them? What if the minister finds out?" "If we're successful, I don't give a damn; if we fail, it could be too late for the search party." "Who will you send?" "Who are the two new men?" the inspector asked. "Grace Williams and Sally Tirau," Norris said with a grim smile. "Strange names for policemen!" "Right on. We were allocated two new policewomen, no men, from the last intake." "Well, that's the end of that idea," Gilliard said, turning to Brookes.

"Why?" Brookes asked. "Might be better cover. We could travel by camper just like any other tourists, stopping at any of the off-road parking areas near the farms. We could also call in at their sales counters without attracting too much attention." "I suppose that could work," the inspector muttered. "Which one would you recommend, Ken?" "Grace Williams. She would be far less conspicuous than Sally Tirau. Tirau is good, but she could be too good for this project. She topped the recruit course in just about every subject, which got her a lot of media coverage. She was also the first policewoman to beat the men at everything, even the tough physically demanding survival course. To add to the problem, she is from the Taupo area, so she could run across friends and relatives in the area." "Point taken. Where is Williams at the moment?" "She's stationed in the Records office." "Good, that means she hasn't made much contact with the criminal elements yet. Get her sent over. She might as well meet Al while he's still here."

Grace Williams stood stiffly at attention in front of the inspector's desk, unsure why she had been summoned to his office at such short notice. She knew that he was involved in the search for the killers of the French tourists, but what had that to do with her? She only looked after the Records. She hadn't spoken to anybody outside the force about the case. And who was the man in plain clothes in the office with him? "Relax, Miss Williams," the inspector told her gently. "Take a seat." "Thank you, sir," she said as she settled primly on the edge of the straight-backed chair in front of his desk, carefully adjusting her skirt around her knees. "You must have seen Sergeant Norris around the station," he said, nodding in Norris's direction. "This other bearded weirdo is Al Brookes." She looked at Brookes in surprise. Who was he that the inspector treated him so flippantly? She would hardly have called him a bearded weirdo. The beard and moustache were relatively short and neatly trimmed. His eyes sparkled as he held out his hand. "You mustn't believe everything that the inspector tells you," he said with a chuckle.

"You do know that we are working on the case of the headless trampers, don't you, Miss Williams?" the inspector asked her. The young officer nodded. "Good, then you will know something of the background. Al Brookes has agreed to help us again," the inspector told her. "But we also need your help." "Mine?" she murmured in surprise. "Yes; you're going fishing." "Fishing?" She gasped, unable to believe her ears. "How can that help with your investigation?" "We have to search two chicken farms near Lake Taupo. Unfortunately the magistrate will not give us a search warrant because he considers our evidence too tenuous. Al is not bound by the regulations that tie our hands. He will pay the farms a visit, doing whatever is necessary to take a look around inside them while you will stay outside in case of trouble. I have alerted the army about our plans, confidentially of course. You will be in radio contact in case of emergencies, but under no circumstances are you to enter the compounds without the owners invitation." "How are we to travel?" she asked. "By camper," the inspector told her. "You are to pose as a tourist couple on a camping/fishing holiday in the area." "What happens if I'm recognized?" she asked. "You won't be, or so I'm assured. You will be leaving tomorrow morning and before then you will be given a change in hair style and colour, as well as a totally new wardrobe as far removed as possible from your normal style. They tell me that even your own mother wouldn't recognize you. However, the clothes will have to be returned when you have finished the assignment. They will only be on lone from the dress designer." "Isn't he generous," Brookes said with a laugh. "At least he's letting you keep the hairstyle and colour. The budget must be flush for the old skinflint to be so open handed." "It's alright for you, you don't have to answer to an internal auditor every six months," the inspector muttered. "He's tighter than a pig's..."

"Language, Jim. Remember there's a lady present," Brookes murmured. "You started me off again, you bastard," Gilliard muttered, breaking into laughter. "One of these days I'll get you..." "Might take some time, I think the score is too heavily weighted in Al's favor for you to ever catch up," Norris said with a grin. "Don't you start, Ken. It's bad enough when Al gets going. I don't think I could cope with the two of you at the same time. Miss Williams might learn some new words." The inspector turned to Brookes and Williams. "You two had better get going to make peace with your better halves. I don't know how long you'll be away, but I suppose we're looking at around two or three days, which is about all the budget will wear, anyway. God knows how I'm going to code it to get it past the auditors. Bring your gear and meet me in here by 9am tomorrow. I'll have the camper ready."

CHAPTER 7: GRACE WILLIAMS Grace Williams looked at herself in the mirror, astounded at the difference a change of hairstyle and colour had brought about. For twenty-two years she had watched a brunette look back at her, a brunette with long hair without a curl or wave to break the austerity. The style had been her mother's idea, it gave her face a plainness she had grown to accept as the norm. The blonde looking back at her now was vaguely familiar but strangely different. Her hair hung down to her shoulders, gently framing her face in a cloud of soft waves. Black clasps, one over each ear, held the hair back from her eyes. Her eyebrows and lashes were darkened and stood out against fair skin, contrasting starkly with the bright red lipstick. Her high cheekbones were tinged a delicate pale pink. She gasped in amazement; she really was quite beautiful, so different from the plain mousy individual she had grown up as. Grace ran her hands over her body, then stood back to get a better view. She felt strange, yet excited. Gone were her loose, shapeless clothes and plain underwear. Her breasts were held firmly by a half bra, cunningly cut to force them up and out without covering her nipples. The boutique manageress, in collaboration with the designer, had insisted that she wear clothes designed to accent rather than hide her assets. She had

been embarrassed, but her instructions had been clear -- do what the designer says. She looked at the clothes scattered over her bed. It looked like a collection from a fashion show. She selected a plain black wrap-around skirt, a white blouse flecked with black and cut in a deep V that revealed the creamy mounds of her full breasts. The skirt moved with her, parting to show tanned firmly muscled thighs if she turned too quickly. White sandals completed the outfit. Grace carefully packed the other outfits into her suitcase, then carried it down to the entrance foyer of the barracks to wait for the car coming to collect her. The driver didn't recognize her, even though he had been on the same recruit course at Trentham only months earlier. "There is no chance that you'd be recognized as the brunette policewoman from police headquarters," Gilliard said with an awed smile. "Thank you," she murmured, embarrassed by the admiring looks from the other men in the room. She was not used to being the center of attention but she had to admit to herself that it was a great feeling, one she could come to like! Gilliard had an unmarked police car waiting in the courtyard. It had tinted windows so anyone inside couldn't be seen. Norris helped Grace carry her bags down to the car, while Brookes and Gilliard followed. Brookes was traveling light with just one small suitcase and a camera bag slung over his shoulder. His dark glasses, floppy hat and garish shirt labeled him a tourist out for a good time. "I've tried to make this look as real as possible," Gilliard said, leaning over the back of the front seat as the car drove sedately towards the Mount Victoria tunnel. "I've got a motor home rented in your name and, as far as the rental company is concerned, you will be picking it up when you get off your flight from Auckland. You're a honeymoon couple with money to burn, so the company has been told to make sure the camper is provisioned for 3 to 4 days, long enough for you to reach Auckland." "Are we going to end up in Auckland?" Grace asked in surprise. "No, but by booking the camper to that destination, it might make it less likely that the criminals will associate your journey with anything to do with the police," Gilliard told her. "The equipment you asked for is already at the airport, Al, and will be on the carousel when your bags come through with the others from the flight." "How are our bags going to get to the aircraft?" Grace asked, confused by all the

devious things that were happening. She had never been on an undercover assignment before, and nothing at recruit school had even hinted at what was involved in one. She could feel the tension building in her body, but there was also a heightening of excitement. "We'll drop you off at the staff entrance, then the airport police will make sure your bags get to the right baggage collection terminal. You will be at the observation deck, then mingle with the passengers as they come from the flight. That way you will all enter the reception foyer together," Gilliard told her. "And I guess we'll then wander over to the rental company and collect the keys to the camper," Brookes added. "And try and relax, Williams," Gilliard muttered. "You're wound up tighter than a watch spring..." "Go easy on her, Jim," Brookes said with a grin. "Remember, she's supposed to be on her honeymoon, so maybe we went straight from the reception to the airport and haven't had time to get properly acquainted yet." Grace blushed. She had forgotten she was supposed to be on her honeymoon. What she couldn't get used to was that she would be working closely with a member of the public on an unlawful assignment. The inspector had told her that Al Brookes would be breaking the law, deliberately and with his blessing. Her training had stressed the need to work within the parameters of the law at all times on fear of dismissal. What would happen to her when it was found that she had stood by while the law was officially flouted? Would she be charged as an accessory? "I'll be alright, sir," she murmured, trying to hide her doubts. "We'll be fine, Jim, just as soon as we get on the road," Brookes added. "Grace must be embarrassed with all this brass around her." Grace smiled at him, thankful for his support and understanding. He might not be such a difficult person to work with. The flight from Auckland was on time, and was full. They were able to mingle with the dozens of other passengers and collect the camper and their luggage without attracting too much notice. Brookes kept his dark glasses and hat on all the time they were in the terminal in case he saw anybody he recognized. Fortunately none of his acquaintances were at the airport that morning. The camper headed north from the city, mingling in with the other traffic on the

motorway. The trip was slow. Brookes made sure they treated the journey as if they were genuine tourists, stopping along the way to take photographs and view the sights. "Relax," he told her with a smile. "You look like a young bride who has had her first argument on her wedding night. What do you know about this investigation?" "Not much," Grace muttered. "The files are still classified." "Do you know why we are going to Taupo?" "Only that you are to break into two farms to search them because the magistrate wouldn't issue a search warrant." "Do you know why the inspector wants me to search the farms?" "No, the inspector didn't really tell me a lot. I suppose I can't be made to tell anyone anything if I don't have the information in the first place." "The inspector has grounds to believe that Marie Deneuve is being held prisoner at one of the farms, but we don't know which one." "Marie Deneuve?" "The French tourist." "But the TV says she is dead, and that the police have been unable to find her body." "Supposition on their part because they have been unable to get a straight answer from the inspector," Brookes told her with a grin. "Jim is very good at making press statements that say a lot but don't actually tell you anything important." "What makes you think she is still alive?" "We had a psychic make contact with her. Mrs. Thomas is certain that Marie is still alive and being held prisoner somewhere near Taupo. The sights and sounds she heard make it certain that the young woman must be in one of the two chicken farms on the western shores of the lake." "The two farms that you are going to search," Grace said, recognition dawning. "Spot on. However, the magistrate wouldn't accept the evidence of a psychic as

sufficient grounds for the issue of a search warrant." "Do you believe ... silly of me, of course you believe or you wouldn't risk breaking in." "I'm not sure I'm totally convinced, but I'm not prepared to take the chance of not finding the young woman because I'm a skeptic. I have seen what can happen to women and girls held against their will. What is worse we don't know why they are keeping Marie captive. Maybe they are hoping to use her as trade at some stage in the future, or they could even be planning on selling her overseas. White women fetch a good price in the Gulf." "But they don't do that any more," Grace protested. "Our instructor told us that slavery was dead." "Not so," Brookes said sadly. "It still flourishes in many Middle East and Eastern countries and young attractive white women are prime trading goods, worth a fortune to those with contacts." "How do you know that?" "It isn't many months ago that I brought a Wellington girl back from the Gulf where she had been sold as a slave after being kidnapped here in the capital. My adopted daughter was sold into slavery as a child to meet family debts, I purchased her from a slaver supplying brothels in the Gulf." Grace looked at him, respect in her eyes. The name had sounded familiar. She had seen a file on a certain Al Brookes in the records office and had taken a quick read during slack moments. She hadn't related the two Al Brookes'. The one on file had a picture showing a clean-shaven man, this man had a beard and a moustache. "Why are you putting yourself at risk to search for the tourist? Do you know her?" "Never met her in my life," Brookes said, shaking his head. "Then why?" "Jim needed a helping hand, and I don't like the vibrations I'm picking up. It doesn't smell like a simple case of multiple murders to me. I sense something much more sinister. Maybe I'm too suspicious." Grace started to relax, leaning back against the seat. The tension seemed to flow from her body. Brookes pulled into a roadside parking lot and stopped the camper.

"I need a break," he said. "Another hour or so and we'll be at Waiouru. Nice place for lunch there." Grace clambered into the back of the motor home and hauled out a picnic basket. "Time for a drink," she murmured. "I hope this basket hasn't been packed by the police canteen. It hadn't. The rental company had arranged for the refreshments to be supplied by the airport caterers. A wide range of tasty snacks had been carefully packed into airtight plastic containers to keep them fresh during the journey. Grace looked with amazement at the variety, which ranged from savories and sandwiches to cakes and fresh fruit. "How many people did the inspector tell them would be making the trip?" she asked. "Two going north, hopefully three on the return trip but I don't think he would have told them about the extra passenger." "They've catered for farm-size appetites. There's enough food here for several days at least." She opened the small gas-powered fridge. "No need to stop at Waiouru. There's some steak and a chicken in the freezer compartment, as well as a huge bowl of salad and frozen French fries." "Good God, Jim's really spending up large," Brookes said. "Maybe your comments about him being a stingy old bastard struck a nerve," Grace giggled, thinking of how easily Brookes had got a bite from the inspector. "He's not really stingy, just prudent," Brookes said with a grin as he looked at the piles of food. "I suppose you have to be when you are constantly under audit." The whistling of the kettle interrupted their farther conversation. Grace filled the teapot, then turned to Brookes. "Inside or outside?" "It's a nice day, why not use the picnic tables outside. Make us look like real

tourists." "Would you mind taking the tray with you. I'll be out in a second; I want to change into something a bit more comfortable." Grace quickly changed into shorts and halter, both fitting her like a second skin. She liked the way the deep red contrasted with her fair skin and newly blonde hair. Twin cups of the halter were joined together by a single narrow band; two equally narrow bands, one around her neck, the other around her back, held the cups in place. The bands were all that stopped her full breasts from spilling free of their containers. Stepping out of the camper, Grace blushed when she saw the admiration in Brookes' eyes. "I've never dared wear clothes like this before," she stammered. "I have no option now, the whole wardrobe is designed like this. I feel totally naked." "If you've got it, flaunt it, is what I always say," Brookes said with a laugh. "You've certainly got it, more than your fair share. You should continue to wear clothes like this. They do a lot for you, almost as much as you do for them." "I couldn't afford them on my wages," Grace murmured. "If I started appearing around the place in designer clothes they would suspect I had a sugar daddy or was working at night to augment my meager police income." "Or of having a very generous boy friend." "No such luck; far too busy making a living." "The course is over now; you'll have to start spreading your wings." "Trouble is most of the men around the pub circuit also expect you to spread your legs; not interested in doing that with anyone I've meet so far," Grace said, then blushed when she realized what she had said. She seemed so at ease around Brookes, as if she had known him all her life. She had never been able to speak so frankly with any other man she knew. They sipped their tea in silence, each engrossed with his and her own private thoughts. Brookes stirred, looking down at his watch in surprise. They had been in the parking lot for nearly two hours, much longer than he had suspected. They would be rushing to reach their target this day. As if reading his thoughts, Grace also looked at her watch, then up at the sun which was well past its zenith.

"Might have to camp tonight, then have a look around the farms tomorrow," she muttered. "Could be rushing to visit both of them today, and it would be best to take a look at them in daylight before you make your unannounced return visit. At least you would have some idea of their layout." Brookes agreed. "There's a nice little camping area just north of Waiouru, off the main highway and set beside a small mountain stream. We could stay there tonight, then get an early start in the morning." The area was empty when they arrived so Brookes was able to take the camper to the end farthest from the entrance and park it partly hidden behind some low trees. The tinkling sound of the small stream added to the peacefulness of the scene and helped to cover the noise of the traffic on the main highway. Grace stepped from the van and stood looking around in delight. "I've noticed this area before when we've traveled through to Auckland but we were always in too much of a rush to stop. It's a pretty little place." "And there are a lot more like it on the route," Brookes told her. "I often made the trip north with my old dog Tinker. He liked the journey. I used to try and stop every hour or so to give him a run. I found a lot of these attractive little parking lots between Wellington and Auckland." "Come on, I'll show you the stream but be careful you don't fall in," he added, turning towards a wall of low scrub on the northern side of the parking area. "The water is ice cold, it comes directly from the snows on Mount Ruapehu." Grace followed him through the bushes, then down a steep bank until they were standing on the large boulders that lined the banks. The rocks were rounded, polished smooth by the action of the constantly moving water. The crystal clear stream sparkled in the light from the afternoon sun, gurgling as it rushed over the rock-strew base. Large clumps of pampas grass lined the banks, the tall plumes of their flower heads silhouetted against the sky. Trees climbed the slopes on the far side, then dwindled away to be replaced by tussock grass. Through a gap in the trees they could see the pointed peak of Mount Ruapehu, the sun gleaming off the snow-covered peak of the dormant volcano -- dormant but far from dead, as it had proven many times in the past! Brookes held his hand out to help Grace back up the bank.

While she prepared the vegetables, Brookes B-B-Q'ed two of the steaks. The smell of the cooking meat made him realize just how hungry he was. They hadn't had a proper meal since they had left Wellington that morning. The meal vanished; the coffee took longer as they sat back on the folding armchairs and watched the sun drop below the horizon.

CHAPTER 8: A ROADSIDE CAMP Grace shivered at the sudden chill in the air. At this altitude, even in summer, the temperature dropped dramatically when the sun sank below the horizon. "Better go inside," she muttered, "or you won't see me for the goose-bumps." "Interesting thought," Brookes mused. "Should be able to see quite a few in that outfit." "Doesn't cover a hell of a lot, does it," Grace murmured, looking down the length of her body. "Better find something a bit warmer." She found a short filmy dressing gown and slipped it on. It was almost transparent, the outlines of the halter and shorts clearly visible. She smiled shyly at Brookes as she settled down on one of the padded couches that doubled as a bed. "You take the bed in the sleeping compartment," Brookes told her. "I'll bunk down out here." "Sure you wouldn't prefer the double bunk," she asked. "I'm more used to a single bed, I'll feel lost with so much extra space." "You're the lady, the choice is yours," Brookes told her firmly. "Then I'll sleep out here." "While you're getting ready, I'll make supper." "My, but you're a fancy cook," Grace joked as she saw the array of cakes that Brookes had laid out on the table. "And quick, too," he said. "Not many people could rustle up such a fancy supper in so short a time."

While they had their supper, Grace questioned Brookes about his previous involvement with Inspector Gilliard. It was unusual for the police to work so closely with a member of the public, especially on murder inquiries. Brookes explained that it was because he was able to bring certain special skills to the inspector's aid, such as his experience in underwater diving. Also, he was able to poke his nose in where the inspector would not dare go without proper authorization -- and that could be hard to obtain at certain times and situations. "Like this trip," Grace mused. "Exactly. Once a magistrate has declined a request for a warrant, you can't go down the road and try a different magistrate. The application is registered and remains on record." "What do you hope to find?" "Don't know, but I hope at least some trace of the missing French tourist." "You sound like you don't think this is the work of just a single killer?" "I don't, but that's just a gut feeling. I can't help thinking that there's more to this than meets the eye. I hope I'm wrong, but everything appears to be too well organized for it to be just a deranged killer on the loose." Grace tried to stifle a yawn. Evidently Brookes noticed. He stood up and moved towards the sleeping compartment in the rear of the camper van. "See you in the morning," he said as he slipped through the curtained doorway. "Are you sure you'll be comfortable enough?" "Positive," Grace said with a smile.

Brookes lay back against the fluffy pillows, unable to sleep. He hoped taking another day to get to the farm wouldn't place the search in jeopardy. It would be most unfortunate if the prisoner had been moved since the psychic made contact. Still, it was a chance they had to take. Grace was right. It would be far to dangerous trying to find his way around the farms at night if he hadn't at least had a cursory look at them during the day. The aerial photographs had given some indication of the positioning of the buildings and surroundings, but not the use of each structure. That would need to be established before he tried to enter them. He also needed to have an idea of what security measures were in place. There was bound to be a major difference between an

ordinary chicken farm and one that was designed to hold human _guests._ He tensed as he felt the camper shake slightly. He hoped it was only Grace making a last visit to the toilet, and not somebody checking out the van. He sighed and turned over. That was paranoia. They were far from the main road and he would hear any vehicle driving in to the parking area. He would even hear footsteps crunching in the loose gravel if they approached the camper on foot. But his mind would not let him relax, and he spent a restless night listening for sounds that never came. By the time the sun rose the next morning, flooding the parking area with its welcoming warmth, Brookes felt more exhausted than he had since leaving the Gulf. He decided he was not cut out to be a hero, and yet he had to finish what he started. In his heart he knew he couldn't pull out now, even if it would be easy to just turn around and drive back to Wellington. If the young tourist was still at one of the farms, then she had to be rescued before she was moved again. It had been hard enough to trace her to Taupo; they might never find her if she was moved again. He would have to go through with the plans made with Gilliard and pray that nothing went wrong. He looked at his watch. It was nearly nine o'clock; definitely time to get moving. But first he needed breakfast. Grace agreed, she was also famished, but much more relaxed after a good sleep. Grace slipped into her shorts and halter, swung the door open and stepped into the bright sunshine. With a gasp she shot back through the door, her face flaming red with her blushes. Less than 50 meters away was another camper van. It must have arrived unnoticed at some time during the night. Brookes was annoyed that he hadn't heard the vehicle pull into the parking area. But he was surprised at Grace's embarrassment. "Remember, we are tourists," Brookes told her with a grin. "These people will think that we are honeymooners. Come on, you can't stay cooped up inside all day." "Can't I at least stay inside until we've left here," Grace pleaded. "No, that will make them even more suspicious. Come on, out and face the music." Brookes stepped outside, then held his hand out to help Grace down. She glanced towards the other motor home. An elderly couple was already seated outside on camp chairs having their breakfast. They smiled and waved. Grace blushed, then waved back.

Grace was silent during breakfast. Brookes looked across at her, seeing the lines of worry creasing her brow. He smiled at her and held out his hand. He drew her into his lap, encircling her waist with his arm. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Nothing," she murmured. "Then why are you looking so sad?" "I don't know," she whispered. "I'm nervous and don't know if I can go through with this assignment. I've never done anything like this before, and I don't know if I can handle it." "Don't be silly," he told her sternly. "Of course you can." "Bu it's not right, the inspector's asking you to break the law, and telling me to standby while you do so." "So what! This won't be the first time that people on our side of the fence have had to cross over to the other side to make things happen. It's no different than planting undercover cops in the gangs to break the drug trade. Many a good cop has spent most of his life in the twilight zone between what's lawful and what's illegal. At times you've got to ignore the bleats of the Civil Liberties activists for the benefit of the silent majority. This is one time; if we do what is legal, Marie might die. What choice do you think there really is?" "None, I suppose," Grace murmured. "That's right. There is no choice when an innocent human life is at stake. I don't hate the gang members, per se, but I do hate what they're doing in encouraging drug abuse, and using intimidation and fear tactics to frighten law abiding citizens into shutting their mouths." "Then you don't want me to go back to Wellington." "Of course not. This is between us, and nobody else will ever know about your concerns unless you want to tell them." "Thank you. You've made me feel much better about carrying on with the assignment," Grace said with a relieved sigh as she buried her head against Brookes' shoulder.

He held her close for a few moments, letting her relax, then he lifted her face and kissed her gently on the forehead. "We had better get going," he murmured. "If we don't get a move on, we might never reach the farms even today. Not that I wouldn't mind another day at this camping area," he said with a grin, "but Jim might really object paying for another couple of days rental."

CHAPTER 9: FARM OR FORTRESS? Brookes and Grace took turns driving as they slowly made their way through to Turangi where he filled the tank with petrol. Loud enough to be overhead, Brookes spoke longingly about his homeland and the beautiful fresh farm eggs they could buy when they went for a drive in the country. While full of admiration about New Zealand, he stressed that this was the one fault that he had found on their trip. They had found fruit and vegetable stalls on the roadside, but none with fresh farm eggs. The attendant asked where they were going. "We go back to Auckland to catch our flight home," he said. "Which way are you traveling?" "By the left side of this big lake," Brookes said, producing his map. "Then you're in luck," the attendant told him. "There are two poultry farms on the western lake road." Brookes laid the map on the bonnet of the van. The attendant pointed out the way to the two farms. Brookes suppressed a grin. They were the same two complexes they had pinpointed from the photographs. The first farm was sign-posted from the main road. It was only a short way down a gravel lane, the roofs of the complex clearly visible from the turn-off. The buildings were set in straight rows, at least five meters apart. The area between the buildings was neatly enclosed by a two-meter high chain mail fence fixed to concrete posts. The office and storage sheds were just inside the main gate; the laying sheds and the packing rooms were farther back. The owner's house was outside the high wire fence, in neatly landscaped grounds with a white picket fence surrounding it. There was a small garden in the front, an

orchard just visible behind the house. A narrow stream flowed down the boundary between the house and farm, bridged by a small rustic wooden bridge. It was a scene of peace and tranquility, broken only by the clucking of the chickens and the sounds of crickets and cicadas in the surrounding shrubs. A middle-aged woman behind the counter smiled up at her visitors, then glanced outside and saw the camper. "Ah, tourists," she said. "How are you enjoying your holiday?" "Great way to travel," Grace said. "Wish we still had our caravan," the woman said. "I used to enjoy camping, but never in a tent. Too lazy. I like to take the comforts of home with me. My husband talked me into one trip with a tent. By the time we'd loaded the trailer, he refused to ever take me again. He reckoned that the only thing I hadn't taken was the kitchen sink. Still, we don't get much time now for holidays anyway. These damned chickens never seem to stop laying. Should have stayed next door with the cattle." "I've never seen chickens operating inside buildings before," Brookes told her. "How do they cope without the ground to rake through?" "Bred to know no other life," the woman told him. "Do you have chickens at home?" "My mother used to have a few wandering around the farm when I was a boy." "Oh, free range. That's the best flavored eggs," the woman sighed. "I used to have a few, but they would hide their eggs so well that I'm sure I lost more than I found. Imagine if that lot in there were running free!" "You have very many?" "About two thousand." "Now that's what I call a lot of chickens. How do you collect the eggs? It must take all day." "Mechanized," the woman said with a laugh. "Have you never been inside a poultry farm operation?"

"Never." "Would you like to go through this one and see how we function?" she asked. "But the inconvenience..." "None at all, I could do with a break and it will give my son something constructive to do while I show you around rather than sitting at the computer all day," she added, calling to her teenage son that she was taking a couple of visitors through the farm. The woman chatted away as she led them from the office and out into the complex. She started with the storage sheds, showing them the rooms where the eggs were neatly stacked in cool storage waiting for the truck that would take them to the market. The next stop was the packing sheds at the end of each laying shed. Two conveyor belts brought the eggs through a hole in the wall and deposited them in an automatic grading machine that sorted them into the right sizes for packing. Most of the packing was automated, the human element was a supervisor to keep an eye on the smooth operation of the equipment. Row upon row of cages, with up to five birds per cage, stretched through the laying sheds. The rows were set wide enough apart to allow for the passage of a small tractor used to carry the feed and to also clean the droppings from the floor. The eggs rolled out of the cages while the shells were still soft. By the time the shells hardened the eggs were already on the conveyor belt on their way to the packing sheds. There were no hidden rooms, in this complex, nor any space for one. Every centimeter was devoted to egg production. This couldn't be the prison they were seeking. Buying two dozen eggs and a couple of frozen chickens, Brookes thanked the woman and returned to the camper. "The first target farm is as clean as a whistle," he reported to Gilliard by cellular telephone when they were clear of the complex. "We've been given a guided tour by the owners, so there's no need to make a visit tonight. We're on our way to the second place now." The next farm was poorly sign-posted, only a small hand-painted sign nailed to a tree stump showed where the track led into the low scrub on the roadside. The driveway was deeply rutted and meandered for many meters, twisting and turning to go around trees and large rocks which the owners had made no effort to remove. The track ended in a small clearing, just large enough for a vehicle to turn around. A high solid wooden fence, topped by barbed wire, blocked the end of the clearing.

A heavy gate barred the way for any vehicular traffic. Brookes could see the 50mm bolt holding the gate secure on the inside between the two solid wooden panels. A second, much smaller, gate led directly into the shop. The main shop window opened into the clearing, a smaller opening looked over the complex with the remaining walls solid timber. A narrow counter at one end of the room blocked access to the rear of the premises. There would be no possibility of getting in this way without being seen. Brookes hit the bell on the counter. As the echoes faded, a door opened behind the counter and a large, untidily dressed man stepped through. His hair was matted and hung below his collar. He wore tattered jeans and a patched denim jacket with a dirty black sweatshirt. Tattoos decorated both arms. "Yeah," he growled. "I would like some eggs, please," Brookes said politely. "How many?" "Two dozen, please." "What size, then?" "Large, please. Or would you prefer medium, dear," he said, turning to Grace. "Make up your frigging mind," the man growled. "I haven't got all bloody day." "Large will be fine," Grace murmured. He slapped two cartons of medium eggs on the counter. "I would prefer large," Brookes said. "All I got. Take them or leave them." "How much?" "Five dollars." Brookes handed over a five-dollar bill and turned to leave the shop. He could feel the man's eyes boring into his back. He was glad to get outside into the fresh air.

As they left the complex he heard dogs baying. Dobermans from the sound of the deep-throated barking. _Strange security for a chicken farm._ A harsh voice yelled at them to shut up, the command punctuated with several colorful swear words. The barking continued until he heard a thump, then a yelp. Water splashed somewhere inside the fenced complex, then silence returned to the clearing. "Strange place, very bloody suspicious," Brookes reported to Gilliard. "Check the report to see if Mrs. Thomas reported dogs as well as fowl." There was a moment of silence, then Gilliard came back on the air to confirm that the report had also spoken of the barking of dogs partly hidden by the clucking of chickens. The sound suggested large animals. "Guard dogs?" "Possibly, but unsure." "Right. I'm going in tonight. This site shows definite possibilities; meeting all the criteria we spoke about. We could have the jackpot." "Take care. I don't want to have to tell Jan you had an _accident."_ "Will do. I'll contact you when I get back out." "Immediately. Don't wait until morning. I don't care what time it is. Just call." Grace looked at Brookes, a puzzled expression on her face. "How do you intend to get over that fence," she asked. "It seems very high and looks like it's topped with barbed wire." "Not over, but under." "You're going to dig your way through?" Grace gasped. "Won't the digging attract the dogs?" "Not going to dig," he said with a laugh. "Give up?" "Okay, you win," Grace murmured. "How are you going to get under that fence without digging?" "Swim. I've got my basic diving gear with me. Packed it just in case. I'll use my flippers and snorkel to go under the fence where it crosses the stream. It is unlikely they

will have taken the fence down below water level." "And the prisoner, how do you intend to get her out?" "The same way, I hope." "I hope you know what you're doing," Grace muttered. "I'd hate to see you get caught." "So would Jim," Brookes joked. "He would then have to think up a good story to explain why I was trespassing." They had passed a sheltered off-road parking area a few hundred meters to the south. Brookes drove back and parked as far off the road as he could. They set up the picnic furniture and acted like innocent tourists who had decided they had traveled far enough for the day and were settling in for the night. Few vehicles drove by as the evening shadows lengthened. Brookes was happy, their chances of detection would be greatly reduced. He hoped no other campers would stop for the night. While it would still be relatively easy to slip out unseen, it might be more difficult to get back to the camper, especially if they had the young French woman with them. The stream that flowed through the farm also went alongside the parking area. Brookes changed into his black wetsuit, then carried his snorkel and flippers down through the bush to the water. Brookes had also loaded his wife's gear. The wetsuit almost fit Grace. Her breasts were much fuller, although she was the same height and build. She could fit into the suit but only zip it up as far as her waist. The boutique hadn't loaned her a swimsuit, so she was forced to use one of the new halters. The facemask and flippers fit perfectly. The water in the stream was cold. Grace gasped as it rushed in through the open neck of the wetsuit. The farm lay upstream from where they had entered the water. That was a good thing. It meant they were able to approach the farm without the disturbance in the stream being telegraphed ahead to the people in the complex. The debris they disturbed would be carried downstream, away from the farm. Brookes, followed closely by Grace, slowly inched forward as they neared the target, keeping the noise at a minimum. From water level, the walls towered above them, resembling the battlements of a fortress, standing tall and menacing in the dark. The bottom line of the wall carried level across the stream from bank to bank but a rusty

metal grill hung down to just below the surface. Brookes gingerly tested the depth between the base of the grill and the bed of the stream. About a 600mm gap left enough room for a swimmer to wriggle safely under it without getting snagged. Brookes drew Grace towards him and whispered in her ear, telling her to remain hidden in the shadows until he returned. She started to argue, but he put his fingers over her lips. "Don't argue," he told her. "I don't want to see you hanging naked alongside our tourist friend. If they found you inside the complex, they would have you out of that wetsuit and naked on the floor in seconds. Be a good girl and do what you're told." "Take care," Grace muttered, her lips close to his ear. "I don't know what the inspector would say if I returned without you." "Most probably something like 'bloody good riddance,'" Brookes murmured as he slipped silently into the water. He slid under the grill without a problem, surfacing on the other side. Quickly, he glanced around the inside of the complex. The stream cut diagonally through the fenced area. The section farthest from the entrance gates contained four dark and shuttered buildings, windowless with heavy double doors. Hiding his flippers and snorkel alongside the grill under the fence, Brookes slid from the water and moved silently towards the nearest of the dark buildings. _Padlocked._ He listened at the door but could hear no sounds inside. These must be storerooms. What exactly was stored in them that required heavy bolts and padlocks when the buildings were already inside a secured complex patrolled by Doberman guard dogs? Must be very valuable property. A wooden bridge joined the two segments of the complex. Just as Brookes was about to place his foot on the first plank, the dogs burst into song, the baying echoed through the night. Brookes froze, foot suspended in midair, heart pounding. The barking reached a frenzied pitch as car lights approached the gates. Brookes could see the two dogs silhouetted against the light. He breathed a sigh of relief. They were chained to the gateposts, one on either side. Obviously the owners expected any trouble would come from that direction. Quickly crossing the bridge, Brookes faded into the shadows cast by the nearest building, a large shed used as a garage and workshop. An old delivery van and two large battered cars were the only vehicles inside, but there was a collection of dilapidated maintenance equipment and tools that had seen better days. A diesel generator hummed

away in one corner, fed from a large fuel tank on a frame just outside. That accounted for the lack of power lines between the main road and the buildings. The latest arrivals had stopped just outside the gate. Two men clambered out and wandered into the main building. The dogs quieted down. Lights shone from two windows. They were the only lights in the complex. Inching forward, Brookes carefully approached the nearest window. Inside the surly owner was in deep conversation with the two new arrivals and three other men, who must have been in the complex before the new guests arrived. Brookes winced when he recognized the insignia on the jackets worn by the men who had been in the building. He hadn't been aware that the gangs were engaged in chicken farming, so this must be their cover for some other nefarious activity. This was no ordinary chicken farm, no matter what the outward appearances were designed to achieve. True, there were chickens and there were packing sheds, so legally it could be classified as a chicken farm, but there were also many other buildings that didn't seem to fit in with a commercial poultry farming operation. Exactly what was this complex, a farm or a fortress?

CHAPTER 10: A PRISONER -- OR TWO! Brookes stood in the shadows watching while the gang members spoke excitedly with the visitors. The two new men wore different patches from those who had been in the compound. They obviously belonged to a different gang, and that was not good news. It was unusual for different gangs to engage in social discourse, even more unusual for them to have apparent business dealings together. Just what had brought them together this time? A beer crate was dragged out from under the counter and bottles of beer placed on the table. The men were soon busily engaged in seeing just how fast they could pour the brown frothy liquid down their gullets. Such refinements as drinking glasses were ignored, the necks of the bottles serving as funnels to channel the liquid into their mouths in a steady stream. One of the visitors produced Marijuana and packets of cigarette papers. Joints were rolled, lit and handed around. The sweet smell wafted through the open window. Brookes smiled with satisfaction. It wouldn't be too long before the men were so spaced out he would be able to drive the camper up to the gates, if he wanted, and load their prisoner openly before driving away.

Unfortunately he would still have to get past the dogs. They were not partaking of either the amber liquid or the smokes. They would remain unaffected, ready and dangerous. No, he had better stick to his original plan and take the girl out through the stream. It would be more confusing for the gang and reduce the risk that he could meet somebody on the narrow drive. If one group was prepared to visit, others could also appear unannounced. The compound was suddenly bathed in bright light as the banks of lights inside the laying sheds came on automatically. The dogs ignored the lights. They had probably seen it all before. The clucking of the chickens in the sheds drowned out the voices from inside the house. Brookes peered through the window again to see what effect the lights would have on the gang members. They ignored them, continuing to drink and smoke as if nothing else mattered. Keeping out of sight of the dogs in case they saw him and started barking again, Brookes circled around behind the laying sheds toward the small storage units. They all looked the same, except one! It stood isolated from the other buildings, not far from the fence and almost on the edge of the stream. It stood in complete darkness, the door secured by a heavy bolt. _No padlock._ A small metal grill was set into the door at eye level. Brookes looked through it but couldn't see anything inside. He crept around the corner. A high barred window set in the wall facing the fence. It was much too high to see through from ground level. Brookes looked towards the main building. Still no sign of movement. He had noticed a small stepladder in the implement shed near the generator. He collected it and hurried back to the window. He set the steps against the building, then climbed until he was level with the window. It was still too dark to see. He opened the front of his wetsuit and slipped the waterproof penlight from the pocket inside. He shone the dim beam through the window and let it sweep the room. He recoiled in shock at what the light revealed, grasping the window bars for support, as the ladder teetered unsteadily under his feet. Against the far wall, fastened by their wrists to hooks in the ceiling, he saw not one but two naked women. The young women hung lifeless, like carcasses in a slaughterhouse. Their eyes stared dully in the direction of the beam of light but showed no reaction to it. Their feet were flat on the floor, but their arms were stretched above their heads and held in place

by a thick rope. Their lips were sealed with strips of tape. Brookes climbed down the steps and hurried back to the main building. Only two of the men were still drinking, the others were slumped in their chairs, no longer taking an active interest in their surroundings. As he watched, one of the remaining drinkers fell forward, his face crashing down onto the table. The remaining man staggered to his feet, triumphantly waving his bottle over his head. He had won, he was the last drinker still on his feet. His triumph was short lived. With a loud belch, he slid to the floor in a heap, snoring as loudly as the others. Brookes hurried back to the shed where the prisoners were held. As he reached there, the lights went out in the laying sheds and darkness returned to the complex. Patting his chest to make sure the revolver was still securely in its watertight compartment, he slid the bolt back and eased the door open. The young women watched with disinterest as he hurried toward them. Brookes drew his knife and cut the rope holding the blonde woman. He eased her down to the dirty floor before releasing her hands. With a quick tug he removed the sticking plaster from her lips. He felt her body tense with the sudden pain but she made no sound. Brookes wondered at her stoic response, but he suspected that she had been abused so much since her capture that she had learned to hide her hurt in case it encouraged her captors to try and find new ways to torment her. She went meekly with Brookes when he led her from the shed, but started to shiver as he led her towards the stream. Brookes wondered why she seemed so frightened of the water. He had to drag her into the stream and force her under the grill. Her head broke the surface on the other side, her body shaking with silent sobs. The sobbing stopped and she looked around. "Who are you?" she asked Grace. "Where am I?" "Who we are isn't important at the moment," Brookes told her. "We'll explain all that when we get you away from here, just let's say that you're outside now and safe." "Then you are not with them?" she said, hope sounding in her voice. "No, we are not with them, Grace said, slipping a comforting arm around the woman's shoulders and drawing her against her chest.

"Then my prayers have been answered," the woman sobbed. "I never thought I would live to see this day. But what about..." She turned towards the man who had dragged her from the complex but he wasn't there. She collapsed sobbing into Grace's arms. Within five minutes Brookes' head broke through the dark waters of the stream as he surfaced with the other prisoner. He helped the young woman out of the water, then sat on the bank to remove his flippers. With them off, he stood up and faced the three women. "We can't go back the way we came," Brookes told Grace. "The water is too cold for the women." "You are right, they would suffer from hypothermia in no time at all." Grace said. "The Maori are all blotto. We can go back by the road but be ready to duck for cover if we see headlights. We don't want to be seen while we're returning to the camper." "Could cause a pile-up," Grace said with a grin. "Two naked females escorted along the main road is not a normal sight at this time of the night." "It's not a normal sight at any time of the night," Brookes agreed with a smile, "unless there's a nudist colony in the area, in which case they might think that we're heading for an orgy!" "You wouldn't stand the strain facing odds of three females to one male," Grace joked. "Are you going to keep the camper where it is overnight?" "Not a hope. They might sober up and come looking for their missing _guests._ I wouldn't like to be around if they do. I should imagine they'd be pretty annoyed. Anyway first things first. We need to get these women back to the camper so we can find them something to wear. They must be freezing..." "I know I am," Grace said. "And I've got on a wet suit on..." "Almost! We can plan after we get back to the camper but I'm all in favor of heading back to where we parked last night. It's much more peaceful and secluded, and far enough away from here to be reasonably safe. They won't know who did the rescue, or what type of vehicle they're looking for."

"Enough fuel?" "Plenty." "Then what are we waiting for, let's get to hell out of here, the farther away we are the happier I'll be." Brookes remarked as they started the journey back to the camper. Brookes had brought two towels, but they did little to keep the two women warm. It was a long walk in the dark with two barefoot females, but there was no other way back. He couldn't risk running on ahead and driving back to pick up his passengers. The only place to turn was at the farm car park, and he didn't want to risk waking the gang members from their drugged stupor. The other choice was to back down the track after picking up the women, and he liked that alternative even less. The only real choice was to walk down the road. It was after midnight before they arrived back at the camper. Brookes backed it out from under the trees, then turned south and headed towards Turangi. While he drove, Grace helped the young women clean up. Her clothes were too large for either of them. She sneaked into Brookes' locker and _borrowed_ two of his shirts. While they were baggy on the women, they were long enough to cover their nakedness until they were able to find something more suitable. While the women were showering and changing, an interesting exercise in the moving vehicle, Brookes passed through Turangi and was closing in on their camping spot. The parking area was empty when they arrived. He turned in and parked as far away from the road as possible, hidden by the same trees that had sheltered them before. He hoped they wouldn't rise in the morning to find the same elderly couple also parked there. It would be difficult to explain how he had suddenly increased his harem by two! Now that he had stopped, it was his turn for a quick shower and change of clothes, while Grace prepared a light meal. The two young women were starving. While they had been feed as prisoners, the fare was sparse and infrequent, sufficient only to keep them alive. The taste of freshly fried eggs and bacon, washed down with steaming hot coffee, renewed their urge to eat. Grace finished her supper about the same time as Brookes. They sat and watched while their guests started on a second plate. "Better have a break after this lot," he said with a smile. "I don't want two sick women on my hands in the morning. There'll be more to eat when we wake up tomorrow ... no, make that today, really," he added, looking at his watch. "We'll talk later. I'm sure you have a lot of questions you want answered, and so do we. But they can wait until later."

The young women were told to sleep in the double bed while Brookes and Grace took the two single couches. In spite of the excitement of the night before, and the late hour they had arrived at the campsite, they were awake by 8:00 a.m. Brookes set up the picnic furniture in the morning sun on the side of the camper hidden from the road. Grace was busy getting breakfast ready. She had the mixture ready to make scrambled eggs just as soon as their guests woke and were ready to eat. Brookes wandered back into the camper and stood looking down at the young women, still sleeping peacefully. They looked much more relaxed than when he had last seen them only a few hours earlier. It was amazing what a good night's sleep could do. Gently he shook them awake. They each cringed at the touch of his hand, but fear evaporated when they saw they were still safe in the camper and not back at the chicken farm. A hot cup of coffee in their hands, they sat in the sunshine watching as Grace busied herself putting the finishing touches to breakfast. "I'm Al Brookes," he said, introducing himself for the first time. "This is my friend and colleague Grace Williams. You must be Marie Deneuve," he said, looking at the blonde woman. He turned to look at the other woman. "But who are you, and were you a prisoner, too?" "I'm Pat Zacarkis," the dark-haired girl murmured. "How do you know my name," Marie asked in halting English. "Because we've been looking for you for many weeks," Brookes told her. "You are police?" "No, but I work with the police when they need me. Grace is a policewoman from Wellington." "How you find us?" Marie asked. "That's a long story," Brookes said. "And you wouldn't believe us, anyway," Grace said with a smile. "Just be thankful we did."

"You have found body of Jean Baptiste?" Marie asked, her voice choking over the name. "Yes, we found Jean's body," Brookes told her gently. "That is good," she said, dissolving into tears. "At least he can be buried in hallowed ground; he will not rest happy until his head is buried, also." Brookes sat beside her, putting his arm around her shoulder and holding her close. She buried her head against his chest, tears flowing freely. "How did you know he was dead?" he asked. "I was there," she said, her voice harsh as her mind flicked back to the last time she saw Jean alive. "Oh, my God," Grace gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "We will talk about that later," Brookes told her in soothing tones. "How did they get their hands on you?" he asked the other girl. "I was hitch-hiking from Napier to Auckland on the Old Taupo Road with a friend from University," Pat told him, her voice trembling at the memory. "We were offered a ride by a couple of men in an old car. We stopped in a parking area while the driver relieved himself. I had my back turned because he was just standing beside the car. There was a gasp, then a thud. When I turned around, my friend Barry was lying in a heap beside the rear of the car. The driver was standing over him with a heavy tire lever in his hand. I turned to run, but I was tripped and thrown to the ground." She shuddered at the memories, her face pale and drawn. "They tore all my cloths off me, then they raped me," she said, bursting into sobs. "They both raped me more than once. They were like animals. When they were satisfied, they tied my hands together behind my back and pushed me into the boot of their vehicle. I don't know what happened to Barry, but he didn't seem to be moving at all. I think they killed him." Grace held Pat until her sobbing stopped, caressing her back in an effort to calm her. "I came to in the shed in which you found me. I don't know how long I was there; it's hard to work out time when you're in the dark. Yesterday was the first time they removed my blindfold, but they left the plaster over my mouth. It was only removed

when I was given food. I could have been there days or even weeks, for all I know." Pat paused, a reflective look in her eyes. "I'm sure there were other prisoners in the shed with us. I heard a lot of movement, and often muffled curses and the sounds of heavy weights falling to the floor. There were never any voices or cries." "It wouldn't be easy to cry out with your lips sealed with sticking plaster," Grace muttered. "I heard strange sounds at least twice," Pat muttered. "As if they were dragging heavy weights out the door." "I wonder if they were moving other prisoners," Grace mused. "Most likely," Brookes agreed. "But were they male or female, and were they still alive? Let's grab a bite to eat, then we can head south again. I guess I'd better ring Jim as well. I promised to ring him after we made the rescue, but I forgot last night," he added, looking thoughtfully at the distant hills. "Why not ring him first. It will give our guests more time to collect themselves before questioning," Grace murmured, looking at the two young women sitting side-byside, their eyes still clouded by tears and memories of friends they would never see again. Brookes nodded. He went to the front of the camper and extended the built-in cellular telephone aerial. He rang Wellington Police and asked to be put through to Inspector Gilliard. Reception was weak, even with the volume turned up full, but at least there was very little static. "About bloody time," Gilliard said as soon as he recognized Brookes' voice. "I was wondering what had happened to you, especially after last night. Are you okay?" "Couldn't be better, Jim," he said. "In and out, unnoticed, and we were clear of the farm by midnight." "Then I wonder who it was who died in the fire?" "What bloody fire?" Brookes asked in surprise. "The one that destroyed one of the poultry farms on the western shore of Lake Taupo in the early hours of this morning -- about 6:00 a.m., I think the radio report said."

"Which farm, the northern or southern one?" "The most northern one." "Interesting," Brookes muttered. "That's the same one from which we rescued the prisoners. The gang members were all blotto even before I went into rescue mode. They didn't look like they would be mobile for many hours." "Hang on a moment," Gilliard said. "Not so bloody fast. Prisoners. Gang. Blotto. Some explanations, please, young Al. You're talking in a foreign language and I need a translation." "I found Marie Deneuve, as we expected, in the northern farm complex. It was run by gang members, and from more than one gang. When we left, they were already under the influence of a combination of drugs and alcohol. Just to stuff up your system, I found two prisoners, the second was a young hitch-hiker by the name of Pat Zacarkis, kidnapped on the Napier-Taupo road some weeks ago." "And not reported missing," the inspector muttered. "She was traveling with a friend, a university student. It could be their absence hasn't been noticed as yet, and maybe won't be until 'varsity starts again." "Is she close by?" Gilliard asked. "Yes." "Ask her which university?" Brookes looked at Pat as she mouthed a word. "Otago," he told Gilliard. "Oh. And she thinks her companion might have been murdered at the same time as she was kidnapped." "Damn. I'll get them both checked out. Did you get Miss Deneuve's story?" "She's still a bit upset. Thought I'd leave that to you, after we get back to Wellington." "How long?" "If we pull out of here in about an hour ... allow about four hours for the journey ... make it around mid-afternoon ... say about three."

"Don't bring the women to the station. I'll meet you at the public car park at Waikanae, the one off the main road near the tennis courts. I'll bring a constable with me to drive the camper back to Wellington. We'll return by car. See you when you get here." "Hang on," Brookes called out. "You mentioned there was a fire at the farm and that somebody was dead. What's the story?" "The farm was totally destroyed in the early hours of this morning. A body was found in one of the laying sheds. It was assumed the owner had died trying to fight the flames and save his stock." "I have my doubts about that," Brookes muttered. "Any trace of the other occupants?" "Only one body. Why?" "There were four gang members in the complex when we arrived. Two more came before I moved the girls out. That makes six. When I left, they were blotto, in a drug and alcohol induced stupor. I watched them through a window as they flaked out, one by one. There was no way they were in any condition to get out of that complex if it had accidentally caught fire." "What are you getting at?" Gilliard demanded. "I've got a nasty feeling about this sudden and mysterious fire. Several of the sheds were padlocked, even though the complex was fortified and guarded by Doberman dogs. The men were all in the main building, not anywhere near the laying sheds." "So?" "I wonder if other gang members arrived after we left, and this is a revenge killing for letting the prisoners escape." Brookes said "But what about the other men; surely under this scenario, they should also be dead?" "Unless this is seen by the leaders as a warning to the others to be more careful in the future." "You mean, something like a shape up or ship out..." Gilliard guessed. "In a box! Yes. It's all too convenient. A solitary body in an isolated poultry farm. Too smooth. I don't like it."

"Neither do I, now that you mention these other facts," the inspector muttered. "Did you get a look at any of the other sheds?" "Not a chance," Brookes told him. "They were all padlocked and it would have needed heavy duty bolt cutters to cut through the locks." "I wonder why the sheds were padlocked?" Gilliard mused. "Maybe the farm wasn't only a transit area for prisoners, but also for their drug deliveries. It would be an ideal location, just about the middle of the North Island and within easy driving distance of all the major centers." "And, from what you tell me, isolated enough not to attract attention," Gilliard muttered. "What a perfect setup. If it wasn't for the missing tourist we would never have found it."

CHAPTER 11: THE RETURN OF WIREMU Inspector Gilliard sat patiently in the unmarked police car outside the tennis courts at Waikanae, watching an elderly couple bat the tennis ball from one end of the court to the other. He had never really enjoyed strenuous activity, even though he had been forced to take part in team games when he joined the force. The slow speed of the game in progress appealed to him. "Guess even I could keep up with these players, Ken," he said with a smile, but not looking directly at Sergeant Norris who was in the driver's seat. "I wonder how long they are going to continue playing. I hope they are gone by the time Al arrives. We don't want too many people to see the transfer. I had hoped this would be totally clear of people at this time of the day." "I don't think they'll last that long," Norris said, keeping a straight face at the thought of Gilliard padding around the court with the _oldies,_ the youngest of whom looked well past retirement age. "We're a bit early, it's only just after 2:30. Al estimated around three. If the traffic is at all heavy, or he strikes road works, he could be even later. I would say these players won't last that long, they look knackered already." Within fifteen minutes the players were gone, showing the signs of the energetic activity by the way they hauled their weary old bones to the car. It was almost of the same vintage as its owners and chugged noisily away from the courts in a cloud of oily black smoke.

Gilliard and Ken, meantime, were suffocating in clouds of their own smoke as they puffed cigarette after cigarette, impatiently waiting for the arrival of the camper. Brookes had estimated accurately. Just as the clock on the dashboard clicked round to three the camper took the last bend near the courts and pulled up alongside the waiting vehicle. He clambered out, stretching his legs. It had been a long trip, made without any stops along the way, just over four hours of steady driving. He was weary, it had been a hectic 24 hours. He greeted the inspector and Norris before introducing the two young women. They were still wearing Brookes' shirts, which were long enough to be mini-dresses, with pieces of rope as belts to hold the shapeless garments more comfortably around them. They had slept most of the way back to Wellington, rocked by the swaying motion of the camper. They looked much more refreshed, but the signs of their ordeal were still visible in the tension of their eyes and the way they jumped at any sudden movement or loud noise. "How about we take them home, Jim, and you can talk to them there more comfortably than at your office. Some of Jan's clothes might fit them a lot better than my shirts and be much more suitable." "Don't know about that," the inspector said gallantly. "The shirts make very charming dresses. I agree it could be more relaxing at your place than the office. What will Jan say at losing more of her clothes?" "Nothing much until she notices her wardrobe has shrunk again. Even then she won't complain when she finds out why they were borrowed. Anyway, that won't be for some time, she went home to Mum when I went north. We thought it would be safer that way. I wasn't very happy leaving Jannine and Jan alone in the empty house." The constable transferred to the camper while the four passengers climbed into the car. It was a bit crowded, but not uncomfortable. The camper was the first vehicle to leave the car park but when they reached the start of the motorway, Inspector Gilliard gave them a toot as he went past, then he put his foot down and the Holden Commodore sedan surged forward, leaving the camper far in its wake. The tires chewed up the kilometers until they reached the off ramp that took them onto the road towards Wellington. Brookes had searched hard for a house that would still remind him of the country even though it was set in the middle of the city. He had been lucky to find such a home in a section opposite the city's botanic gardens. The view could never be built out; it commanded an excellent view towards the harbor and the Hutt Valley.

Gilliard drove into the double garage over which the house had been built. As a frequent visitor, Brookes had given him a duplicate infrared control to the garage door so he didn't need to park outside on the road verge when he visited. It was also more discrete when he brought _guests_ whose identity they wanted to keep hidden from the prying eyes of the media and the underworld. Fortunately word hadn't leaked Brookes's home was used by the police as a _safe house._ Brookes led his guests up the interior stairs and into the spacious lounge. The young women looked around and sighed contentedly as they sank back into the soft cushions scattered over the large sofas. Taking Grace aside, Brookes asked her if she would help Pat and Marie freshen up again. He showed her to the main bedroom and opened the double doors to the walk-in wardrobe. Jan' clothes were neatly stored on the left, his not so neatly on the right. "Let the girl's find something comfortable from this lot," he told her. "Jan's underwear is in the top of the left hand cabinet," he added, pointing to two shelf units built into the closet. "Are you sure your wife won't mind?" "Positively. This isn't the first time, and most probably not the last, that Jim has brought us unexpected _guests_ to look after, and usually at very short notice." "Then she is very kind and understanding ... and beautiful," she added, noticing the photograph on the dressing table. "Thank you," Brookes said. "We have been through some very difficult times together. She's pulled me through with her sensible and unflappable nature. She's a real gem. I don't know where I'd be today without her help in the past." Pat and Marie showered, then changed into slacks and blouses from the wardrobe. While Jan's panties had fitted reasonably well, both had to go without a bra. There was no hope of either filling the cups of Jan's lacy tops without padding. "Let's talk," the inspector said when they returned to the lounge. "Al told me what happened to you, Miss Zacarkis. You have now been reported missing, and found, on the same day..." "A record for you, Jim," Brookes joked. The inspector ignored him.

"We have not found any trace of your companion. He hadn't been reported missing either, but that has now been done. We are getting the Dunedin police to send us a photograph and any other details they can find to help us look for him." He turned to face the young French woman. "We tried everything to find you," the inspector told her. "Even after we found and identified your companion, and had the area in which we presumed you had gone missing, we still couldn't find anything to help us. Whoever grabbed you covered their tracks very well. They left us nothing to work on. Your camper was found many hundreds of kilometers from where Jean's body was left, and it had been wiped clean of evidence. If not for Mr. Brookes talking me into trying a psychic to trace you, we would still be looking. We would never have thought about looking in a poultry farm for a missing person." "I glad you try psychic, but how she find me?" Marie asked in halting English. "She sat in the camper with some of your clothes and photographs, trying to make contact with you. Her mind reached yours. She was able to see your prison through your eyes. This gave us an indication of what you could see and feel. She could not tell exactly where you had been taken because you didn't seem to know that information yourself. However, from the vibrations she was receiving, she knew it was somewhere on the western shore of Lake Taupo. Mr. Brookes offered to go and do illegally what we could not do legally, which was to search the suspected buildings in the area without a warrant." "I am glad," Marie whispered, looking thankfully across at Brookes. "I did not think to see freedom again. I feared I would be used like other prisoners." "What other prisoners?" the inspector asked. "There were other prisoners in the shed and also in the jungle when Jean was killed." The inspector frowned. "I think you had better go back to the beginning and tell me everything that happened." "It is long story." "Never mind. Just take your time, but try and leave nothing out. I know it will be hard for you to relive what you have been through, but we must find the killer before he

strikes again. Everything that you can tell us will be useful. Start when you were taken prisoner." "That was near the lake Wai ... wai ... wai..." "Waikaremoana," Brookes prompted helpfully. "That lake," Marie agreed. "It is hard for me to say long Maori names." Marie looked pensively out of the window, her eyes focused on the past. "The lake was so beautiful. It was quiet and peaceful. I ask Jean to stop to get photographs. He drove the van onto side of the road and it get stuck in wet ground. He tried to push it out but it was too heavy. I tried to help him but the van would not move from the mud. I thought that we would have to stay in the mud until other tourists came and help pull us out. We had seen no local people near lake. "Then the local people came," she said, a look of pain crossing her face at the memory. "They came in a big, old car. Many men in old clothes and leather jackets. They were dirty with long hair. We thought they were kind when they helped pull our van from the mud. We thanked them. They stayed to talk with us. I was frightened but did not tell Jean. There were too many of them. Jean did not know my fear. He made me have my photograph taken with him and his new friends. "They invited us to a special thing they called a hangi. I did not know what it was and I did not want to go. Jean said it would be rude to not accept the invitation of his new friends. I had to go with him in the van while we followed the old car. I could not talk to Jean of my fear because one of the men had come with us in case we got lost. More likely in case they decided not to accept the invitation, Brookes mused. If they had tried to leave, the killing and kidnapping could have happened earlier, but there could be little doubt that it would have happened. "The hangi was at an old building set far in the jungle. I think they called it a marae. There were only men at the hangi. I saw no women. Not until the prisoners were brought out from another hut." "Other prisoners. What other prisoners?" Inspector Gilliard wanted to know. "The men dragged two white women out from the hut and tied them to stakes driven into the ground. They were naked and covered in mud. They were silent. They just lay there as the men raped them. They did not struggle or cry out. It was as if they were dead, their eyes staring sightlessly ahead of them as they were raped by all the men."

Marie began her story, shuddering at the sight etched forever in her mind. It was a picture of horror and bestiality she would never forget. She tried to fade into the shadows, but her movements were noticed. A grinning gang member stopped her. He hadn't spoken, just moved forward with a leering smile on his face. She ran to Jean's side and cowered against him. The gang members closed in around them, separating them. She was held, unable to break free, as Jean was overpowered and dragged struggling to the side of the fire. They held him down on his back, his head resting on an old stained log. Two men held his body still, while a third dragged his head back by the hair, exposing his throat. He was struggling but unable to break free, his cries echoing unanswered into the surrounding bush. A man in full ceremonial war-dress stepped into the circle. He was holding a gleaming knife in his hand. The blade swung in a shinning arc, the metal reflecting the flames. Marie screamed as Jean's head rolled into the dirt. The warrior reached down and grasped it by the hair, holding it above his head, the blood trickling down his arm. He started a low chant that was soon taken up by the other men until it echoed around the dark canopy of trees. She didn't understand the words, but she knew fear. Fear stronger than any she had ever felt before. She tried to struggle, but the men held her firmly. They dragged her forward until she was facing the warrior. He held the head of her companion in his hand, his fingers entangled in Jean's hair. He thrust the head toward her until the sightless eyes were only centimeters from hers, the dead lips almost touching hers. She shuddered and tried to turn away. "He is your friend, why do you deny him," the warrior asked her mockingly. "Do you not want to say goodbye, or would you rather join him on his last journey?" He didn't wait for an answer, but turned and stalked away towards the entrance to the meeting house. He tied the head, by the hair, to a low beam, alongside the others that were already hanging there! He stalked back to face her. "You are a stranger to our land, but you are no different to the other pakeha who have invaded our shores. You are only a wahine, the lowest of the low. You are now our captive, and as a slave you shall serve us until we no longer want you, then you can go

and join your friend. His head shall decorate our marae as witness of our resolve to drive the white man from our sacred heritage. Soon the green hills shall run with their blood washing away the sins of their fathers. We shall drive them back into the seas over which they came to steal our lands and our heritage." His hands reached out, the fingers fastening in the material of her thin blouse, which he ripped from her. "These are the clothes of our enemies," he roared, holding the tattered fabric over his head. "What right have they to be worn on this sacred ground. Remove them. Destroy them before we offend our ancestors." Marie was stripped naked in seconds, her clothes thrown on the fire. She cowered before the warrior, too frightened to cry out or to object. This was worse than her worst nightmare. "Let her taste the power of the new masters of Aotaearoa." Marie was thrown to the ground and held down, spread-eagled in the dust. Her legs were dragged apart until she was held out like a helpless starfish. The warrior stood tall between her naked thighs. He glared down at her, no pity in his eyes. He threw his feather cloak over his shoulders, then dropped down on her. With a roar of triumph, echoed around the clearing by the other members, he forced himself into her protesting body. She stifled a scream as he thrust deep into her, tearing aside the last vestiges of her virginity. She had never surrendered to a male before, not even to Jean although he had tried to persuade her many times. Although still a virgin, she had been skilful at bringing her partners relief in other ways and that had been sufficient to hold them at bay. That didn't matter any more. She was no longer a virgin, she was a victim of a cruel and sadistic rapist. The warrior couldn't have cared less about his victim, she was just another step in his drive for revenge on the white people he hated with a terrible intensity. He drove into her with increasing frenzy, urged on by the chants of his followers. Marie thought the chant sounded like "Wiremu, Wiremu." It was a long night as she was passed from man to man. She floated in and out of consciousness, never fully registering the indignities that were administered to her young and inexperienced body. In the morning she was held down while a hypodermic syringe was jabbed into her thigh. It must have been a powerful drug because she was almost unconscious before they carried her the short distance to the car. She remembered the boot being opened and

her body pushed in on top of two other naked females who were already in the dark interior. The headless body of her companion was tossed in on top of them before the trunk was slammed shut. She remembered nothing else. The vehicle must have returned to the Taupo/Napier road to dump the body before continuing on to the chicken farm, Brookes thought. When Marie awoke she was already hanging suspended from the hook in the shed at the farm. At least she assumed it was the farm. She could hear the clucking of many fowl, and she hadn't been taken anywhere else since being placed in the shed. That small room had been her home between the time she awoke until the time she was rescued. "The warrior you speak about, describe him for me," the inspector asked. Marie was unable to give Gilliard any sort of useful description. She had been too terrified to take note of details, never expecting that she would survive her ordeal. All she could remember was that he was a Maori male about two meters tall and strongly built. The light in the bush had been poor, his face mainly hidden in the shadows. When he was close, he was holding Jean's severed head. Her eyes had been watching that, not the face of her captor. During her rape, the only light had been behind her assailant. "You say they were chanting something while they were raping you; can you repeat the words?" Brookes asked. "It sounded like _Wiremu, Wiremu._..in fact, I'm positive that is what the men were calling out. I don't know what they mean, but they shouted them loudly each time he thrust into me." Gilliard was watching the look of anger grow on Brookes' face. A look of understanding slowly flooded him. "Surely you don't think..." "Yes. I bet it's that bastard Wiremu Titoki." "Surely it can't be him." "Why not. He escaped from us when the fortress fell at Ngaruawahia. We know that he didn't die in that raid because there was no body or other trace of him to confirm his death. Why couldn't he have gone aground in this area of New Zealand? It's isolated and relatively peaceful, an ideal location for him to reestablish himself and gain mana again among the radicals. They would soon forgive and forget the last debacle as long as there was someone around to feed their hate and fanaticism. Titoki is an expert at stirring the

shit." "I hope you're wrong, Al," Gilliard muttered, his mind going back to the problems they had been through with Titoki and his white slavery racket. He hoped Brookes was wrong, but his gut was telling him otherwise. He hated his gut when it got into the game of giving signs or premonitions but it was seldom wrong. This time the message was loud and clear that they were heading into more problems with the radical elements of the nations Maori gangs.

CHAPTER 12: THE SEARCH INTENSIFIES Inspector Gilliard agreed that the girls could spend their first night in Wellington in the Brookes' house provided Grace Williams stayed with them. Unknown to Brookes he had also arranged for a police stakeout based in the gardener's buildings in the botanic gardens. From there it was possible to keep the street frontage under observation. He wasn't concerned with any attempt to break into the property from the rear. He knew that Zorba, Brookes' German Shepherd, was allowed to run loose in the backyard at night. Entry to the back door could only be gained from within the fenced-off yard and this would be extremely unpleasant for any intruder. Zorba was racially prejudiced and she hated strangers who hadn't been introduced to her! She was also an extremely large dog and very vocal. He wouldn't like to argue with her and he was used to handling dogs. The neighbors liked having Zorba around because burglaries had dropped dramatically on the street since she moved in. The two young women were put in Jannine's room. It had two single beds, in case his adopted daughter ever wanted to invite a friend to visit her. Grace took the guestroom, while Brookes returned to the comfort of his own bed, but without the company he was used to having beside him. Zorba accepted the presence of the three young women and, within minutes, was curled up at Marie's feet. She fussed over the dog, scratching her behind the ears and gently rubbing her chest. "She'll take as much of that as you want to give her, the old bag," Brookes said with a laugh as Zorba rolled over on to her back and lay with her legs up, her eyes closed and a silly expression on her face. "She is such a beautiful dog," Marie muttered. "She is so friendly." "But only if she knows you, or is told to let you in," he told her. "I wouldn't want to argue with her if I didn't know her."

"Would she attack me?" "Yes, if I told her too, but now that you are a guest in this house, she would protect you with her life, if she had to." "Why do you call her Zorba?" Pat asked. "Surely Zorba is a man's name, not a girl's?" "Tell Jan that. She liked the name; it goes back a long time, to an old dog that was owned by a Greek friend of mine. Zorba was very much a male dog, but just as loyal as our Zorba. He died protecting his master from burglars, the name lives on in this old bag." The girls settled back to watch the television news. The report of the fire at the poultry farm was on again, this time with an additional item from Taupo. The local spokesman from the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals was loud in his praises of the owner. He was going to recommend to the government that he be awarded the Medal of the Royal Humane Society for attempting to rescue his stock at the risk of his own life. Brookes looked across at Grace and they burst into laughter. The other women looked at them in surprise, wanting to know what was so funny about the report of the man dying to save his stock. "That is the farm where you were held prisoner," Brookes told them. "The man was the manager. When we left, they were all drunk and in the main building. The fire didn't happen for another 5 or 6 hours. We think he was killed because he allowed your escape. His death was a warning to the others not to fail in the future." "That's horrible," Pat muttered, growing pale. "How could they be so cruel?" "Easy. They're fanatics," Brookes told her. "I've crossed sword with their leader Wiremu Titoki before, and he would have no compunction in slaughtering his own children if they stood in his way." "What are his aims?" Marie asked. "The driving of all white people back into the sea and the taking back of New Zealand for the Maori race, but only those who agree with his ways. The others, and those whites who don't escape, would fall under his yoke, to remain as little more than slaves." "But surely that could never happen," Grace gasped, aware for the first time of the

seriousness of the coming investigation. "That's true, but on the way many innocent people, of all races, would die in the chaos that would sweep through our country. The only way that the radicals could gain the muscle they'd need to get control would be to bring in assistance from overseas, in the form of weapons and helpers. The links are already there with the countries in the East and Middle East. These countries have the funds available to export their own brand of terrorism and the gangs are too thick to realize they are only pawns in the hands of their overseas masters. Some gangs are already linked to overseas crime syndicates. They have been driven by greed, not ideology, and if they come on board with the radicals, then all hell could break loose. What these idiots don't realize is that, if they were successful with their planned _revolution,_ they would only be puppets for their overseas masters. They would never be allowed to return to the old ways, there's no money in that for the crime lords." Brookes stared out the window. The sky was darkening, the lights of the city slowly flicking on like lights on a Christmas tree. They took their supper into the lounge Marie sat silently looking over the city. There were tears in her eyes. Brookes sat down beside her on the couch, placing his arm around her shoulders. He drew her against his chest. "What's the matter," he asked her softly. "I grieve for Jean. He proposed to me when we were in Wellington. We were to be married when we returned to France. I wrote to tell my parents. They will have only just got the letter. They will have been happy for me, now they will be sad. I will never see Jean again." She broke into sobs as the tension of the previous days burst from her body. She shook with the force of her emotions. Wave after wave of pain and horror flowed through her. She had never expected to get free from her captors; rather, her expectations had been of her own death. It would have been a welcome release from her terrors. Her sobs slowed. In a reflex action, her arms went around Brookes' waist and she cuddled against him, closing her eyes. Her breathing slowed to an even, steady rhythm. She was asleep. Brookes settled back into the couch, then drew Marie into a more comfortable position. She moaned softly, objecting to being moved.

Grace stood up and walked over to the couch. "Do you want me to give you a hand to get her to bed?" she asked. "Let her rest. We'll shift her when we go to bed." They sat and talked quietly as the shadows lengthened. The only light in the room came from the streetlights reflecting in from far below the house. The double-glazed windows kept the noise of the passing traffic to little more than a gentle hum. The desultory conversation faded into silence as each became more absorbed with his and her own thoughts. Brookes stirred, looking around the room in surprise. He was on his own, except for the young woman still cuddled in his arms. His arm holding Marie had gone to sleep. He must have done the same before the other two had retired for the night. Zorba had moved down the corridor to settle down outside the door to Jannine's room; her eyes were closed, her breathing steady. She was fast asleep. Brookes decided to let her stay where she was. He wriggled down to get more comfortable, then closed his eyes and joined Marie in the Land of Dreams.

Inspector Gilliard was one of the first into the office in the morning. What exactly was Wiremu Titoki up to this time? The only certainty was that it would bode no good for a lot of people, especially the police. Nothing the outlaw ever did was in the interest of the authorities. Titoki had a long history of political dissent and criminal activities, yet enough idiots in the community were prepared to follow him as if he was a Messiah. Exactly where was his home marae, the ancestral meeting house that was now his headquarters? That was a laugh. You needed mana to establish a marae, long tradition that tied a tribe to its ancestral home lands. Titoki had no tribe and very little mana except with the disaffected. He was making a mockery of tradition, but he was still attracting people to his banner. All Gilliard knew for certain was that Titoki's new camp was somewhere in the North Island. It had to be within driving distance of Lake Waikaremoana, but Gilliard could only guess at how far. The young French tourist hadn't been any help in assessing kilometers because she had been drugged some of the time and under extreme stress when she wasn't.

Maybe a computer printout of missing travelers would give some indication of a possible location of the site. It would be only a hit or miss estimate, but with so few hard facts to go on anything was better than nothing. Gilliard was surprised to learn that over the previous 12 months nearly two dozen travelers had been reported missing. Some were tourists or hitchhikers who had not arrived at their final destinations. Others were people who hadn't returned home from what should have been routine journeys. Gilliard wondered if there was a pattern, or if the events were random occurrences. There was only one way to find out and that was to plot the locations on a map. It was a long job that took two constables until lunch. The map made very interesting viewing. A large majority of the reports were centered round the middle of the North Island spreading in a fairly wide band from east to west. Only a couple reached as far north as Auckland, with fewer still from the South Island. There was a dead area to the northeast of Lake Waikaremoana, almost like a magic circle with nothing in the middle. The French tourists were the only people missing within a radius of 50 kilometers of the lake. Was that by intent, or just a twist of fate? A more detailed check showed the majority of the missing people in a hundred kilometer radius were young women hitchhikers traveling on their own, and usually reported to be attractive, fair skinned and with long hair. Most were blonde, but a couple had brunette or red hair. Several males had been reported missing. They were known to the police because of their criminal activities and they were written off as _presumed dead_ because of their connections with the drug world. But was it all really so simple? Was that area really safer for travelers, or was it merely a smoke screen to distract the attention of the police away from the gang headquarters? Inspector Gilliard lifted the telephone and called Brookes. A sleepy voice answered. "Get your butt down here, Al, I need your help," he growled.

"What the hell for this time?" Brookes muttered, his voice testy as if he had got out on the wrong side of the bed, or maybe never really got into it. "I want you to take a look at a map?" "At this bloody hour of the morning!" Gilliard grinned to himself. It definitely sounded as if Brookes had missed out on his beauty sleep. "It happens to be lunch time. I've been at work for over four hours, not curled up in bed like some people. Miss Williams can be their guard dog until a car calls round later. We'll keep them in a safe house tonight, then send them to the South Island until this thing blows over."

Brookes studied the map in amazement. Why such a gap around the lake? While it was true that not many people lived in the area, it was still very popular with tourists and trampers, and these had been the prime targets in the other areas. He would have expected some of them to have gone missing near the lake, unless it was a deliberate ploy to keep the area clear of police. Missing person investigations always ended up with large numbers of police going from door to door in the area where the victim was last seen. That would not be what Titoki would want in his own front yard. "Have you easy access to the police computer, Jim?" "Sure. Why?" "How about a printout of all crimes reported in that blank area. It could be interesting." "Why?" "Just idle curiosity. I have a theory, but it seems so ridiculous that I would like to have some more facts before I tell you about it." Gilliard grunted. He lifted the telephone and called for the report. It was on his desk in less than 30 minutes. His mouth dropped opened. "It's blank." "Blank?" Brookes asked, his voice grim.

"Totally. Nothing whatever. Not even any minor misdemeanors, or even any traffic offences. Nothing at all." "Since when?" "The last twelve months. Prior to that the rate was quite high, which you would expect in an area with one of the highest unemployment rates in the country, and an area with two major gangs in conflict." "Are the gangs still there?" "I suppose. I haven't seen anything in our reports to indicate otherwise." "I was worried about that. I bet Titoki has taken up residence somewhere in the middle of that area." "Titoki. Why him?" "What better place. Isolated. Not a very large white population, and many of the Europeans who are living there have a Maori connection. It's mainly a National Park..." "And the center of a Maori tribal land claim for most of the park under the Treaty of Waitangi," Gilliard interrupted. "What's the present situation with the claim?" "In limbo. Conflicting tribal interests. They can't reach a consensus on who should be the main parties to any settlement." "I bet Titoki has his oar in there stirring up the pot!" "The latest news is that the tribes are trying to ban hunters from entering the park, claiming that they are damaging their traditional heritage," the inspector added. He looked at Brookes, a glint in his eye. "Want to go hunting, Al?"

CHAPTER 13: BROOKES GOES HUNTING Brookes jumped at the invitation to go hunting, even though he knew what he was

being asked to do would be extremely dangerous and there would be no official backing if he were caught. While the police suspected Titoki was in the area and definitely up to no good, there was insufficient evidence to warrant police presence in any numbers and definitely not in any under-cover operation. The fact that the area was under a tribal land claim with the Waitangi Tribunal made this an even more sensitive area, politically, and no politician from any major party would be prepared to support a clandestine police operation that could be twisted to show a racial bias. The arrests of any Maori that could be linked to a land claim, no matter how tenuously would play into the hands of the radicals. It would give them the media coverage they sought, coverage that would be far in excess of any alleged breach of the treaty provisions. There must be no vestige of doubt when the police operation was launched. This was where Inspector Gilliard hoped Brookes could help him. He needed independent verification that the gangs were gathering under the umbrella of the radicals, led by Titoki, and the inspector needed proof they were holding prisoners in their mountain stronghold. Once he got evidence, he could safely launch his operation to capture them and take them before the courts. Testimony from their prisoners would ensure they were sent away for a long time and would also serve to discredit them in the eyes of their less radical followers. The mainstream of Maoridom was working for a consensus solution for the long-lasting grievances created by the Treaty. The radicals were prepared to settle for nothing less than driving the white man from their shores. They were not interested in compromise because, in their eyes, this showed weakness. They were trying to play on a warrior ancestry so they could grab the mana from their hereditary chiefs, the elders with tradition on their side. Blood would flow if they were not stopped, but it would be the blood of the innocent as well as the radicals. Gilliard couldn't let that happen.

Brookes flew to Napier on a scheduled commercial flight, then took a taxi to the local hotel, where he signed in for the night. He must not draw attention to his movements, but act like a person on a normal holiday. That night Inspector Gibbs came to see him in his room to brief him on the plans to get him into the area. Brookes was provided with an army Sten gun, as well as a sawedoff pump-action shotgun. These two weapons were not on the official police arms

register, so if they were lost during the operation they could not be linked back to either the police or Brookes. He was to go into the area as a hunter, so he had brought his own hunting rifles and ammunition, and had displayed these openly when he signed in. The ammunition for the Sten and the shotgun was surreptitiously added to his supplies. Brookes carried little in the way of rations or clothing. The pack must not appear too overloaded or it might attract attention. A ground sheet and some dehydrated rations were his only supplies other than his arsenal. A small but powerful radio was hidden in the bottom of the pack so he could keep in touch with the authorities. Brookes would fly out of Napier on a private helicopter available for charter and often used by hunters. The best hunting areas in the Ureweras were only accessible on foot and the journey could take several days. Modern recreational hunters didn't like to waste time walking to their targeted area. They preferred to be taken in by helicopter and picked up later when their holiday was over. It was also easier to bring trophies out by air. The pilot lifted off as the first glow from the sun tinted the eastern horizon. Sunrise came early to Napier because there was nothing between the horizon and the city except hundreds of kilometers of ocean stretching away to the next landfall, which was the South American coast. The helicopter headed due west, then swung north when it was out of visual contact with Napier. The pilot didn't advise his change of flight path. "I hope you know what you're up to," he muttered. "Inspector Gibbs told me where to drop you off, and you wouldn't catch me hunting in that area at the moment." "Why not?" Brookes asked, his curiosity aroused. "I did a deer recovery flight there about a month ago. Some bastard shot at us from the bush." "Trying to scare you off?" "Not bloody likely," the pilot muttered. "They were playing for keeps. I came back with several bullet holes in the fuselage, and they weren't your usual small-bore holes. These were much larger, at least .303mm or larger. There was a note waiting for me at the airport when I landed." "What did it say, or more to the point, what was the police reaction? Your report wasn't on the lists of incidents in this area that we ploughed through in Wellington." "Not surprising," the pilot muttered. "The message was simple: Talk and both the helicopter and my house would be torched. I had a strong feeling they weren't kidding."

"If they are who I think they are, then they definitely weren't kidding. They are nasty bastards, and they're playing for keeps." "Then the quicker I drop you off and get to hell out of the area, the safer I'll feel." "What if your aircraft is spotted?" "Won't do them any good," the pilot said with a grin. "When I found out where the inspector wanted you dropped off, I played safe and painted out my registration markings. It's a water-soluble paint; I'll drop down near a stream and wash it off before I land at Napier again." "Wise move. How much farther?" Brookes asked, looking down at the heavy green canopy sweeping past under the helicopter. "Not much further," the pilot said, pointing to a reflection glinting in the northeast. "That's Waikaremoana there in the distance." Brookes noticed a small clearing set high up on a bush-clad ridge. The helicopter headed toward it, then slowly dropped down through the tall trees that encircled the clearing. The sounds of the motor echoed harshly back from the dark brown and green walls, sending the birds screaming away from the strange and noisy intruder. The pilot let the machine gently touch the ground, then settled it firmly when he was satisfied he was on a stable base. He left the motor running while he helped Brookes drag his pack and weapons from the outside luggage racks. Brookes ducked his head under the rotor blades as he dragged the equipment away from the machine. He didn't want a haircut now; he would rather wait until he got back to Wellington. Brookes watched the helicopter rise through the break in the trees and disappear rapidly from view. He listened to the sound of the engine as it faded into the distance, then took the ammunition from his pack and loaded the magazines for the borrowed arsenal besides the three magazines for each of his own rifles. There were two fifty-shot magazines for the Sten while the shotgun held eight cartridges. The magazines fitted into a specially designed belt, the Sten hung from a loop at his waist. He swung the pack onto his back, then slung the shotgun and one rifle over his shoulder. He kept the other, an automatic Armalite, ready in his hand. Rambo, eat your heart out, he thought. If any casual trampers had been in the vicinity they would have wondered what the hell was going on. He looked like a oneman invasion force. He wasn't expecting any trouble yet, but it paid to be prepared. Titoki would be feeling secure in his hideout but, if he had heard the helicopter and

noticed where it put down, he might send scouts to check out the area. The pilot had pointed out the ridge from which he had been shot at. Brookes had taken a compass bearing just before the helicopter dropped below the tree line and landed in the clearing. The ridge was two valleys away -- two very steep and densely forested valleys. It was a hard slog, forcing his way through the dense undergrowth. He came across the odd animal tracks forced through the bush by pig and deer, but none of them were heading in the direction he wanted to go. It would be easier if he could slash his way through the low scrub, but the noise would scare the bird life and their panic flight would attract attention to his movement through the bush. He didn't know where the radicals were holed up; the last thing he needed was to alert them to his presence. The sharp spines of the supplejack vines tugged at his clothing as he pushed his way through; the bracken fern tugged at his feet trying to trip him. What he would give for a nice marked track clear of obstructions and a signpost or two would help, especially one that said Radicals Camp and an arrow pointing in the right direction. Progress was slow, but he steadily pushed ahead over the first ridge, down into the cool depths of the last valley, then up the steep slope toward his destination . The sun was well past the zenith when he reached the top of the ridge. He stopped dead in his tracks as he crested through a patch of shoulder-high fern. Ahead was a wellworn forestry track, stretching in both directions along the ridge. It was at least two meters wide and packed solid by the passage of many feet and vehicles over the years. Brookes mentally tossed a coin. Heads he would go up the hill, tails he would take the easier route and go down. He swore then started to climb the sharp incline toward the summit. At least he could use the radio when he got to the top and give the police his precise location. Just before the summit the track forked, one branch carrying on toward the peak, the other dropping sharply toward the valley floor on the other side. He carried on climbing. The summit was clear of the bush line, a high vantage point overlooking four valleys running down from the peak into the distant bush. A small lake glinted in the valley into which the track descended. He drew the map from his pocket. It didn't show any lake in the vicinity, only several small streams. Where had the lake come from? Could it be that one of the streams had been dammed? If so, why? More to the point, who would have built a dam so far in the bush?

He had to check out the valley. Something didn't smell right. Brookes gave the inspector the bearings of the valley and his own grid position, then headed back for the small track. It started to fall steeply toward the valley floor. The path soon broke clear of the low scrub and widened as it began to wind down the hillside. This was no natural trail formed by animals; this was definitely the work of man, and quite new. Trees had been felled to make passage easier and the scars on the stumps were still quite fresh. In the steeper areas steps had been cut to make walking easier. Darkness intensified as he slowly descended through the dense bush. Suddenly, he was out of the bush and he stopped in surprise. Through the trees, here cleaned of underbrush, he could see several small cooking fires scattered through a large clearing. The dark shadows of many small huts were just visible in the flickering light cast by the flames. The huts were built under the overhanging branches of large trees so they wouldn't be noticed from the air. A larger hut in the middle of the clearing was concealed under a canopy of growing vines. It, also, would be invisible from the air. Brookes moved off the track and hid his pack and surplus weapons within a tangle of bracken fern. The fronds sprang back to conceal the stash. He hoped he had not hidden the pack too well. If he couldn't find it when he came back, he would have a cold and hungry night! Slipping the Sten into his left hand, Brookes moved carefully toward the nearest hut. A high, and very well constructed, barbed wire fence stopped his progress. Carefully, he inched along the fence line, on the alert for booby traps that might have been left to deter unwanted visitors. Fortunately he found none, just the natural barrier of the stream when he reached the water's edge. Brookes heard muted voices approaching on the camp side of the wire and faded into the shadows. There was the guttural bark of harsh commands and a whimper followed by the sound of blows striking naked flesh. He watched in frustration and anger as a small group of white women came into view, driven forward by three men wearing jackets with patches from two different gangs, one from Auckland and the other from Christchurch. The women were dressed in rags and carried flax baskets of dishes and cooking pots. They knelt on their knees at the edge of the stream and began to scrub the pots. The men leaned against the nearest trees and watched them, calling out coarse commands and comments intended to humiliate their prisoners.

The men were heavily armed with automatic weapons and laden with ammunition belts. Even this far in the security of the bush they carried their new symbols of power, the white man's weapons. Brookes shrank deeper into the shadows. If this was an example of their firepower, his solitary Sten would be as useful as a peashooter against a Panza tank. He must bide his time, and he must get news back to Gilliard that he had seen new proof that the gangs were working together under Titoki's banner. When the women were taken back to their huts, Brookes eased himself out of his hiding place and climbed quickly and silently back toward the clearing at the top of the hill, retrieving his pack on the way. The moon appeared over the horizon as his call reached Inspector Gibbs. Brookes' information was greeted with incredulity and he was patched straight through to Wellington where Gilliard had been waiting impatiently for the call, trying to hide his concern that something might have gone wrong. "Any luck?" he asked. "Jackpot, Jim. I haven't seen Titoki himself, but this is definitely the gang fortress." He gave the inspector a quick account of all he had seen. A note of tension strained Brookes' voice by the time he finished the report. "Are you certain the men you saw were wearing two different gang patches?" Gilliard asked. "No doubt about it, Jim," Brookes assured him. "They were different gangs, and each had their area stenciled under their logo..." "But if the light was bad, could you have been mistaken?" "Not a hope. The insignia stood out clearly." "Then we're in big trouble, and this could be too big for the police to handle on our own," Gilliard said, his concern carrying to Brookes over the airwaves. "I agree, Jim. I've seen what the Armed Offenders Squad has at their disposal, and they would be as useful as popguns. I saw automatic weapons, but I bet they've got heavier weapons stashed away somewhere in the compound." "No doubt about it," Gilliard agreed. "We know they've established links with

Libya, China and Iraq, but we don't know if they've received weapons from those sources. If they can bring in drugs, weapons wouldn't be too difficult. Even if I brought all the armed offenders squads to Napier, we could still be at a disadvantage..." "And that would take time, Jim, as well as attract media attention. I bet Titoki has a direct link to media sources to keep him abreast of what's happening outside the Ureweras." "Then I have a major problem," Gilliard muttered. "Sounds like a job for the army, Jim," Brookes muttered, just above a whisper in case his voice carried and startled the birds roosting in the trees just below. If they took flight at this hour of the evening, it would surely attract attention he could do without. "Keep out of sight and call me again tomorrow," the inspector told him. "I'll talk with the commander of the Army's Special Air Service commandos and see what they come up with. I doubt if we'll be able to get them into the area until late tomorrow, maybe by dusk if we're lucky." "Right, Jim. I'll go to ground in the next valley over from the camp." "And don't get caught." "Don't intend to, Jim. I don't think Titoki would be happy to see me." "Don't know about that," the inspector muttered. "I think he would give you a very warm welcome." "Yeah, a bucket full of lead shot tossed in my direction," Brookes added before he switched off his radio.

CHAPTER 14: A FORTRESS FALLS Brookes was sick and tired of cold dehydrated food, but he dared not risk lighting a fire. A spiraling column of smoke would alert the gang to his presence. Fortunately it hadn't rained since his arrival so he was still dry. He found a pile of boulders near the top of the ridge to provide shelter from the breeze that had sprung up. They were set well back from the track, partly hidden behind a dense patch of bracken fern. He cut some of the younger shoots of the fern and filled a small indentation between the rocks to make a reasonably comfortable bed and used the lightweight ground sheet from his pack to cover both himself and his equipment. It would keep him relatively warm during the

night. He would need to grab whatever rest he could. He had no idea what the next day would bring. He lay back, making plans. If he was able to create a diversion when the SAS were ready to strike, it could throw the radicals off balance and reduce the number of potential casualties. If there were a straight shootout, the SAS would be at a disadvantage. The gang would be shooting from inside the compound, protected by the huts and would no doubt use their prisoners as a shield. Brookes was sorry the prisoners were still inside the complex, and would no doubt still be there during the attack. But he could not risk trying to rescue them. Titoki would know they had been discovered and would either dig in for a siege or simply fade into the bush and move to another location. They might also decide to use the prisoners as hostages. No, he must not let his presence be known. If Titoki were prepared for the attack, it would increase the level of casualties and place the young women at even greater risk. There was also the chance that, if the radicals realized they were loosing the fight, they could turn their weapons on their prisoners as a final act of defiance. It was a difficult and delicate situation, one that could lead to disaster if mishandled. He was glad the decision didn't rest in his hands. Somebody else could give the commands and carry the can if they failed. He would try to follow them. The next day remained clear. It was frustrating, hiding out in an isolated valley, not knowing what was happening at the fortress or back in Wellington. All he could do was laze around, catnapping and worrying about the next few hours. He contacted Inspector Gibbs late in the afternoon to confirm their plans for that night. Inspector Gilliard had moved north to be nearer the action. The attack had been delayed. The SAS knew the area from previous exercises. They would move in during the night and launch the rescue operation as the first rays of the sun hit the complex. The gang would still be drowsy; they wouldn't be expecting an attack so deep in the bush. "Try and create some sort of diversion, if you can, Al," Gilliard told him. "The SAS will be crossing the stream by kayaks because they say that the last time they were there they found most of the streams were too deep to wade across. If you could cause some sort of commotion at the fence farthest from the stream, they might make it to the shore without being noticed. They will have covering fire from their side, but they don't want to use it if they can avoid it. It would put the prisoners at too great a risk." "I'll see what I can do," Brookes promised. "Oh. Yes," Gilliard said, as if suddenly remembering something. "No heroics. We

want you and the prisoners to get out of this alive." Brookes smiled to himself as he slipped through the trees back toward the complex. Heroics were not his game. He was no James Bond, but neither was he prepared to sit around and let his country be subverted by misguided radicals interested only in a future cast according to their ideals. He believed in a society with equality between the many races that had made New Zealand the place it was today. He was prepared to stand up and be counted if trouble started, but it would be better if that trouble could be nipped in the bud. Fewer innocent people would suffer if the troublemakers were stopped in their tracks -- permanently! It was dark by the time he reached the fence. The moon was hidden by a bank of dark clouds that had built up during the day by the strong southerly wind that had grown into a gale. The flickering light from the fires cast a glow over the faces of the men gathered in the clearing. There was a more somber note this night, tension that even he could feel on the other side of the fence. The meal was finished in silence. The prisoners were driven quickly to clean the dishes, then herded into a small hut set well away from the others. One of the men drew a heavy bolt across the door. A single armed guard remained outside, but he seemed to be more interested in what was happening at the main fire. A much larger central fire blazed right in the middle of the clearing opposite the front entrance to the main building. A lone figure stepped from the hut. _Wiremu Titoki._ Again he was dressed as a Maori warrior. He lifted his arms. A low chant started, spreading quickly around the assembly, increasing in volume as more voices took it up. Titoki dropped his hands; the chant stopped instantly. The men watched Titoki in silent anticipation. Brookes sensed that something special was to happen tonight, but what? Titoki raised his hand, pointing toward the large hut. Three figures materialized from the shadows -- two men dragging another slight figure between them. They stepped into the firelight. The men held a young, slightly built pale-skinned

Maori youth between them. He was shivering with fear and showed signs of a recent savage beating. One eye was swollen shut, his lips puffed and bloody. Blood stains caked his face, some not yet dry and reflecting the flickering flames from the fires. His shirt was badly ripped. Brookes could see signs of bruising. _Who was he, and why had the gang brought him here?_ Titoki looked at him, spat in his face, then turned to the encircling gang members. "Maciu Jones is a traitor to our cause," he thundered. "He was seen in the company of a policeman." "He is my brother," Maciu gasped through his pain. "Silence, dog," Titoki snarled, burying his fist in the youth's stomach. "When you join our cause, you do not have anything to do with the pigs." "He is my brother. It was my mother's tangi," Maciu whimpered. "He does not know I follow our cause." "He is a lackey of the pakeha oppressors; he is not tangata whenua." A growl of anger rose from the assembled gang members. They followed the truth as told by Titoki. What he said was gospel, not to be doubted. If he said Maciu was a traitor, then Maciu was a traitor. They had been told not to like traitors. They had been told that all traitors deserved to die. Maciu was a traitor therefore he must die. They had also been told to respect the customs of their ancestors. They had been told to observe the will of the Gods. Custom said that children had to attend the tangi of their deceased relatives. They had been told to honor their mothers and fathers according to the will of their ancestors, but Titoki said Maciu was a traitor, even when attending his mother's funeral. Therefore he was a traitor. He must die. "Kill," they muttered. "Kill." Slowly the chant became louder and more intense, as they were carried along by the growing tide of emotion, feeding on each other's hate until they became automatons echoing the will of Titoki. Brookes saw a smile of triumph pass over Titoki's face. The men were totally in his power; they would follow his commands even to their death. His test of their loyalty had worked better than anticipated. Too bad about the youth, he was an expendable pawn in the coming battle for control and power. Titoki turned to face the youth. "Your fellow warriors have spoken. You shall die."

"But it was my mother's tangi. He was my brother," the youth wailed, his face contorted with fear. "You shall pay for your treachery. Prepare him." The youth was dragged to a large log set near the fire. He was stretched out on his back, then held helplessly over the log with his neck resting on the work surface. Titoki drew a razor-sharp machete from the shadows near the log. He swung it high over his head, then down towards his target. The flames reflected the course of its flight as it flew down towards the log. It thudded against the heavy wood, severing Maciu's neck on its way through. His scream of despair ended in a choking gurgle. The head rolled free, staring at its accusers through sightless eyes. Titoki reached down and raised the head by the hair, holding it high above his own head, the blood dripping down his arm. "The traitor is dead. Long live the cause." The group echoed his words, repeating them over and over in growing frenzy until he held up his hands for silence. "The flesh of the traitor shall add to our strength," he thundered. "Let the old ways return to strengthen us in our battles ahead. Prepare the long pig to nourish those who prepare to battle to regain our rightful heritage." Maciu was lashed to a long pole and the members of the gang took turns rotating the body over the open flames. The sickly sweet smell of burning human flesh wafted towards Brookes. He retched silently. Titoki must die. The feasting on the dead man's body continued far into the night. The old ways blended with the new as the human flesh was washed down by many bottles of pakeha beer. The gang was selective. They did not wish to be rid of the ways of the white man, just the white man! One by one the men dropped to the ground as the effect of the alcohol took hold. Soon no one was left standing, not even Titoki. Brookes was tempted to slip through the complex and bury a knife deep into his evil heart. But the man lay helpless; to kill him under these circumstances would be no less than murder. Brookes fumed with frustration. If he killed a mad dog, he would be greeted as a hero, yet if he put down Titoki, who was no better than the most vicious of dogs, he would be treated like a murderer.

He gave the men thirty minutes to sink deeper into their drunken stupor, then slid around the edge of the fence where it joined the stream. The complex lay deserted; even the guard was asleep. Asleep, but not drunk. It would be too dangerous to try and get the women out. That would have to wait until after the SAS raid. Brookes had noticed the guards enter a small hut near the main building. They had gone in with their weapons but come out empty-handed. It must be the armory. Maybe there was something in there that he could use to create the sort of diversion Gilliard wanted. The hut was unlocked, the door held closed by a single bolt. Brookes gently eased open the bolt, centimeter by centimeter. It stuck momentarily, but moved again with a bit of careful wriggling. The gang was indeed well armed, better than many sections of the New Zealand Defence Forces. Racks of automatic rifles lined one wall with boxes of ammunition under the racks. Another wall had at least two dozen heavy gauge rocket launchers, as well as several boxes of rockets. There were also boxes of grenades, plastic explosives and detonators. If they were able to reach the hut before the SAS reached the shore, the commandos would be blasted from the water. Brookes' eyes settled on the rocket launchers. An evil smile spread across his face. Of course. He had the ideal diversion, one that could also be a wake-up call for Titoki. He took a launcher from the rack, then collected three of the rockets and stepped out of the hut. Quietly he closed the door behind him, slipping the bolt home. He skirted around the kitchen. It was between the armory and the marae, avoiding the large fuel oil tank propped against the side wall. Going that way was longer but it reduced his chance of waking the guard asleep outside the prisoner's hut. Holding the rockets and launcher above his head to keep them dry, he slipped around the edge of the fence and up the hill 100 meters to a clump of low scrub overlooking the complex. He set the rocket launcher in position, then carefully aimed at the armory. Brookes grinned. This diversion should be interesting. He looked at the illuminated dial on his watch. Almost time for the SAS to start their crossing. He stared across the water. Was that shadows moving through the mists? Pink cloud-fingers streaked the eastern sky. Brookes checked the rocket launcher to make sure it hadn't moved off its target. The

sight was still centered on the armory. He waited until he saw shadowy shapes floating on the stream, then pressed the trigger. With a whoosh, the rocket shot up, the trail of fire gleaming in the dim light, but there was no one awake to see from which direction it had come. The armory disappeared in a cloud of smoke and flame, a giant fireball rising from the site as the ammunition exploded under the impact of the rocket. The explosion sent startled birds screaming into the morning sky, adding to the confusion. Brookes ducked behind a dead tree as the gang rushed from their huts, shooting indiscriminately into the surrounding bush. They didn't think to look across the water where the dark shadowy shapes of the kayaks were nearly ashore. The fire died down, and with it, the firing of the gang. They milled around the large hut where Titoki had appeared, trying to calm them and get them organized. Brookes changed the aim of the launcher and sent another rocket, this time toward the kitchen. If he hit the oil storage tank, he should be able to get another good explosion. He was on target. The kitchen went up with a roar as the fuel tank ignited, spewing oil and flames over the tinder-dry meeting house and surrounding trees. Through the flames, Brookes saw Titoki trying desperately to rally his forces. He had finally seen the approaching SAS. As he raised his arm to point, Brookes felled him with a shot from the Armalite. He didn't know where he hit him. He didn't care, just as long as Titoki was neutralized. The demoralized and leaderless gang members dropped their weapons when they saw the commandos. Without the mana of Titoki, they were nothing. Titoki struggled but was soon handcuffed to a stretcher. Unfortunately he would live, Brookes mused as he looked down at him. Titoki glared back. "I will not forget your face, pakeha dog," he snarled, trying to spit at Brookes but unable to move because of the restraints. "You have won this time, but I will win when we meet again." "Don't you believe it," Brookes snapped. "This time you are finished." "That is what you thought at Ngaruawhaia, and you were wrong. You will not stop the tide that is growing in the forests. Nothing will stand in the way of the surge for honor and justice that will drive the pakeha back into the sea. The pakeha prisons will

not hold me. I will return and you will pay the price for standing in the way of our rightful claims. Utu will be mine. Death will be your reward." With the sun came the Army helicopters. One by one they landed in the clearing to ferry out the gang members and the SAS. The first two machines carried a contingent of police, including both Inspectors Gilliard and Gibbs. "You're a destructive old bastard, aren't you, Al," Gilliard said with a smile as he surveyed the devastation. "You said he would create a diversion, Inspector," Captain Thorburn said. "You didn't tell me he would wreck half the compound when he did. What exactly did you hit with the first shot, and what the hell were you firing?" "Would you settle for a Russian rocket launcher, which I believe was smuggled in from Libya," Brookes said with a grin. "I aimed for their armory. Don't know exactly what I hit, but I had a great choice. It was loaded with automatic rifles, more rocket launchers, grenades, plastic explosive, and a few other goodies, which I didn't get a chance to examine. I figured, with that amount of fire power, I had to remove it from the equation in case the gang was able to reach it before you reached them." "Thank Christ for that. We would have been sitting ducks against automatic weapons from shore. We didn't realize they would be so well armed." "Neither did we," Gilliard told him. "I suppose we should have expected Titoki would not have stood still since his defeat at Ngaruawahia. We had assumed he was dead. Once we suspected he was still alive, we should have realized he would have been busy rearming. What was your second target? We heard two explosions from over the hill." "Their fuel supplies," Brookes muttered. "It was almost as spectacular as the first blast. I aimed for the cookhouse and destroyed half the main building." A search of the complex showed the gang had been established in their fortress for many months, even before the SAS attack at Ngaruawahia. It was well equipped, although without a complex underground network of tunnels. It was an advance control base and training camp. The meeting house contained many freshly smoked human heads. They were mostly white, but there were some Maori heads among them. Titoki had kept meticulous records of all the prisoners, and full details of their fate. Inspector Gilliard would be able to identify the owners of the heads and set their families minds at rest. He would probably arrange for the heads to be buried or cremated privately. It would be hard enough having to confirm the deaths, but to have to tell the

relatives they could return only the heads to them for burial might be too great a shock. It would be an even greater shock to have to tell them that the missing bodies would never be found because they had been eaten. Such was the accuracy of the records that even this grizzly fact was recorded against each victim's details. The six female prisoners in the complex were all missing tourists or hitchhikers. The one held the longest had been at the complex for more than two years. It would take many hours of counseling to return them to full mental health. Gilliard doubted that some of them would ever cope with their ordeal, no matter how much counseling they received. Among the records was written documentation of the establishment of a national drug network based on gangs. The pushers were not gang members, but the distribution network was controlled and paid by the radicals. They arranged for supplies from overseas, collected them at the drop rendezvous and the gang transported the drugs around the country to local distributors who supplied the pushers. The links between the pushers and the gangs were deliberately kept tenuous in case of any breakdown in the chain. Titoki had been determined to keep the gangs apparently clean when it came to drug pushing. He wanted nothing to distract them from their main target: The Removal of the Pakeha! While they were searching Titoki's hut they were interrupted by a radio report. The battery-powered radio was sitting openly on Titoki's desk. The brief message came from Auckland, confirming a weapons supply drop off the coast of Northland in two days. The coordinates were given. Gilliard wrote them down. He moved to a large map of New Zealand tacked to the wall of the hut. A check of the coordinates put the drop out to sea, less than three kilometers on the seaward side of a small strip of land called Stephenson Island. It was well known to Brookes -- just off the bay from his beach cottage. The drop would be at night.

CHAPTER 15: A SHIP IS FOUND Inspector Gilliard contacted the New Zealand navy after an air force Orion reconnaissance aircraft reported a solitary freighter in the search area. Several fishing boats were operating off the north coast, but they were so far away from Stephenson Island they would have been incapable of reaching the area in time for the advertised drop. A check of their registration numbers showed they had been operating in New

Zealand waters for several months and had been in port at both Wellington and Auckland. Rummage squads had checked them at both ports. The most likely target was the freighter. It was a Panamanian registered vessel, but a check showed it had recently traveled through the Mediterranean and North African ports before sailing south for Australia and New Zealand. Pre-entry documentation claimed it was carrying a large consignment of farm machinery from the Eastern European block for a newly established importer in Hamilton. Gilliard spoke with the Comptroller of Customs in Auckland, giving him a quick rundown of events, then asked for his help. "Where is the freighter now?" Jack Smetson asked, looking at a map on his wall. "About here," Flight Lieutenant Manu Lewis said, pointing to a position just northwest of North Cape. He was from the Maritime Reconnaissance Squadron at Whenuapai and had been on the flight that searched for likely vessels in the area. Inspector Gilliard arranged with the Customs Department for the air force pilot to attend the meeting, as well as a navy officer from the Auckland naval base. "Not that far from the drop zone," Smetson muttered. "We must intercept it at sea and start the rummage before it reaches port. If we leave it until it docks in Auckland we could be far too late to stop any of the smuggled goods from reaching shore. Where's the nearest navy vessel?" "There's a frigate on the way back from Singapore. At full steam it could reach North Cape in time to intercept the freighter well north of the drop zone," Commander Pyke told him. "Would it be possible to get a rummage squad on board the frigate?" "Sure. We could arrange for the team to be taken out by helicopter. How soon can they be ready?" "I'll have them at the Davenport naval base within two hours." "The aircraft will be ready to leave when they get there. How many in the team?" Smetson looked across at Gilliard. "How many police?"

"Three," Gilliard told him. "Norris, Brookes and myself." "Then that makes nine," Smetson told the commander. "In that case I'll arrange for an air force helicopter," Pyke said thoughtfully. "That way we can get everybody out to the ship on the same flight."

Time dragged as they waited for the assembly of the rummage squad. "How much longer, Jim?" Brookes asked as he paced around the staff cafeteria at the police station like a cat on a hot tin roof. "Smetson will call us when he has the team together," Gilliard said with a grin. "Takes time, you know. They can't just drop everything to go for a flight to North Cape." "But..." "Time isn't that important. We've got hours before the frigate cuts across the freighter. As long as we get on board out of sight of the freighter, there'll be no problem. Remember, we know about them, but they don't know about us." Brookes grunted, grabbed his tenth cup of coffee and settled down in the chair beside the inspector. No sooner had he settled comfortably than the intercom spluttered into life and called them to the front entrance. Their car was waiting to take them to naval base. "Bloody typical timing," Brookes grumbled as he gulped down the last of his coffee. "Can't please some people, can you," Norris said. "One moment he's chomping at the bit, now he complaining because he hasn't got time to finish his coffee." Brookes ignored the jibe and followed the two police officers to the entrance. He climbed into the back seat with Gilliard, while Norris sat next to the driver. "Christ, progress," he muttered as they slowed down at the gate to the naval base to be checked by the Military Policeman on guard duty. "Actually using MP's to guard the base now." Gilliard looked at him in surprise.

"The last time I visited a navy establishment, the gates were guarded by unarmed security guards who were only just under retiring age. They would have been useless if there was any real emergency." The MP signed them in, then pointed down the road that lead to the helipad. "The Iroquois is waiting," he told the inspector. "And the customs men?" Gilliard asked. "Already here." The air force Iroquois was waiting, rotor blades idling. As soon as the police and customs men were aboard, the helicopter lifted off and headed north. Instead of heading out to the sea to the northeast, the helicopter flew along the west coast. "Where are we going?" Brookes asked curiously. "Going to Kaitaia first," the pilot told him. "We'll refuel there, then there'll be no chance of running short on the way back. Better to play safe than have to ditch this old bird somewhere at sea. We'll rendezvous with the frigate near North Cape, which gives the navy time to intercept the freighter just inside New Zealand waters and put the customs party on board, out of sight of land." The frigate, the HMNZS Otago, hove to while the helicopter landed and disgorged its passengers. As soon as the last feet hit the deck and cleared the rotor blades, the pilot lifted off and headed back to land. The captain barked a short sharp command into the intercom and Brookes felt the surge of power as the ship increased momentum. A roar of aircraft engines and an Orion maritime aircraft thundered overhead just above mast height, heading toward the intercept zone. Within a few minutes it reported that the freighter was maintaining course and should cross the path of the frigate just after sunrise. They would be approaching the freighter from the east so they would be difficult to see from the deck of the slower ship. The element of surprise would be on their side. The visitors were hustled below deck and into the wardroom. Hot drinks were already on the counter waiting for them. Mattresses were scattered around the floor. The captain apologized for the primitive conditions, but the Otago was fully manned on this trip so he hadn't been able to provide his visitors with bunks.

"Hell, it's only for one night," Gilliard told him, waving aside his apologies. "Anyhow, we didn't exactly give you a hell of a lot of warning. Come to think of it, we didn't have a lot of warning ourselves." "What's this all about?" the captain asked curiously. "Not often we get involved in something that requires the air force, navy, police and customs." The weather-beaten lines of his face hardened as Inspector Gilliard told him what had been happening, and why they wanted to intercept the freighter. He had several Maori crewmembers on his ship. They were excellent seamen and loyal crew; if the gangs stirred up too much trouble there could be a white backlash and innocent people such as his crew would be the victims. "Will the freighter crew be armed?" he asked. "I hope not," Inspector Gilliard muttered, a worried look crossing his face. He hadn't thought about weapons in his rush to get after the freighter. "They're playing for high stakes and we believe they could be transporting heavy weapons, maybe even explosives. I don't know." "Then we'll go in armed," the captain said, a serious set to his jaw. "Better a show of force, than be caught unprepared." Just after 4:00 a.m. the freighter appeared as a blip on the frigate's radar. The captain was called from his cabin. He studied the blips for a few sweeps of the radar, then adjusted his course and speed. They should have visual contact by 5:00 a.m. and be alongside in another hour after that. The police joined the captain on the bridge while the customs team got into their overalls and prepared for a long search. All searches were laborious affairs, smugglers being adept at finding hiding places where you would never expect to find space. A call from the lookout alerted the captain to the first visual sighting. The freighter was just a hazy silhouette on the far horizon, smoke curling lazily from the single smokestack. The frigate swiftly closed on the unsuspecting ship. A lookout kept watch ahead and toward the shore. It wasn't until the frigate nudged the side of his ship that he turned to look out to sea -- and down the barrel of an automatic rifle held in the steady hands of a uniformed sailor.

CHAPTER 16: ... AND BOARDED The seaman froze, unable to call out a warning. The navy swarmed on board, taking up vantage points along the side of the vessel. Two navy ratings forced their way into the deserted communications room. They disconnected the radio, isolating the ship from contact with the outside world until Customs had completed their search. Inspector Gilliard told the seaman to take him to the captain's cabin. The captain pushed up on to his elbow when the door burst open and he was confronted by the uniformed figure of the inspector. The skipper was a bloated and unkempt Englishman. His eyes opened wide in surprise. He tried to look innocent, but Gilliard saw panic cross his face when the door opened. "What are you doing on my ship?" he blustered. "I demand that you leave immediately. This ship is foreign soil. You have no right to be here." "This ship is in New Zealand territorial waters and, under the protocols of international law, we have every right to search her for contraband," Gilliard told him, his voice flat and unemotional. "Do you have anything to declare?" "I have nothing to declare to the police; customs knows what I am carrying, they have my cargo manifest." "That is why they are here with me," Gilliard told him. "They have a rummage squad on this vessel. They have already started to search. Are you sure you have nothing to declare?" "You have no right to be..." "Why are you so worried, do you have something to hide?" Brookes asked as he entered the cabin. "There is nothing illegal on this vessel," the captain protested. "My cargo is according to my manifest. Is has not been touched since it left Suez." "Then why are you so worried? If there is nothing illegal on board, then the customs officers won't find anything illegal, will they? Unless, of course, your goods are not according to your manifest." "I do not know what is in the crates of machinery," the captain protested. "I only know what is on the manifest."

"Then maybe we should look at them together," Brookes suggested. Gilliard shot Brookes a questioning look. _What was he aiming at? Why worry about a consignment of machinery? They were after weapons._ "Got a moment, Jim," Brookes said softly, walking towards the cabin door. The inspector followed him outside. "The captain's shit scared, Jim," he murmured. "Something smells." "If there is anything to find, the rummage squad will find it." "I don't think they'll find anything hidden around the vessel, Jim. The type of weapons they've been bringing in would take a lot of space." "So?" "I bet there are more crates in the hold than are on the manifest. I bet that some of the crates listed as part of the machinery consignment are false and contain weapons. If the drop is to be at sea, then it would follow that the stuff to be dropped over the side would be stored somewhere easily accessible but not too obvious in case it was checked out at some previous port." "But the crates would be too big to be dragged aboard a launch," Gilliard objected. "Unless the weapons were stored in smaller floating crates within the larger container. That way they would be easy to get out of the hold and toss over the side. They would also be small enough to haul aboard the launch." "Worth a try; while the customs boys are doing their thing, we can check the hold." While Brookes levered the fronts off the most accessible containers, Gilliard and Norris carefully checked the contents hiding behind the layers of wood wool packing. Norris gave an excited yell. He had found a crate with a number of smaller boxes inside, yet the outside documentation claimed the content was a mechanical seed sower. Brookes dragged one of the boxes from the crate and levered it open. Stacked neatly inside were layers of nice new automatic rifles, each one wrapped carefully within layers of heavily greased paper. The box was lined with a thick layer of flotation material. When thrown overboard it would bob to the surface, waiting to be picked up by the new owners. The box contained twelve rifles, together with two magazines for each weapon.

Quickly they dragged out the other boxes and checked their contents. Ammunition and grenades were added to the pile of rifles and grenade launchers. Automatic machine pistols and six mortar launchers, together with their consumables were added to the pile. Brookes went on deck and asked the commander of the Otago to join them in the hold. His eyes opened wide in disbelief as he stared at the arsenal lying on the floor. "Bloody hell," he muttered. "You could start a small, no, make that big war with that lot." "That was their intention," Gilliard told him. "We have already confiscated and destroyed weapons and ammunition more than twice this amount, and we suspect there could be more stashed around the country which we still have to find. We are just lucky this lot didn't reach its destination." "What do you intend to do with it?" "Take it back to port as evidence, but not on the freighter. Could you get your men to transfer it to the Otago?" "Willingly." "Then can I ask one more favor of you?" the inspector murmured. "Legal or illegal," the commander asked with a smile. "Legal, of course," Brookes said with a laugh. "Jim would never do anything outside the law..." "On his own," Norris added. "Shut your cake hole," Gilliard grinned. "This time it's strictly legal, almost! I would like to have the crew from the freighter taken over to the Otago and held in the brig until we get to port. Then I would like to borrow enough sailors to keep this ship mobile, with a few spare men. I want to lay a trap for the launch that will be waiting to collect the weapons." "Better take the rummage team with you as well -- just in case of trouble," Brookes suggested. "Trouble." The commander said. "What trouble?"

"I'm going to fill the empty containers with ballast, then toss them overboard when the launch approaches," the inspector told him with a cheerful grin. "They will not be very happy when they unpack the boxes and find no weapons. They could try and retaliate -- I hope! I want to catch them in the act." Commander Pyke ordered the removal of the weapons and ammunition to the frigate, then watched as the crewmen were ferried across to the Otago. Whether they were reunited with their vessel or transferred to Mount Eden prison would depend on the outcome of legal maneuvers to follow. The sailors who were to become the replacement crew swapped clothes with the prisoners, then took their places on deck. They were instructed to keep their faces hidden until the last moment, in case the people on the launch knew the freighter was crewed by Asians. To reduce the risk of the trap being spotted before it was sprung, a couple of the Otago crew with Chinese ancestors, were placed in positions to be the first people the launch crew would see. The boxes filled with ballast were stacked at the rear of the ship, ready to be dropped into the sea as they passed behind Stephenson Island. The crates were carefully filled to exactly match the weight of the previous contents. Any major variation would affect the way they floated in the water. The outlines of the hills at Kauri Point showed hazily on the horizon. The naval officer sailing the freighter called out a course change when False Head hove into view. The large rock, which resembled a human head when seen from certain angles, marked the entrance to Whangaroa harbor. Between the vessel and the rocky headland was a long, low island. It was barren and, from seaward gave the impression of being deserted. Stephenson Island. Brookes had fished around its shores on many occasions but had never seen it from so far out to sea. If he hadn't known it was an island, he would have thought it was only an extension of the headland. It wasn't surprising that so many unsuspecting small vessels had run aground on its inhospitable shores. The freighter was now well above the coastal shelf that stretched out from the shore, but the water was still around fifty to a hundred fathoms -- deep enough for safe navigation. About a kilometer from the jagged rocks the skipper called out another course change. The vessel swung slowly southeast to run parallel to the coast. This would be a safe course for the next ten kilometers, then they would have to either veer out to sea again or thread a dangerous passage through the Cavalli Islands. Brookes saw a fast-moving white shape against the brown of the rocky shoreline. He lifted his binoculars, twiddling with the focusing knob. The shimmering image solidified, coming sharply into view -- a sleek white launch. Brookes pointed it out to

the naval officer on watch. The officer trained his glasses on it. "About twenty meters long, I guess. Looks like an inboard motor, probably petrol by the combination of speed and lack of black smoke from the exhaust. Must be doing at least twenty knots. Deep V hull by the way it's cutting through the waves. Should be alongside in twenty minutes, if that's the launch that's coming out to rendezvous with us." Brookes swung his binoculars in a wide arc, searching the shoreline for any other craft. "Must be," he muttered. "Not another vessel in sight." "That's an ocean-going launch," Lieutenant Matake muttered. "It could be from as far south as Auckland, or even farther." "Damn," Brookes swore. "I'd hoped it would be a local vessel, so we could get the police to meet it and grab the gun-runners red-handed." The roar of the launch's powerful motors reached the freighter. It soon drew alongside, cutting the motors back to idle in the freighter's bow wave. A Maori man was at the helm, others lined the rails. They waved and signaled for the boxes to be thrown over the side. Matake called out to the freighter's crew. They lifted the boxes, balanced them on the rail, then shoved them over the side. The launch slowed as each box was hauled on board. It fell rapidly behind the freighter while it darted around collecting the bobbing boxes. The freighter swung out to sea to avoid the islands appearing on the horizon ahead of them. Faint screams of anger echoed over the waves, followed by the roar of the launch motors thrusting into full power. Brookes glanced behind them, his glasses trained on the launch. Plumes of spray surged out from the stern as the vessel leaped forward through the choppy sea, aimed straight at the freighter. "I guess they opened one of the boxes," Brookes muttered. "They do appear to be a bit annoyed," Matake agreed. He turned around and ordered the navy marksmen back into position, weapons loaded and ready. He also sent a call to the Otago to report what was happening. He

wasn't sure what the people in the launch would try to do, but he had no intention of being caught unprepared. The launch raced past the freighter, then began to circle it in an ever-decreasing arc. As they came around for the third time, Brookes called a warning and the other men on the freighter's deck ducked for cover. A burst of automatic weapons fire churned up the water ahead of the freighter's bow. The men on the launch were armed, and with powerful automatic weapons. As the launch passed down the port side of the vessel, a burst of fire struck the superstructure just above the line of the rail. The launch pulled level with the bow again. There was a puff of smoke, followed by a whistling sound. With a burst of spray a grenade exploded as it touched the water just in front of the freighter's bow. "The next one will hit the bridge," a voice screamed from the launch. "Stop you engines or we'll sink you." Lieutenant Matake looked toward Inspector Gilliard for instructions. He nodded; the engines were cut while the navy marksmen hidden around the freighter/s decks readied for action. Inspector Gilliard and Brookes stepped into the shadows cast by the bridge, remaining out of sight of the men clambering over the side of the freighter. The boarders held automatic machine carbines, the stubby black barrels sweeping the decks in case of opposition. "Where the fuck's our guns, man?" the leader growled, glaring around him. "What guns?" Matake asked innocently. "The ones from the boxes, you bastard." "I don't know what you mean. I was told to drop those boxes over the side to you when we reached this area, and that is what I have done." "And I'll drop you over the side with a fucking anchor tied to your bloody balls if you don't give us the guns, man. There was only rocks and rubbish in the crates." "I don't know anything about..." "You had better remember fast, bastard, or you'll die now." He started to raise the barrel of his gun toward Matake's head, only scant inches

away. The finger, curled around the trigger, tightened as he prepared to carry out his threat. A single shot rang out. The man spun around, dropping his weapon and grasping his shoulder. Blood seeped through his fingers as Matake dived behind a bollard. The Maori on the deck, now alone, swung their weapons around, firing indiscriminately in search of targets they couldn't see. They fell, one by one, as the navy marksmen picked them off until only the leader remained on his feet, still bleeding heavily from his shattered shoulder. The marksmen stepped from view, weapons at the ready. Gilliard heard the launch roar as the steersman gunned the motor. He ran to the side of the freighter, glaring down at the launch as it pulled away, gaining speed. "Stop that launch," Matake snapped. A navy marksman steadied his rifle against the rail and took careful aim. The bullet struck the launch just below the waterline. A second and third shot also struck home. The vessel wouldn't get far before the leaks weighed it down and took it under! The marksman aimed again and sent a fourth shot on its way. The ensuing blast disintegrated the launch in an orange ball. The last shot must have fractured a fuel line, spewing fuel over the hot engine. Whatever the cause, the end effect was spectacular. There was nothing left to show where the launch had been except a few bits of wreckage, a burning oil slick -- and the dark shape of a man's body. Matake contacted the Otago. Commander Pyke gave him the coordinates where the two vessels would rendezvous to the east of the Cavalli Islands. Then the Otago would escort the freighter back to Auckland. Customs was waiting in force when the two ships tied up at the naval base wharf. The police were also there to take the freighter's crew, along with the men wounded during the attack mounted from the launch, into custody. The customs' search was thorough and rewarding. One by one they forced the crates open. Several more contained automatic weapons and ammunition, but not only for the radicals in New Zealand. Some were for onforwarding to Australia, others for various island nations in the South Pacific region. If the consignment had gotten through, the Pacific would have been heading for a heat wave not directly linked to the weather. They wouldn't have been able to blame La Nina or El Nino weather patterns, but maybe start thinking about El mafioso and terrorisimo, Brooks thought with a sigh of relief.

But it wasn't only weapons and ammunition that the rummage squads found. The machinery that filled the other crates was given a very detailed inspection. The machines were stripped down to their component parts, then each part was individually checked. Those that didn't feel quite right, either in weight, balance or shape, were Xrayed. Many that should have been hollow were found to contain small plastic bags filled with cocaine or heroin. Many of the ones that should have been solid had been drilled out, then the hollows also filled with drugs. The piles of drugs on the deck grew as the search continued. By nightfall the squad had already found almost a ton of cocaine and heroin. While not a record by world standards, it was certainly one of the largest hauls ever made in New Zealand, and the search was still underway! Inspector Gilliard looked across at Brookes as they reboarded the freighter after escorting the prisoners to Auckland Police headquarters. "Quite a haul, Al," he murmured. "Not a bad day's work." "I don't think the radicals will be very happy with us; we must have cost them a small fortune today," Brookes agreed, looking around. The piles of illicit contraband had grown so large the Auckland Armed Offenders Squad had been called in to provide additional security. "I wouldn't expect their suppliers will be any happier, unless they were paid prior to delivery!" "True, but it might make them take the New Zealand Police a bit more seriously. We don't have many hauls this size to boast about." "Do you think the radicals will retaliate?" Brookes asked. "It wouldn't surprise me if they tried, but that will depend on who their new leader is, and if he can bring the gangs together again." "Just as well Titoki is back in custody," Brookes muttered. "He's mad enough to try and take utu against the police, the navy and anybody else he thinks is associated with the raid." "I agree, he's certainly a great one for revenge. He thinks it gives him mana in the eyes of his followers. Must be one of the things that attract the gangs to him. He flouts authority, but with sufficient skill to keep out of direct trouble." "Except this time."

"And at Ngaruawahia," the inspector muttered. "That's two he owes you. Just keep praying that he's retained in custody when he appears before the magistrate." "Surely he won't be given bail?" "The police will be opposing it, but you never can tell with some of the pathetic magistrates we have around the place. Some of them are so shit scared of the power of the gangs and the civil liberties lobby that they will bend over backwards to appear fair to our _under privileged ethnic brothers._ They'll grant bail, even when it means letting killers and rapists out, at a direct risk to their accusers and the other innocent people who could get involved when the shit hits the fan." "What about our civil rights to be protected from the criminal's activities," Brookes asked, a bitter note creeping into his voice. "The rights of the majority seem to carry little weight these days," Gilliard murmured. "There seems to be a new catch phrase -- Minority Rules, OK! Mind you, if these words were ever to appear in the papers, I would deny them. It's a pain, but I have to follow the official line, even when it's a load of hogwash. I hate Political Correctness!"

CHAPTER 17: ESCAPE The interception of the freighter off New Zealand's north coast, and the inventory of its cargo made international news. The size of the drug haul on its own was significant, but when the type and numbers of weapons and ammunition were taken into account, it became clear to all that what had been intercepted was part of a conspiracy to destabilize the Pacific region by throwing it open to the ravages of revolution. The waves of antiAmerican feeling sweeping the region could now be seen in context. If the local island populations were encouraged to distrust the Americans, and their anti-government groups were then surreptitiously armed, the islands could be taken over before the West had time to react. It was a scenario that didn't please Brookes, but one that he wasn't totally surprised to find. At least Titoki was in police custody and the New Zealand end of the chain was in disarray. Hopefully the information that Inspector Gilliard found on the freighter would be passed on by the appropriate authorities to their contacts overseas to enable them to round up the dissidents at their end of the chain.

He looked out of his lounge window toward the gardens. He hoped that the governments acted soon, before their troublesome sons had time to go underground. They must act fast and with great firmness, no matter what the Civil Liberty groups in their countries claimed. It was easy to claim harassment of minorities but the rights of the majority to live the type of lives they wanted must be paramount at the end of the day. "What's the problem, dear?" Jan asked, when she wandered into the lounge and saw him looking blankly into space. "Titoki." "But he's in custody," Jan protested. "Jim said he would be put away for a long time." "If they can hold him long enough to get him to court." "Surely he's inside already?" "Not quite. I put a bullet in him at the marae. The authorities insisted he be sent for medical treatment until he was fit enough to be returned to prison." "In the prison hospital?" "No. Auckland Public." "The fools," Jan muttered. "That's an open invitation to his followers to try and spring him." "I know," Brookes agreed. "Jim tried to have him held and treated at the prison, but the magistrate insisted it was not appropriate for him to be treated as a common criminal until he had appeared in court for a preliminary hearing." "But he escaped from the police at Ngaruawahia," Jan protested. "Yes, but he hadn't been charged at that stage. As far as the moron magistrate was concerned he is not an escaped prisoner until after formal charges have been laid and he has been convicted." "Didn't the police have him in Wellington hospital at one stage not so many months ago?" "Yes, and they had the same problem. He hadn't been formally charged; they even

had him under police escort, but he managed to escape. Still, he hadn't been charged, so as far as our stupid magistrate is concerned that evidence can't be used against him. Innocent until proven guilty, and all that crap." "I hope they have a stronger guard on him this time," Jan murmured. "You and Jim wouldn't be on the top of his visiting list, unless it was to practice utu on either of you." "I bet utu is very high on his list; we would certainly be on that list, but so would a number of other people who have had a part in thwarting his plans. Utu would give him greater mana, especially if he was successful, and that would make it easier to keep his followers around him. He would boast that the white man's laws were futile against his just crusade to return this country to its rightful owners." Brookes drew Jan into his arms. "Just be careful," he whispered, holding her close. "I hate to think what he would do if he got his hands on either you or Jannine. He would see you both as surrogates on which to vent his hatred of me." Jan shivered. She let her imagination run over what he had told her about the events at the bush marae. It had been a sanitized version, but she could image the horrors inflicted on the young woman prisoners. They had two strikes against them, they were white, and they were women. She wouldn't like to fall into Titoki's hands. The police had better keep him well secured in Auckland hospital. They tried -- but not hard enough.

Charge Nurse Alison Trevor looked up at the red light flashing on the patient call-board set over her desk. There was an emergency call to Room 12, at the far end of the ward. She glanced at the names opposite the room numbers. Room 12 was where the police were guarding the Maori prisoner they had brought in from the south. She waved her hand to attract the attention of the young nurse walking along the corridor. "The bell for Room 12 is on," she said in a voice of authority. This was her first night on duty as Charge Nurse, the feeling of power new to her. "Go and see what's the matter." "But the police..."

"Don't argue with me, Nurse Matthews," she snapped. "This is my ward, I will decide what is done here, not the police. Go and see why that bell's ringing."

"Yes, Sister," the young nurse muttered, turning away. Silly cow. She'd only had her stripes less than a week and she was already throwing her weight around. Nurse Matthews hurried to Room 12 and silently opened the door. The patient appeared to be sleeping peacefully in his bed, but there was no sign of the policeman who was supposed to be guarding him. This was strange. Should she go back and tell the Charge Nurse? If she did, the stupid old bag would most probably blow her stack. No, she had better check the patient first. She stepped through the door. The world went black as she crumpled to the floor.

Charge Nurse Trevor looked up at the board. The light for Room 12 was still on. Had Matthews ignored her and done what the police had said -- no entry in any circumstance? Who were they to tell her what to do in her ward? She was the Charge Nurse, she would decide what she did and where she sent her staff, not some police inspector; he wasn't even from Auckland! If Matthews had followed his instructions, Trevor would have her job. Mathews was a good nurse, but slack when it came to following orders. Trevor's tutor had stressed that Charge Nurses must demand total obedience and instant response from their staff. If this nurse had disobeyed, she would be disciplined. She barged into Room 12, bristling with righteous anger and determination to exert her authority. Trevor deflated like a pricked balloon as she looked down the barrel of the revolver pointing at her head, the round black hole only centimeters from her eyes. A Maori, who looked like one of the cleaners, threw her roughly on the bed. Her hands were bound behind her back while her mouth was sealed with a wide band of sticking plaster. The young nurse lay on the floor next to the washbasin. She was similarly tied, unable to move. On the floor beside her lay the young policeman, except that he wasn't moving at all. He lay still, blood seeping from the wound at his right temple where he had been struck from behind. She wondered if he was alive.

The patient threw the sheets off and rose from the bed. He was already fully dressed, even to his shoes. There were two other Maori men in the room, both dressed in the green jackets of cleaners. They each had a twin-bag laundry trolley. The dirty linen had been tipped out and lay scattered over the floor. "We will take the nurses with us," Titoki said. "They could be useful if the police get too close." "What about the pig?" the larger of the two _orderlies_ asked. "Leave him. He is nearly dead. You forgot your strength, brother." They tossed a nurse into each of the trolleys, then put dirty linen over them. Titoki climbed into the spare bag on one of the trolleys. They threw the linen from his bead on top to hide him from view. Taking a quick look down the corridor, the orderlies pushed the trolleys out of the room and out of the back entrance to the ward. The lifts to the basement were just outside the door. They wheeled the trolleys into the lifts and pressed the button for the basement. Time was on their side. The change in shifts would not occur for another two hours. They would be well clear of the hospital before then. A dark panel van was parked in a poorly lighted area of the basement. The linen trolleys were pushed alongside, then the linen was tossed out and the two nurses forced into the back of the vehicle. "Keep your heads down," Titoki snarled as he crouched beside them in the dark interior. "Make a noise or try and attract attention and you die. I will never be captured again." The young nurse whimpered in fear. The Charge Nurse heard a dull thud and the whimpering stopped. "I said no noise, and I mean that." The van drove slowly up the ramp and passed through the hospital gates unnoticed, then turned into the heavy traffic heading toward Auckland City. The van rattled noisily through the dark back streets toward the suburb of Greenlane, then took the ramp on to the motorway and headed south. It sped up once it joined the flow of traffic driving away from the city. Once clear of the city lights, Titoki sat up and leaned against the side of the van, propping himself against the vehicle's motion by forcing his feet against the other side. The nurses, hands bound behind them,

were unable to adjust to the swaying motion, rolling from side to side at each change of direction. "There's beer in the box," the driver yelled over the noise of the motor. Titoki reached in and drew out three bottles. He handed two over the front seat, then put his between his teeth to force off the vacuum cap. He leaned his head back, letting the warm brownish liquid run down his throat. "This is good," he said, using his sleeve to wipe away what had spilled down his chin. "Stop at the next takeaways. I need kai. I wouldn't give the slush they give me in the hospital to my pigs. It is not fit for warriors." "They say that it's what is best for you." "Best to keep the fat from your bones, so that you can stay skinny like these wahines. They haven't got enough flesh between them to keep warm in the winter. They would die in the bush." "They are only soft pakeha, what more can you expect," the driver said with a grin. "What are you going to do with them?" "I cannot take them back to the lake, that marae is no more. We will have to keep moving until we set up another fortress. Stop beside the lake at Atiamuri. I will think about their fate while I rest." There was a small parking area just north of the Atiamuri hydroelectric lake. It was off the road, sheltered by low bushes. Behind it, along the lakeshore, stretched acres of pine forests. The van pulled into the parking area and doused its lights. The area was clear of any other vehicles and little chance interruption. It would be most unfortunate for anyone else to choose this spot to stop and rest. Titoki climbed from the van, stretching his legs. "Bring the women," he ordered, striding toward a narrow track that ran alongside the lake. He knew the area well from his youth. The nurses were slung over the shoulders of the two men, who then followed Titoki into the surrounding bush. The track wound along the side of the lake for several hundred meters, then opened into a clearing on a small headland that stretched into the weed-filled waters of Lake Atiamuri. The area had been landscaped into a picnic area, which was hardly ever used except at the height of the tourist season.

The women were tossed on the ground at Titoki's feet. Mathews lay there, shivering in apprehension, fear clearly visible in her eyes as she looked up at him towering menacingly above them. What was going to happen to them? Trevor wondered. If they were left here, they could die of hunger and exposure long before anybody found them. Would they be left alive? The policeman had been left to die, alone and badly injured in the ward. Would that also be their fate? They could identify their attackers. Not that it mattered, the police already knew who one of them was; they must know his identity, he had been their prisoner. "Let us see what reason there can be for not throwing the wahines into the lake," Titoki said, looking at the two men. "Untie them." The ropes were removed from their wrists and ankles. Slowly Trevor felt the circulation returning. "Stand," he ordered. They rose to their feet, unsteady and swaying in the bright moonlight. "Show me a reason why I shouldn't kill you now," Titoki addressed Mathews with an evil smile. She looked at him blankly. What did he mean, show him a reason why he shouldn't kill them? What could they do to show that? "They are very slow, even for pakeha," the driver said with a sneer. "What can we do to show you?" Matthews said with a sob. "Show us what you have to offer with your body, then show us what you can do with it. Hurry, I grow impatient." The young nurse looked across at her companion, recognition slowly dawning. "They want us to strip," she muttered in surprise. "And pleasure them," Trevor said, revulsion in her voice. "I'm damned if I'm going to invite them to rape me." "You will be damned if you do not, woman," Titoki roared in anger. "You will do what I say, then you might live if you are any good. Otherwise, you will be raped anyhow, then thrown to the fish with a rock tied around your neck. The choice is yours, the decision is mine."

Slowly the two nurses reached for the buttons on their uniforms. They reluctantly started to undo them, trying to extend the inevitable.

CHAPTER 18: A PRICE TO PAY Inspector Gilliard was furious. He had warned the Auckland police about Titoki. He had stressed that their prisoner was extremely dangerous and an attempt would be made to rescue him, yet they had left only one guard at the hospital and he was now dead, the latest victim of Titoki's hatred of the white man. He had even told the Charge Nurse at the ward to take great care with her _guest_ and to never go into his room without a security guard but she had ignored him and now she and her assistant were also missing. How many more innocent people would have to die before Titoki was stopped? The magistrate who had refused to commit Titoki to prison for treatment was still reluctant to issue an arrest warrant for him. It wasn't until the inspector blew his stack and threatened to bypass the magistrate and go directly to the Solicitor General with the fact that a policeman was dead and two nurses missing because of the magistrate's incompetence that he reluctantly signed the warrant, muttering all the time, "But you don't know it was him. He is innocent until he's proven guilty." They had found the pile of dirty linen and the discarded trolleys in the basement, so they were able to establish how the people had been whisked out of the ward, but nobody had seen who was pushing the trolleys. While they knew that a vehicle must have been used to get the people out of the hospital, nobody knew what type. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack, only this needle was on the move and could be anywhere by now! They didn't even know which point of the compass it was heading toward. Titoki had affiliates all round the North Island. Gilliard was pacing restlessly around the office of his Auckland counterpart when a policewoman stuck her head through the door, a worried look on her face. "A strange call for you, inspector," she muttered. "Won't speak to anybody other than Inspector Gilliard, almost as if he knew you were here in Auckland." "Must be that bastard Titoki, or one of his men," Gilliard growled as he reached for the telephone. "He would know that I'd come to Auckland as soon as I heard of his escape. He is most probably laughing at us, feeling smug about escaping from the pigs again!" "Inspector, how nice not to be able to see you," the voice greeted him. There could

be no doubt it was Titoki. "I told you your pigs would never hold me. Our time has come; soon you will be driven into the seas over which your ancestors came to steal our lands." "Like you stole the land from the Maoriori?" "That is a pakeha lie. There were never any Maoriori. They belong to the pakeha imagination. They never existed. We are the tangata whenua, the only rightful people of this land." "Mr. Solomon would not agree, neither would the last of the Maoriori who your people drove away to the Chatham Island and then tried to slaughter." "That is another pakeha lie. Soloman never existed except in the stories of the pakeha settlers..." "And the legends of the Maoriori," Gilliard interrupted. "Your grip of history is even more misguided than others of your race. The legends of the Maori speak many truths, yet you only select those that support your cause. Not all your people are so misguided. Many see through your lies, and few will follow you into the hell you plan for them." "They are fools, blinded by their greed and hunger of the pakeha way of life. They will return to the old ways when their eyes have been opened." "Or permanently closed by your thugs when they refuse to follow you. It will be your eyes that will be opened when you find that you stand isolated from the main stream of your own people and the kaumatua discredit you for bringing disgrace and dishonor on the proud traditions of the Maori." "What do you know or care for the traditions of my ancestors?" Titoki cried out in anger. "The kaumatua are weak, they listen to traditions that have been changed to meet their lust for the pakeha ways. My people will see that we have been yoked to a foreign enemy who bleeds us dry of all that is good from our proud heritage." "And your new masters, will they be any better?" Gilliard asked. "We will have no new masters; we will be the tangata whenua, and the rulers of our land." "And what about the trappings of the white man's ways; the cars, the hotels, the races?" "They are of our land, they will continue to benefit our people."

How bloody convenient, Gilliard thought. Claim what you want from what has been built up in New Zealand, then dump the rest. But this was purely an academic argument. He was trying to keep Titoki in conversation while the telecommunications experts tried to trace the call. Titoki must have become suspicious at the same time. His tone changed. He became surly and uncommunicative. "The wahines are on the shores of Lake Atiamuri. We have no more use of them. They are returned to you, a gift from my followers. I hope they perform better for their next masters." Then only static came over the line. Titoki had signed off. The policewoman hurried in. "They weren't able to trace the call with any accuracy. The best they can tell us is that it was from a cellular telephone; the car was on the move somewhere on the roads west of Lake Taupo." "What do you know about Lake Atiamuri?" "Not a lot. Why?" "The two nurses are somewhere on the shore of the lake. We had better move quickly to get them back before Titoki changes his mind. Get me through to the Taupo Police." The senior sergeant on duty at Taupo that night was an ardent angler who had fished most of the rivers and streams in his region. He asked how the nurses had been transported to the lake. When he heard it had been by car, he immediately thought about the sheltered parking area on the northern tip. He woke his sergeant and, together with the two other constables on duty, they drove directly to the parking area. There was no sign of the nurses. "Through here," he muttered, pointing to a narrow track. "That goes for miles around the shore, with some picnic areas along the route. They must have been dumped somewhere in there." "I hope it wasn't into the lake itself," his sergeant muttered. "Cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey. They'd freeze to death in no time." The party hurried through the low scrub, flashing torches along both sides of the track. The sergeant gave a muffled curse as his beam reflected off something white

several meters off the track. They hurried forward, then stopped dead. The two nurses had been stripped naked, their mouths closed with strips of adhesive tape. They were spread-eagled, arms and legs secured to rough pegs driven into the ground. The younger one was unconscious, dried blood caking her inner thighs. The older nurse was still conscious. She cowered away when the light hit her, whimpering in fright. Dark bruises marred her face, one eye was swollen shut. Angry red marks on her small breasts looked suspiciously like burns. "Get back to the vehicle and bring the blankets, and call a bloody ambulance," the senior sergeant barked. "These women have been raped and beaten. They're in a bad way. Move." While one of the constables ran back to the vehicles the other men cut the two women free. They put their jackets around their shoulders. The Charge Nurse was in severe shock, rocking back and forwards, weeping. The sergeant tried to comfort her. The ambulance screamed through the night, carrying the two nurses to Tokoroa Hospital. It was fractionally farther than the medical facilities at Taupo, but they decided to take the patients there; at least it was a hospital, not just the first aid facility that was all that remained at Taupo after the recent health reforms. Inspector Gilliard was already in transit from Auckland. He arrived at the gates of the hospital at the same time as the ambulance. They followed the stretchers into the wards, then stood outside in the corridor while the doctors gave the nurses a thorough examination. They were passed as relatively fit considering their ordeal, but still suffering from shock. Both had been raped repeatedly. Nurse Matthews had been a virgin; the effect on her had been traumatic and she would need psychiatric help. Charge Nurse Trevor had recovered quite quickly. She was able and willing to talk. Alison Trevor was propped up in bed. Her wounds had been cleaned and dressed, but the pain still showed in her eyes. The effect of the painkillers had not yet eased the damage that had been done to her. Inspector Gilliard spoke quietly, assuring her the ordeal was over. She was safe again. She buried her head in her hands, trying not to cry. "How is Nurse Matthews?" she asked, her voice choked with emotion. "She'll be fine," the inspector told her.

"It's all my fault; she should never have gone into that room. I made her go. I'll never forgive myself. I'll..." "How can it be your fault; you can't be responsible for what Titoki and his men did to your nurse," Gilliard protested. "Yes. It's my fault. I should have been suspicious when the patient call went off in Room 12. I should have known the patient would not be using the bell. He had a police guard. There was no need for him to use the bell. I was told not to enter that room without a security guard or porter. I am nothing but a..." "What has happened cannot be undone," the inspector told her gently. "You feel bad because June Matthews was raped..." "But she was a virgin, she should have enjoyed her first experience," Trevor protested. "How do you think I feel," Gilliard continued, ignoring her outburst. "My man was murdered. Let's just be thankful that those men who came to rescue Titoki didn't decide to extract revenge on your other patients. They are fanatical enough to have demanded utu from some of the pakeha patients lying helplessly in the ward." Charge Nurse Trevor looked at him with wide eyes. She hadn't thought of that possibility. She sank back against the pillows, more subdued but ready to face the realities of the situation. "Do you feel up to telling me what happened?" the inspector asked her gently. "I'll try," she whispered. Gilliard's anger grew hotter the longer the story continued. It had been a senseless waste of life. There was no need to hit the policeman repeatedly after he was knocked out. All they needed to do was tie him up and he wouldn't have been able to hinder their escape. It was just another example of senseless viciousness. Just as senseless was the brutal treatment shown Nurse Trevor because she protested when the three men took turns raping June Matthews. When her blood flowed to expose her virginity, they had all queued by to take a turn with her. She was unconscious before they satisfied their lust. Alison Trevor protested, calling them callous dogs. She soon regretted her impetuosity. She couldn't help Matthews, but she was made

to pay for her insults. To call a warrior a dog was one of the worst insults that could be given to a Maori warrior, so it was as a dog that she was treated over the next thirty minutes. Gilliard could see that Trevor was becoming very agitated as she tried not to remember the ordeal she had faced. "Don't go into the details," he told her gently. "We don't need these, we already know what Titoki and his men are capable of. I can imagine how they would have reacted to being called dogs; just be thankful they didn't kick you to death like they do with so many of the mongrels that hang around their camps. What happened next?" Trevor threw him a relieved glance, then continued. "I was not allowed to slow down; if I did I was brought to heel with a blow to my face or legs. I was almost unconscious by the time they tired of their game. I suppose I was no longer protesting sufficiently to entertain them." When they were finished, the men tied the two women between stakes they had driven into the ground. Titoki stood looking down at the women, gulping great clouds of sweet smelling smoke into his lungs. "It is time to go," he muttered. She didn't know when the men left. She didn't hear their vehicle leave the parking area. She didn't know anything until the police torches shone in her eyes, much later! "That bastard must be an animal," the doctor muttered in disbelief. "Surely no normal man would make a woman suffer this way." "You don't know Titoki, my friend," Gilliard told him grimly. "He is not a normal man. He is not even a normal animal, he is an insane animal and one that must be put down the way you would a mad dog." "What about your burns?" the doctor asked Trevor. "There are a lot of them, when were they administered?" "I'm not sure. Titoki stubbed his cigarette out on me before he left and I fainted. It must have been sometime after that." "Thank God you weren't conscious," the doctor gasped. "It would have been hell."

CHAPTER 19: KIDNAPPED Al Brookes was furious. How could the Auckland Police have been so careless as to let Titoki slip through their fingers? He realized there would be an outcry from the bleeding-heart liberals, but the time for games was long over. Titoki must be recognized for the mad dog he was and treated accordingly, or the country would pay the penalty for his continuing freedom and the price would be high. He stood by the window staring out at the traffic winding up from the city. It was starting to get dark. Many of the cars had their headlights on, and the lights were coming on in the houses on the surrounding hills. The city was beautiful at night, the lights twinkling like stars. But he was not only watching the view, he was concentrating on the cars, hoping one of them was his. Jan and Jannine had gone to an afternoon meeting in town. Something or other to do with ethnic art. He wasn't sure of the exact name of the group, there were so many starting up all over the place. He had it checked out by the local police, as a special favor. It had no links with any known radical group, but he was still worried. The ladies had promised to be back before sunset but that had been over an hour ago! Brookes had rung the hall were the meetings were held, only to be told it had ended early. Only a few members had attended because of the inclement weather. The sound of the wind whistling around the house coupled with the rain beating against the windows supported the wisdom of those who didn't go. Jan had insisted on going; Jannine had tagged along to keep her company. Should he wait, or should he take the other vehicle and go in search of them. That wouldn't be practical, there were several ways home from the hall. He could only guess at which one his wife would take and it would be just his luck to choose the wrong one and miss them entirely. Then Jan would panic when she came home and found the house empty. _She should have been home before now!_ He reached for the Teledex and leafed through the list of Jan's friends. He knew some of them were also members of this particular club. Now, which ones were they, he mused? Ah, ha! Maree Potter. Jan often spoke of her. Maybe she was in the group. He would try her on the telephone. Mrs. Potter was home. Yes, she was also in the art group. Yes, she had been at the

meeting that afternoon. No, she didn't know where Jan was. She had still been at the hall when Jan left. She had murmured something about wanting to be home that evening before it got too dark. What time did they leave? What was the time now? Nine o'clock! That would mean that they would have left at least and hour and a half earlier. She was sorry she couldn't be more help, but maybe Jan had a puncture, or something. Did she have a mobile telephone in the car? No! How unfortunate she had left it behind on the hall table. It would have been easy to contact her if she had taken the telephone with her. Brookes replaced the receiver, a worried frown on his face. Jan was renowned for her punctuality, a trait she had definitely not inherited from her parents. So where the hell was she now? The hall was no farther than a thirty minutes drive. Had the car broken down as Mrs. Potter suggested? No, if it had she would have had the Automobile Association check it out by now, and rung him from the garage if they had to tow the vehicle anywhere for repair. Maybe she had called in to see friends on the way home but that was unlikely, since she had told Maree she wanted to be home early. _So where the hell is she?_ He heard a car pull up outside and the sound of footsteps running through the rain. They were not the steps of either Jan or Jannine, anyway, Jan would have driven straight into the garage, not stopped outside. The doorbell rang as Brookes opened the door. He stared in amazement at Inspector Gilliard and Sergeant Norris. Both men looked extremely serious and worried. Brookes ushered them in and reached out to take their coats. Gilliard held out his hand to stop him. "Come with us, Al," he said quietly. "Something important has come up and we need your help." "But I'm waiting for Jan, she's due..." "This is more important than waiting for Jan," Ken said seriously, obviously very upset and fighting to control his anger. Brookes shrugged and reached for his coat. If they wanted to play games, that was their choice. He left a note for Jan on the board near the telephone, telling her where he

had gone, and to call him there when she came in. A look that passed between the two policemen was filled with sadness. The inspector led Brookes into his office, then handed him a sealed envelope. "This came for me about thirty minutes ago," he said. "It has a message inside, and some pictures. I tried to ring you but your line was engaged. The contents will explain why Jan and Jannine are late getting home." Brookes looked at him, puzzled. "How do you know they were late ... oh, I suppose you noticed they weren't there when you called..." "Just open the envelope and have a look, Al," Norris said quietly. "We thought that it was better that you opened them here than at home," Gilliard added. The envelope was addressed to Inspector Gilliard in a large scrawling hand, using a felt-tipped pen. The spelling left some room for improvement, but was easily readable. Two Polaroid photographs slipped from the envelope when Brookes pulled out the letter. He swore long and hard. The photographs were of Jan and Jannine, and they had to have been taken that day. Jannine was wearing a brightly colored silk blouse that she had only purchased the afternoon before. She was wearing it for the first time. Both women were tied to straight-backed plain wooden kitchen chairs. Their arms were lashed behind their backs, a rope extending upwards to loop around their necks and back to their arms. It held them firmly in place. Their ankles were tied to the legs of the chairs. Their skirts had been hitched up and another rope held their knees to the arms of the chairs. Their lips were sealed with sticking plaster. Brookes stared at the photographs, hatred emanating from every pore of his skin. "What bastard's responsible for this?" he asked through clenched teeth "Guess." "Not Titoki?" he snapped. "Who else," Gilliard growled. "Why?"

"Read the message," Gilliard told him. The message was written in the same scrawling hand that had written the address on the envelope. The content was chillingly clear to follow, the intent obvious. _Inspector,_ _You have what I want, I have what you want. If you want to see these two wahines again give us back our drugs and our guns. If you do not, we will return the wahines to you piece by piece after we have used them for our fun. They will keep the men happy while we wait for more guns. I will send you instructions. Do not get too clever or we will send you part of the wahines next week._ _Long Live the Revolution._ Brookes reread the message, feeling the blood drain from his face as his fingers tightened around the paper. This was the event he had feared the most. Titoki had gotten his hands on the two people Brookes loved most in this world, the bastard had struck the jackpot. But what could they do to get the women back? The police could never return the drugs and guns to the gang. It would be an invitation to open anarchy, yet if they didn't it would sign the death warrants for Jan and Jannine. "We'll wait until we are contacted again, then we'll make our plans," the inspector told him. "Titoki is so cocky that he'll make a slip and we'll get him." "But the stakes are so high," Brookes muttered. "It was one of the biggest drug hauls in this country's history. The authorities will never agree to give them to the gang in return for the two women." "That's true," Gilliard agreed. "But do you honestly think Titoki would set the women free after he got his hands on the drugs and guns again?" Brookes regarded him blankly. "If this move paid off, he would have a trump card up his sleeve and could well hold Jan and Jannine as hostages against our future _good behavior."_ "Hostages," Brookes muttered. "Of course, an ideal tool to keep us off his back while he gets reorganized. Just the sort of trick the bastard would pull."

"Then we will have to think like him; play him at his own game," Gilliard said grimly. "What, take our own hostages?" Norris asked in surprise. "Not literally, Ken," the inspector said with a grin. "I don't think there is anyone that we could hold that would stop Titoki, and imagine the field day the media would have if we got into the business of taking hostages so we could barter with the criminals on their own level. Anyhow, I don't think Titoki would give a damn about the fate of any hostages we might take, not even his own parents. No, I mean we will have to start thinking like a criminal. We will have to try and trip him up." Inspector Gilliard turned to Brookes. "You're the one with the contacts in the outside world, any suggestions?" "Better wait until we get word from Titoki about where and how he expects us to deliver the drugs. He would have to be in a dream world if he thinks we could just drive out of here with over a ton and a half of hard drugs without creating a scandal." The message from Titoki came the next morning. The drop would be in two days time. The drugs were to be packed in small boxes that could be easily handled by two men. The boxes were to be loaded into two vans, half the consignment in each. The vans were to be fully fueled. Each driver was to carry a mobile telephone because the destination would not be confirmed until after the vans had left Wellington. Course changes would be advised along the way. Each van was to carry only the driver; if there were any other people in the van, or the driver passed on the location of the drop, the exchange would be off. If the switch didn't go on schedule, the delivery of the hostages would start -- first the fingers, then the toes. If they survived that, then they would continue with the ears and the breasts. Titoki was determined to get his drugs back. Inspector Gilliard conferred with his immediate superiors. While they were reluctant to risk the whole consignment, they agreed to let some genuine drugs be used as camouflage for the false shipment. Crates were packed with small plastic bags filled with high-grade white flour, which looked like cocaine through the plastic. They were the exact weight and size of the sachets from the original shipment. The odd genuine packets were tossed on the top of each crate, but placed casually at a slightly different angle so the drivers could hand the real drugs to Titoki's men if they wanted to check the shipment before acceptance. Hopefully they wouldn't want to check out every bag!

Each crate had an electronic bug built into the wooden base. They were inserted from the inside so they wouldn't be noticed until the crates were empty, and by that time it wouldn't really matter. The police would have pinpointed the location of the hideout and the raiding party would be on the way. But it was a high-risk game. Volunteers were called for to drive the vans. Inspector Gilliard personally talked with the group, spelling out the dangers involved. He didn't tell them that each crate was bugged. The bugging was known to only four people -- Norris, Brookes, himself and the electrician who had installed them! The fewer who knew about the trap, the better the chance of success. The day of the drop was cloudy, but at least the wind and rain had stopped. The inspector followed the vans into the street, then dropped back. He had also installed a transmitter inside each cab. His instructions to the drivers was simple. Act thick. Repeat the drop point instructions loudly and clearly as if checking them out to make sure they had the proper location. The bugs would transfer the location to the mobile police squads who would be following in unmarked cars. "Why not get them to call us after they've received the call," Brookes muttered. "That would be much easier." "But most probably not possible." "Why the hell not?" "If I was Titoki. I would tell the drivers not to hang up after I'd given them the drop location, or else the drop would be off. That way he would also know if there was anybody else in the cab with the driver." "How the hell would he know if they hung up and rang somebody else," Norris asked? Brookes had been staring at Gilliard in confusion. Suddenly he smiled and clapped his hands in appreciation. "Bravo, Jim, we'll have you thinking like a criminal yet," he muttered. "What a simple but effective method. If the driver hangs up to call anyone else, then Titoki's men would get a dial tone. If he didn't hang up and had a radio in the van, any message would also be picked up by the mobile and sent to Titoki. Bloody brilliant. We could have been sucked in if you hadn't had the bugs placed in the vans."

Gilliard turned up the volume on the transceiver in the car. There was a sudden burst of static and a strange voice echoed through the car. Sergeant Norris quickly jotted down the instructions that had been repeated by the drivers. Both had received identical instructions, and each had been instructed not to disconnect their mobile telephones, effectively giving Titoki an ear in each van. The vans turned away from Wellington and headed up the northern motorway. They drove through Plimmerton, dropping down from the hill to follow the route of the ocean highway. They were guided down a side road and told to drive into a large old barn on a farm. The farm appeared to be deserted, which wasn't surprising at this time of the year. The drivers followed the instructions. The barn was empty. The voice echoed out of the telephone again. "When you are approached by our men, you will hand them the keys to your vehicles, then you will walk to the farm building. It is empty. You will enter the building and wait until the vans have left before you hang up your telephones. Do not try and make any calls before the vans have left." "What about the women?" "They will be left in the barn after the vans have left." "Where are your men? I can't see any movement in or near the shed," one of the police drivers said. "They must be near. They will come." The drivers waited five minutes, then reported that there was still no sign of anybody around the shed. "Can I get out and take a look?" he asked the man on the telephone. "Wait," he was told. "I will check." A different voice came over the telephone. Gilliard recognized Titoki. "One of you get out of the van but the other remains so that I know what is happening. My men should have been waiting for you, their car was to be at the back of the barn."

The driver climbed out and walked carefully around the building. He ran back, his face white with shock. "Call the police," he gasped. "Your men are behind the barn alright, four of them, all dead. Shot. Their bodies cut almost in half by automatic weapons, the bullets fired at very close range." "And the women?" Titoki asked, anger clearly recognizable in his voice. "They are not there; neither is a car. We are the only vehicles here." There were curses and muffled discussions, then the line went dead.

CHAPTER 20: WHO'S GOT THE WOMEN? Inspector Gilliard stood looking down at the carnage spread out around him. This was no ordinary killing, but it bore all the signs of a gangland slaying. But why? Had another gang heard about the drug swap and decided to swoop in on the collection point. If so, they'd misjudged badly. The killings had been done some time before. Was it a rival gang or some other group of radicals? Possible but not too likely. And why the playing cards pinned to the chests of the four slain men? Inspector Gilliard stooped down and turned one of the cards over. The Queen of Spades. Over the heart, a heavy cross had been drawn with a red felt pen. "You play cards, Al?" "Yes. Often. Why?" "What's the significance of the Queen of Spades?" "It's the death card. Why do you want to know that?" "There's one pinned to each body." "Then we've got trouble, Jim. This isn't the work of another group of radicals, and I doubt very much if it's the work of another local criminal gang rival. Unless they're in the pay of some overseas crime syndicate or drug cartel."

"What do you mean?" "That's a warning to the gang the dead men belonged to that this other group is loosing patience. They want something, and they want it quickly." "And badly, it they're prepared to pin their warning to four dead men." "Let's hope it's only these four, and that the warning isn't also attached to Jan and Jannine," Brookes added grimly. "My God, I'd forgotten about them." Inspector Gilliard swung around and barked a command to some of his men. They scattered in a frantic search for the two women who were supposed to have been at the farm. There was no trace of them. If they had been there when the killings took place, they were now in the hands of different captors, captors totally unknown to the police. Their situation had gone from bad to serious. But who was this new group and how had they gotten involved? More to the point, how had they found out about the drug transfer and why take the two women? It was another case of having to wait for the criminals to make the first move. A message was waiting for the inspector when he returned to Wellington. An undercover policeman had been found badly beaten in Newton. He was asking to speak with Inspector Gilliard. He wouldn't talk with anyone else. Gilliard wearily reached for his coat again. No peace for the wicked, according to the old saying, so he must be the most wicked of all because he was certainly in great demand. Stephen Andrews had infiltrated the Wellington drug scene almost two years earlier. He was invaluable in sabotaging many major drug deals. What was so important that he was now prepared to blow his cover to speak with the inspector? He must have some major information that he wasn't prepared to risk falling into the hands of others. Brookes and Norris were still in the station foyer. Gilliard collected them on the way through. He told the desk he would be at the hospital and from there he would run the other two home, then knock off for the day himself. He had received sufficient unpleasant surprises for one day. Andrews was in a single room with two plainclothes policemen to guard him. A policewoman dressed as a nurse was also on duty in the ward.

Gilliard stopped in his tracks when he saw his officer. The man was covered in bandages from head to toe, the only break in the white cocoon were holes for his eyes and mouth. He was totally unrecognizable. Plastic tubes kept him alive with saline and drug drips. "How is he, doctor?" Gilliard asked the man standing at the foot of the bed. "Lucky to be alive," the doctor muttered. "This man has received the worst beating it has been my misfortune to see. He has so many broken bones that it is a wonder his body hasn't collapsed in on him. He has been tortured with the hot tip of a soldering iron and has no fingernails left on either hand. When we've fixed his body, we will still have to work on his mind. No man could go through what he has and not be psychologically scarred for the rest of his life. I hope you get the bastards who did this. I would love to see them cringe, even receive a dose of their own medicine." "So would I, but unfortunately that is illegal," Gilliard muttered. "We will do our damnedest to get those responsible." "Yeah, and you'll have to treat them with kid gloves in case you infringe on their human rights and get the bleeding heart liberals jumping on the band wagon," Brookes snapped. "Bloody criminals get more rights than their victims." "Will he live?" Gilliard asked the doctor, ignoring Brookes' outburst, even though he secretly agreed with what his friend had said. "Yes, he will live, but there are many normal human functions that he will never perform again. Was he married?" "No. Stephen was single." "That is unfortunate. He will never be able to have children." "Castration?" "Worse. They used the soldering iron to do art work on his penis and scrotum." The inspector went white, fighting to control the rage he felt. Brookes blanched, then felt the anger rising in his body, his fingers flexing as he thought of what he'd like to do to those responsible for this new outrage. Somebody would have to pay, but the price would never be as high as that they'd extracted from the young policeman. "Can he speak?" the inspector asked.

"Yes, but try not to let him talk too much; it will strain the stitches around his lips and throat." Gilliard leaned forward and spoke softly in Andrew's ear. The ECG monitor, to which the patient was wired, went into a series of wild fluctuations, then settled down again, but in a slightly different pattern as Andrews tried to speak. The inspector leaned forward, his ear almost touching the bandages. Brookes saw the line of his jaw tighten and his knuckles go white. The news he was getting wasn't pleasing him at all. He stood up, placing his hand gently on Andrews' shoulder. "Rest, Stephen," he said, fighting to keep his anger from his voice. "I will work with what you've told me. Take it easy. You have a long row to hoe to get back to full strength. Don't try to rush things. Just get better first, then we'll talk about the future." He turned from the bed and walked stiffly from the room, followed by the doctor, Brookes and Norris. "The truth, doctor," he snapped, his voice harsh. "No pussy-footing around. What are his chances of survival?" "Fifty-fifty, inspector. He is strong, and that's in his favor, but he will need the will to pull him through. He will have many months of pain and suffering to endure and he will have to fight to overcome the mental block to survival before he breaks clear. We could keep him sedated, but if we do he will never fully recover the use of his body. In the worst scenario, he could turn into a human vegetable or he could return to mental agility but physical degeneration." "That's what I was frightened about. I shall have to get his former colleagues to renew contact with him." "Former contacts? I thought he was in the police?" "He was ... I mean, he is. He went undercover over two years ago, which meant he had to break contact with all his friends within the force and establish a new identity. We must give him back his old identity, and help him adjust to the changes that will be necessary to bring him out of the past and back to the present. It won't be easy, but it must be done so he can get back to being the old Stephen Andrews." "If you can get him to believe in himself, we will have won the first stage in his battle for recovery." "Then we will win," the inspector muttered, turning to head down the corridor.

"Let's go to your place, Al. I need a stiff drink." "That makes two of us," Norris muttered. "Be my guest," Brookes said. "I will be happy to have the company. It hasn't been one of the better days in my life." The house was cold and deserted. No warmth, or welcoming smell of food cooking in the kitchen. No cheery greeting as he walked through the door. Where the hell were they holding Jan and Jannine? More to the point, who was holding them? Zorba whimpered a greeting. She followed Brookes around as he poured the drinks and turned on the heater. When Brookes settled back in his chair, she sat with her head on his lap. Absent-mindedly, he stroked the warm fur of her head and shoulders. Zorba sensed something was wrong, yet she couldn't put her own questions into words that humans could understand. "What did Andrews have to say, Jim?" Brookes asked, breaking the long silence that had settled over the lounge. "You were right when you said we could have major problems on our hands. Organized crime syndicates from overseas are preparing to move in. They're targeting the drug trade as their first step, but will then move into male and female prostitution. Stephen got news of a major drug shipment from overseas, it could even have been the one we intercepted, about the same time as someone inside the force blew his cover." "Then he is bloody lucky to be alive," Brookes muttered. "But who would pot him?" Norris asked, his mind ticking over those involved in dealing with the undercover constables. "Not many people knew of Stephen's existence after he dropped out of mainline enforcement." "I know, and that's a major concern," Gilliard said. "We must find that leak and seal it before the cover is blown on other agents." "Where is the information stored?" Brookes asked. "On the police master computer." "Then the information could have been obtained accidentally." "How an earth could that happen?" "Maybe a hacker managed to tap into the police network and found your file with

the undercover constables names in it. It they knew what it was, they could have downloaded it and sold it to the underworld for megabucks." "But the files are password protected," the inspector protested. "So was the Pentagon computer when that schoolboy hacked into it and intercepted the war games in progress at the time. It was just bloody luck that he didn't start World War Three. It was bloody close." "I knew I hated computers, now you've given me another reason to distrust them," Gilliard swore. "Don't blame the tools, Jim, because that's all they are. Blame the operators and programmers who write and use the programs, and those frustrated people who want to try and show how smart they are by hacking into networks and testing their smartness by destroying the work of others. I put hackers on the same level as virus writers, and they should all be drowned at birth. The world would be a better place without them. Incidentally, did Stephen have any idea from which countries the push was coming?" "The drugs would be coming in from various sources to reduce the risk of interception, but the main push was coming from Italy." "Then there must be a Mafia link. The families must be feeling the pinch on the continent and America, or else they are expanding their family links through the Italian Mafia families in Australia." "Who knows," Gilliard muttered. "What worries me is they have their sights set on New Zealand, and we don't really have the resources to meet them head-on with any chance of success." "Then you'll have to sell your concerns to the Commissioner and have him put pressure on the Minister for more resources to meet this attack." "Fat chance," Norris scoffed. "With the bad publicity on the new computer systems, the horrendous overspending in other departments, the promise of greater efficiency for less dollars in all government sectors -- and with an election looming -- I can hardly see the Minister getting any support. It would be an admission that their stance on law and order has failed to deliver, yet that is the only plank where they can hope to match the opposition parties." "I guess you're right," Brookes agreed. "It would be the last thing they would want to admit in an election year. It would be suicidal to stand up and say your policy on law and order wasn't working."

"They won't need to, the opposition will be saying that for them, long and loud." Norris muttered. "Then I suppose it's up to us, Ken," Gilliard said grimly. "Time to get a bit unorthodox." Brookes had been looking out of the window at the twinkling lights across the valley. He had a puzzled expression on his face as he tried to latch onto something that was flittering through his mind but wouldn't come into focus. "When we were at the chicken farm, I'm sure they had posters of Italian scenes on their walls. I never gave it a thought at the time, but it did seem a bit incongruous for that group to have such posters, and they hadn't been put there by the previous owners. The pictures were all brand new, still showing no trace of the soot and grime that covered the rest of the area. I think there were also a few travel brochures on a small table behind the counter. They also looked reasonably new." "I think I'll get Interpol to do a quiet check for any unusual links between our radical groups and the Mafia, as well as any other contacts they know about with other radical groups around the world." "Sticking your neck out a bit, aren't you, Jim," Brookes muttered in surprise. "Not as much as you," the inspector told him. "It's my job, but you have no formal ties with the authorities and could be much more vulnerable to retaliation." "Too late for that, it's already happened," Brookes reminded him. "If anything happens to Jan or Jannine, I'll run my own version of utu and I wouldn't give a damn who I took down with me. Titoki would be at the top of my hit list and this time I wouldn't miss, but there are several others who would be running him a close second." "We'd have to come after you if you started, Al." "You'd have to find me first, my friend. You wouldn't have the men to protect all my potential targets around the clock. I have great patience. I'd bide my time, but like the elephant, I would never forget or forgive. I just hope it doesn't come to that." The harsh jangle of the telephone stopped any farther discussions. "Collect the package from your letterbox, Mr. Brookes," a harsh voice hissed. It was muffled as if the speaker was talking through a layer of material held over the mouthpiece.

"Who the hell's this?" he demanded. "That doesn't matter; you do not know me -- yet! Collect the package, enjoy the contents, and I'll contact you again later when you have had time to assimilate the information." The telephone went dead as the mysterious caller hung up. Brookes remained standing, starring down at the handset. What the hell was going on? What package in his letterbox? There had been nothing there earlier. If there was something in the box now, it had to have been delivered while they were talking. He was sure he hadn't heard anything unusual. Zorba hadn't reacted the way she usually did if strangers came onto her patch. Still, he had better check it out in case it wasn't a prank. He grabbed the torch that was kept on the shelf just inside the front door and hurried down the drive to the letterbox. He shone the light inside. The mysterious caller had been right, there was a small brown package stuck into the corner. He pulled out a package wrapped in plain brown paper, his name scrawled across it in felt pen. There was no address on the outside. Whoever had delivered it had known where to come. He didn't have his name on either his letterbox or his house, just a street number. Brookes returned to the house, the package held firmly in his hands. It was flexible and about 15mm thick. Inside, he sat on the couch and carefully undid the cellotape that held the package secure. There were several layers of brown paper before he reached a sheet of plain white paper with a message written in the same colour pen as that used to address the package. The message chilled his blood. Slowly he handed it to Gilliard, a grim look on his face. The inspector read it aloud for Sergeant Norris' information. _Mr. Brookes,_ _We have your women. You have our drugs. They have not been paid for by the New Zealanders who wanted them. That makes us unhappy. We want them back. If we do not get them you will not get your women back. Speak with your friends in the police. If we do not get our drugs returned in two days you will never see your women again. Look at the photographs. They will show that we do not lie. The choice is yours the women are ours until our goods are returned._ _Mario._ "Who the hell is Mario?" Brookes asked as he reached for the sealed envelope that

he assumed must contain the photographs. Both the police officers shook their heads. They had never heard of any Mario linked with the criminal infrastructure in Wellington. Maybe he came from Auckland or maybe he was part of the overseas connection that appeared to have developed surreptitiously over the last few months. Brookes looked at the photographs in growing anger, then tossed them on the coffee table. There was no doubt they were Jan and Jannine. There was nothing to hide them from the prying eye of the camera. They had been stripped naked, then trussed up like turkeys waiting for Thanksgiving. Their ankles were tied together and so were their knees. The ropes securing their arms passed under their breasts then looped up around their necks. Passing twice around their throat, the rope returned to be forced between their thighs and linked with the rope binding their wrists and ankles. They were totally helpless. To struggle would make the rough ropes work against their bare flesh. The pain would become excruciating the more they struggled or the longer they were left in that position on the floor. The floor was uncarpeted and made from rough-sawn wooden planks. It wouldn't be comfortable to lie on when clothed. Naked it would be very hard on the skin. There were four Polaroid photographs of each woman, taken from different positions. Two were close-ups of their faces. They looked at the camera through listless eyes. They were obviously drugged. As they sat starring at the photographs, the telephone rang. It was the mysterious Mario again. "You have collected the package, Mr. Brookes?" "Yes," Brookes growled. "If you hurt them, I'll..." "Do not make idle threats, Mr. Brookes. I have what you want. You know what you have to do to get them back. It is irrelevant to me whether the women live or die. The choice is yours. Convince the police to meet my terms, or the decision is made for me." "But I need time," Brookes muttered. "You can hardly expect the police to just give me one and a half tons of hard drugs because you have my wife and daughter." "Wife and adopted daughter, Mr. Brookes. I know how and from where you got your daughter and exactly how much you paid the slave master for her. You have 24 hours to convince your authorities. I will contact you again tomorrow evening. If you have not convinced them by then you will not hear from me again, or from your wife and daughter."

Before he could protest any further, the receiver slammed in his ear. The die was cast. The lives of Jan and Jannine hung by a very tenuous thread. At one end were their lives, at the other one and a half tons of hard drugs already in police custody. The thread was stretched thin, almost at breaking point.

CHAPTER 21: FRUSTRATIONS Brookes stared into space, a worried frown etching his forehead. What could he do? It was unlikely the authorities would agree to put the whole drug shipment at risk because of Jan and Jannine but he also doubted that the new kidnappers would fall easily for the rerun of a doctored consignment. Their effective disposal of the original kidnappers was evidence of their efficient organization. That they had been able to find out about Jannine's background, which would have only been known to the police and immigration authorities, showed that they had contacts in high places who were prepared to supply them with information. There was now the added risk that details of any tampering with the drug shipment would be passed on even before the drugs left the police headquarters. It they were, the kidnappers would be well gone before the drugs reached the drop point. The risk had to be taken.

Inspector Gilliard spoke with his superiors about the contact with the kidnappers, and about their demands for the return of the drugs. At the same time he passed over a note advising them that there could be a security leak on the force. He asked them to agree verbally to the drop, and to contact him away from the office for the details of the trap he planned to spring. They nodded and passed over a note of their own asking him to suggest a time and place for such a meeting. Gilliard suggested Brookes' house, later that night. It would tie in with the expected follow-up contact by Mario. Gilliard sent out descriptions of the two women and ordered a round-the-clock stakeout at all airports and ports in case an attempt was made to smuggle them out of the country before the drug drop. He was getting some very bad vibes. He didn't want to worry his friend but he didn't expect the women to be handed over with the return of the drugs, even if the full shipment was returned as demanded. The police commissioner agreed with the use of a token amount of the drug shipment to be used to _salt_ the returned consignment, but he demanded assurances

from Gilliard that every attempt would be made to trap the kidnappers and this wouldn't just be a trade-off for the hostages. He was concerned at the thought of a spy within the ranks of the police, and urged Gilliard to ferret him out before any farther damage was done. Enough difficulties faced the police without having an informer keeping the underworld advised of their moves. No wonder the success rate for solving major drug cases had dropped dramatically in the previous year. The instructions given for the drop were similar to the previous one as far as the packing and size of the containers were concerned. However, this load had to be delivered in one covered truck, by a single driver. He was to drive to an isolated location in the suburb of Thorndon. A message would be given to him when he parked the truck opposite the bottle store. In it would be the location of the drop area. When he got there, he was to leave the truck with its motor running and start walking back along the way he had come. If he wasn't alone, or if the truck was followed, the drop would be off. "Another difficult cuss," Norris muttered. "Again we can't set up an ambush in advance because we don't know the final destination. Why don't the bastards play fair and let us know in advance, I hate cat and mouse games." "It's as I expected," Gilliard said. "These people are far to professional to take any risks. It will be difficult to trap them." "Why bother," Brookes muttered. "Why not booby-trap the consignment and blow the bastards to Kingdom Come." "But what about Jan and Jannine?" Gilliard asked in surprise. "They won't be there," Brookes said, his tone bitter. "I have this eerie feeling that they're not for trade or exchange." "But the note," Norris protested. "Hogwash. Just a ploy to get the drugs back, if they were able to bluff us into falling in with their plans." "I'm afraid that I have to agree with Al," Gilliard added softly. "Something has been bugging me about this drop. It doesn't feel right. Think back to that last call you got from Mario. Did anything sound unusual?" "Not really. Reception was bad. There were a lot of background noises. I had to strain to hear him." "What kind of noises? Cars ... trucks ... trains?"

"None of those. At first I thought it was a tractor chugging away in the background, then I realized it was quite late at night. An unusual time to be running a tractor. I've thought about it a lot since then. It could almost have been a helicopter." "Or an airport?" "Could have been, but nothing flies that late at night." "Not commercial flights, but what about a private aircraft, or something on charter?" Brookes' worry deepened. "You're not suggesting they've already been spirited out of the country," he muttered. "Anyway of checking?" While Gilliard rang the airport, Brookes nervously paced the lounge. The tension in the room increased as Gilliard returned, a frown on his face. "A private charter left from Wellington to Auckland, and then on to Norfolk Island and Australia at about the same time as the call. The aircraft was carrying continental registration markings. The flight plan showed six passengers and two crewmen. They didn't file an onwards flight plan from Australia, but Civil Aviation is checking for us." "Any names?" "None, but the aircraft belonged to an organization calling itself Mario International Contacts." "That bastard who called me said his name was Mario," Brookes said, his voice choked with anger. "He could have meant that he was working for Mario." Brookes stopped his pacing as the full implication of what he'd just said sunk in. "The women were on board that aircraft," he muttered. "Don't jump to conclusions, Al," Gilliard urged him. "There is a..." "Jan and Jannine were on that aircraft," he insisted without emotion. "I'm afraid I have to agree with Mr. Brookes' reading of the situation, inspector," the commissioner said reluctantly. "What about the drug drop. I think it should still proceed. I want the people responsible brought to justice. If we can plug this route into New Zealand we will have won a temporary respite."

Inspector Gilliard agreed.

The next morning the truck was loaded with the same crates that had been built for the previous drop. Several of the bugs were replaced by more powerful transmitters so the truck could be followed from a greater distance. Armed Offenders Squad members were alerted throughout the lower North Island, while twenty fully armed SAS commandos were flown in and placed on standby at the Trentham Military Camp. Helicopters were also positioned at Trentham. The men and machines would become airborne when the truck started to roll on its delivery drive. They would follow at a safe distance, ready to drop in if needed. Gilliard wasn't taking any chances. He knew less about how well this group was armed than he had with Titoki and his radicals. One nasty surprise was enough! The truck pulled up opposite the bottle store in Thorndon. A young boy stopped beside the driver's window on his skateboard. "Hey, mister, are you the fuzz?" The driver frowned at the boy. "Yeah, you look dumb enough to be one of them. A bloke in a battered pile of junk gave me this to give you," he said, handing over a large envelope, then pushing his way off down the road. The driver carefully opened the envelope. It contained a map of the lower North Island. A black cross, circled in red, marked an isolated crossroads miles from the nearest houses. Written near it in large letters was HERE. He assumed it was where he had to go. There were no other markings on the map. He did a U turn, then headed out of town toward the northern motorway. The haul up the Ngauranga Gorge was tedious, but then he was at the wheel of a fully loaded truck not his normal sports car. He wondered what the many motorists would say if they knew that he was transporting a fortune in hard drugs to a gang of criminals. He got a cold shiver at the thought of the large amount of potential cash resting less than a meter away from the back of his head. No wonder gangs were prepared to go to such extremes to get the drugs back. One single crate would contain more in dollar terms then he would earn honestly in a lifetime, unless you conned your way in to a position as a chief executive on some state owned enterprise or board. The truck rolled to a stop at the intersection shown on the map. The driver looked

around. There were no other vehicles in sight. His instructions had been clear; leave the motor running, get out of the truck and return on foot the same way he had come until he reached a telephone so he could call for a lift. He hoped Inspector Gilliard knew what he was up to, leaving such a valuable cargo in such a vulnerable place. What would happen if the wrong people got in and drove it away? Geez, it would be so easy to get back into the truck himself and drive it north to Auckland. There would be no problem getting a buyer for this amount of drugs. Better still, he could stash it somewhere and feed the stuff slowly on to the local market, one crate at a time. He would be set for life. The police could stick their job. Why put you life at risk when you could be on easy street with so little effort? His steps slowed as he visualized himself in a flashy house in some overseas tax haven, relaxing while servants jumped at his beck and call. Ronald Briggs had made the leap successfully to Argentina after robbing a train in England; this was different because he wasn't robbing anyone other than criminals who had most probably paid for the drugs illegally anyway. It would be so easy. _Minimum risk for maximum gain._ He could feel the temptation pulling at his heels, slowing his progress. A little voice whispered in his ear, give it a go, you mug, what have you got to loose. What the hell, he might never get a chance like this again. He turned on his heels and ran back toward the truck. He was in such a hurry he didn't see the shadowy figure detach from the scrub at the side of the road near the intersection, neither did he see the short stubby weapon held steadily in the stranger's hands, but he did feel the impact of the first bullets striking his chest. They were the last things he ever felt.

Inspector Gilliard was monitoring the progress of the bleeps given off by the bugs in the truck's load. They plotted the position where the truck stopped. It stood unmoving for about ten minutes, then started to roll forwards heading farther north. They followed about a kilometer astern. The truck ahead of them was picking up speed; they sped through the intersection in pursuit. They didn't see the lonely figure lying dead at the side of the road, a victim of a moment's temptation. The truck turned down a rutted gravel road, heading toward the bush-covered hills that formed the backbone to the North Island. It slowed as the road narrowed and started to wind up a valley leading to an isolated farm on the edge of the bush.

Inspector Gilliard stopped at the bottom of the track and contacted the commandos. He explained the layout of the land and the difficulty they would have if they wanted to surprise the gang. The squad's commander knew the area well. He told the inspector he would land in the riverbed two valleys over, then bring his men over the ridge and approach the farmhouse at first light from the bush behind the buildings. The police would wait until the sun appeared over the horizon, then send a car up the track. The armed police would have already approached on foot and taken up station around the house, remaining hidden but with their weapons trained on the building in case of trouble. In case of trouble! Brookes laughed. Of course there would be trouble. There was always trouble when the radicals were involved.

The police car drove slowly up the narrow road at first light, effectively blocking off the narrow track so the truck wouldn't be able to leave. So what, Brookes mused. The truck wasn't the problem. Their problem was the armed members of the gang, and they wouldn't need a road for them to make a break from the house. They could scatter and rush into the bush. They must know the area, the police didn't. He raised his head to peer through the bushes toward the old building. Everything looked so peaceful. Too peaceful. The police car stopped where the track exited the bush. There was a large open space around the front of the farmhouse, the bush came within only a few meters of the back and sides. The constable stepped out of the car. He took his radio handset from its cradle, then stood shielded behind the vehicle. He turned the controls that changed it from a radiotelephone to a loud speaker. "This is the police," he called, his voice echoing through the clearing, sending the birds in the tress into startled flight. "I repeat, this is the police. You are surrounded. Come out with your hands above your heads. Do not try and resist. You are surrounded..." A single shot rang out. The windscreen on the police car shattered in a cascade of sparkling glass. That hadn't been a shot from a small-bore rifle but a serious projectile. The glass was tempered, but it had shattered at the first shot. The constable ducked for cover as a fusillade of shots peppered the police vehicle.

When the shooting stopped, the car was a total wreck. "Run, pig," a voice yelled from inside the building. "Run for your life, you are next." Two gang members walked out on to the porch, automatic weapons at their hips. They walked forward, spraying the area around the police car with automatic fire, trying to find the body of the policeman they expected to be cowering behind the wrecked vehicle. Two shots rang out. Their weapons fell from nerveless fingers. They looked at the blood streaming from the wounds in their shoulders where the police marksmen had taken deliberate aim to disable them. Cursing, they dived back into the building under a hail of covering fire. "Let them use up their ammunition," Gilliard told his men. "The more they shoot at the trees, the less they'll have left for us." "Unless this is another of their arsenals," Brookes said thoughtfully. Every movement was answered by another hail of bullets. The gang was armed and trigger-happy. Three shots rang out from the rear of the building, followed by screams of rage. The gang was now shooting wildly on both fronts. There was a dull explosion, then a cloud of smoke rolled out from the building. In rapid succession two more explosions followed. A string of curses intermingled with coughing and spluttering. "Tear gas," Gilliard called to his men. "Keep down. Let it blow over your heads," he added, as the cloud slowly drifted toward them on the gentle breeze from the hills. The cloud rose as it reached the trees, lifted by the drafts caused by the obstruction. "Don't breathe it in, or let it get in your eyes. Remember your training. Keep alert. The gang might try and make a run for it." The gang members were in no condition to make a run for anything. Totally unprepared they had fallen victim to the pungent cloud. The police had no problem disarming them and herding them together. When the gas cleared, Inspector Gilliard looked ruefully at the wrecked police car. How would he explain that to the commissioner, but at least he had the drugs back

intact. They hadn't even been unloaded from the truck. This must only be a holding area. They must be waiting to take it on to the next port of call. But where was that? It didn't surprise him that there were no signs of the two women. He had expected it right from the start. Jan and Jannine were only a ploy to get the drugs back, the two women had never been a serious trading commodity. What he hadn't expected to find were airline tickets for two passengers on a flight leaving for Italy in two days. They were confirmed bookings for a Mr. Alan Chalmers and a Mr. Wiremu Rata.

CHAPTER 22: THE SEARCH WIDENS Inspector Gilliard, flanked by Sergeant Norris and Al Brookes, sat facing the commissioner. He was holding the two airline tickets in his hands, looking at a map of Italy. The flight was booked from Auckland to Rome, via the United States. That was fine, but there was also ticketing on a domestic carrier from Rome to Naples, then on to Palermo on the island of Sicily. Why there? From the map it appeared a very rugged island of little international importance. "I agree with you, Jim," the commissioner muttered. "We should use these tickets. If they end at Palermo, then I guess somebody will be there to meet the flight. You're sure there were no other papers at the farm, such as an itinerary ... or instructions ... or anything?" "Not a thing, Sir," Gilliard said. "We turned the place upside down. Just the tickets." "Then we will have to take the risk and follow the journey through to the end. Who do you plan on sending?" "With your agreement, I would like to send Detective Manu Walsh and Al Brookes." "But Brookes is a civilian," the commissioner said in surprise. "We cannot provide him with the legal cover of a police identity." "He knows the women, sir, and he has worked for us in that region before. Also Interpol was quite happy to have him aboard." "Worked for us before? I didn't know that."

"Your predecessor was in the chair when Brookes was involved with that fracas in the Gulf." "Ah, yes," the commissioner said, recognition dawning as he looked at Brookes. "I remember the case, but the identity of the New Zealander wasn't revealed -- for very obvious reasons." He turned to face Brookes. "You are prepared to return to the region," he asked in surprise. "The cartels have long memories; you will still be on their hit list." "As they are on mine," Brookes told him. "They have my wife and my adopted daughter. I have seen what they do with women when they get their hands on them, especially those who belong to the other side. If I can't get them out, they would be better off dead. Their future otherwise would be a living hell." "This detective Walsh, inspector, he is a good man?" "He's new to the force, so the underworld shouldn't have him catalogued as a pig yet. He is a Maori, one from a family that can trace its ancestry directly to the first waaka. His father is a kaumatua of his iwi and, while not a vocal proponent of the present system, is strongly in favor of working out the tribes disputes under the auspices of the Treaty of Waitangi. He doesn't have any time for the radicals who proposed separation. He sees that as the first step toward the type of apartheid that existed in South Africa not that many years ago. His sons seem to share his view." "Sons?" "Walsh has two brothers. One is a doctor, the other in commerce." "Sounds the ideal man for the job." "He is, and he is strong on Maoritanga," Gilliard added. "If they meet others involved in the radical movement who start preaching their brand of history, he will not be caught unawares." "The two men have met?" "Later tonight. I thought it better they not be seen together until after we have altered their appearances and issued new passports to them. After all, we still have to sort out that little problem of the leak in the department."

"Yes. An ugly business," the commissioner mused. "Makes you distrust everyone you come in contact with. Can't keep a department operating efficiently when you have that hanging over your head."

Brookes looked down at the runway rushing under the wheels of the British Airways jumbo jet. He felt the jar as the wheels hit the tarmac. The G-forces drove him back against the seat as the pilot applied the brakes. Rome. How did that old song go? Something about _Arrivaderci Roma,_ and he thought there was something about city of smiles in the lyrics. That could be so but, like all cities, it could have it's ugly side like the million unsmiling faces of the drug pushers, the pimps and their prostitutes, and those engaged in the common crimes of robbery and violence. The Celestial City had a very uncelestial flip side. To add to their problems, neither Brookes nor Walsh spoke Italian. He hoped the two people they were supposed to be had not been fluent in the language. Wiremu Rata, probably not with such a Maori name, but what about Al Chalmers. Who the hell was he? How the hell could he play the part of a man he had never seen or even heard about? What if he was a Maori? What if he was much younger than Brookes, or maybe much older? They were taking a big gamble, but if they didn't take the risk Brookes knew he might never see his wife and daughter again. The loudspeakers in the airport terminal burst into a long dissertation in Italian. The visitors picked up a few words that sounded vaguely familiar. Brookes looked around him. Most of the other passengers looked equally confused. It sounded like they were being given instructions, but what were they? He smiled in relief when the message was repeated in English. "Welcome to Rome, the city built on the Seven Hills of History. Would all passengers please proceed to the Customs Check Points, then go to Immigration. Passengers who will be catching domestic flights are asked to go to the Main Information desk when they have completed their entry formalities. Welcome to Rome, and may your visit be a pleasant one." Funny bloody ha-ha, Brookes thought grimly. Little did the announcer know the purpose of their visit. The customs formalities were thorough, and highly efficient. Their passports were accepted without question. After all, they were official documents that had been speedily but reluctantly issued in Wellington, and then only after the direct intervention of both

ministers. The department had been reluctant to deliberately issue false passports, even for an official reason. The receptionist at the Information Desk spoke excellent English. She also spoke excellent French and Spanish, but Brookes didn't realize that. "Welcome to Rome, Mr. Chalmers," she said with a smile as she took their tickets. "And Mr. Rata. You are traveling together?" "Yes, we are here on business," Walsh said with a smile. The receptionist looked down at the tickets. Naples, then Palermo. A funny place to do business. She was well trained, so there was no crack in her bright and friendly facade. She knew the kind of business deals hatched in the hills of Sicily. Her brother was in the police. He had often spoken about his hatred of the Brotherhood. As the two passengers moved toward the waiting area for their next flight, she saw a member of the local plainclothes police. She called him over and spoke softly with him. She knew she could trust him. Her brother had brought him to their home often. He wasn't tainted by contact with the underworld. He smiled at her concern. "They are said to be a Mr. Chalmers and a Mr. Rata," he murmured. She stared at him. She hadn't mentioned any names. How did he know who they were? She could only nod in silent agreement. "It is good that they have arrived safely," he said. "I was frightened they would be intercepted before they reached here. It is also good that they are still Mr. Chalmers and Mr. Rata." "Stop talking in riddles," she snapped. "How do you know who they are?" "Because I was expecting them; I was sent here to see that they made their connection without interference." "You protect them," she gasped in disbelief. "But they are going to Sicily..." "I know that. They are with us, they follow a long and dangerous trail." "Then I fear for their safety," she said, her face going pale. "They travel alone to the land of the Brotherhood."

"Not alone," he murmured. "The agents from Interpol will be tracking them at a distance. The local cabanerie will be called if they are needed." "What brings them to Italy?" "It is better that you don't know that until after it is over. It will be safer for you that way. I'm only telling you this because I know I can trust you, and because you have been monitoring passengers flying between here and Sicily for your brother." The flight to Palermo was taken at low altitude. The aircraft was full of returning Sicilians and a handful of tourists. There was an endless buzz of voices. Brookes and Walsh were split and put into separate seats across the isle from each other. An elderly woman was in the seat next to Walsh, a young peasant girl sat next to Brookes. "Welcome to Italy, Mr. Brookes," she murmured leaning toward him. Brookes looked at her blankly, trying to hide his surprise. She had spoken in perfect English, an unusual accomplishment for a peasant girl. "You must have me mistaken for somebody else," he said politely. "My name is Alan Chalmers." "If that is what it is now, so be it; but that wasn't the name you were using the last time we met, or the one that Interpol told me." "Interpol," he asked. "Who are they? And how can we have met before? This is my first visit to Italy." "We didn't meet in Italy, but in the sands of the Gulf. I was one of the fortunate ones who escaped from the Home of the Angels. I am not surprised you do not recognize me because we were never introduced. I am Francesca Nicole. I was an Interpol agent working in the Gulf at the time I was enslaved. I am still with Interpol. I am here to keep and eye on you and your friend while you are in Sicily." Francesca deliberately spoke very softly, leaning towards Brookes as if looking out of the cabin window. He had to strain to hear her words above the noise of the engines and the endless chatter of the other passengers. It was dangerous, but they would have no time to communicate once the aircraft landed at Palermo, and it was essential that Brookes knew his contact before they reached Sicily. "What's the story down there?" he asked, looking toward the fast approaching mountainous island.

"The picture is very confused. The last report spoke of unrest among the mafioso, but we don't know the reason. There has been silence since that report." "Do you know why I'm here?" "Yes, and I can confirm that the aircraft that left New Zealand does belong to the Mario family cartel, and that it did bring back two young women. We cannot say for certain where they are on the island, or even that they are still there. It will be for you to find them. I wish you well." The aircraft started to drop rapidly toward the runway. "Do not look for me after we leave the aircraft, but either I or one of the local operators will be near by when we are needed." "How will I be able to identify them?" "You won't. They will keep their identity hidden until it is vital for the success of your mission that they act. Once they are shown to be Interpol agents, their future value on Sicily is nil, and they will have to be moved for their own safety." "Oh," Brookes muttered. This was no game. This was playing for keeps. An airport hostess met them as they entered the main foyer. "Mr. Chalmers, Mr. Rata?" she asked. Brookes nodded. "The people who were to have met you at the airport have, unfortunately, been delayed. They have asked us to issue you with tickets to travel to the town of Caltanisetta. They will meet you at the bus stop in that town." She handed them a ticket each, then led them to where a bus was parked. The driver waited impatiently beside it. He burst into a torrent of Italian at the sight of the hostess, gesticulating vigorously. He was not happy at having to wait for a couple of foreign tourists. The girl snapped back, equally rapidly, and his anger subsided to be replaced by a look of awe. "I have apologized to the driver for holding up his bus. He is happy now. He will let you off in the town square at Caltanisetta. I have told him that the Mario limousine will meet you there and take you to the Mario villa."

There was that name Mario again, but this time the effect had been dramatic. It changed the angry, voluble driver into a lamb. Mario must be well known in Sicily. The Sicilian drove as if propelled by a death wish. He threw the bus around the curves of the winding mountain roads like a frustrated rally driver. Brookes hated to think what would happen if they met something coming the other way. The view down into the valleys was spectacular, but he was in no mood to appreciate it. His fingers firmly grasped the back of the seat in front of him as he tried to stay anchored to his seat. The other passengers, wedged firmly into their seats, gossiped on with a total lack of concern. They ignored the strangers in their midst. Brookes looked across at Walsh. He appeared to be equally uncomfortable. Caltanisetta was perched on the side of a mountain, looking down to green valleys far below. It was an old town, reeking with history, but with a few modern buildings interspersed with the historic. The town square was a hive of activity, with people milling around in all directions. The bus pulled to a stop and was immediately surrounded by a swarm of people who had come to meet the other passengers, or to collect goods they had ordered from Palermo. Brookes and Walsh struggled through the crowd with their bags, seeking a place of security against the side of a stone building. A voice spoke from behind them. "Mr. Chalmers, Mr. Rata. Welcome to Caltanisetta. Mr. Mario apologizes for not being here to greet you in person, but security demands otherwise in these moments of unfortunate stress. I am his son Bernardo. Please come with me."

CHAPTER 23: CALTANISETTA The long dark limousine pulled in beneath the balcony of the mansion perched on the side of the mountain. White granite columns were covered with a red flowering creeper with an almost overpowering scent. Three wide steps led to the front entrance. Standing on either side of the ornate carved wooden doors were two guards, dressed in black and carrying automatic machine pistols. Others lurked in the shadows, equally well armed. Brookes thought he had also heard the baying of guard dogs as they were let

through the heavy metal entrance gate. He saw two on leashes being led through the bushes. This was no ordinary home but a fortress. They were taken through the front door and into the luxurious interior, the like of which he had never seen except in the movies. Deep carpet muffled his footsteps as he followed Bernardo toward another set of heavy wooden doors. These were also guarded but they swung open as the men approached. Inside, six men were seated around a massive oak table, its surface gleaming in the light from the huge crystal chandelier suspended over it. The men were all dressed alike in dark business suits, white shirts and red ties. Each wore a red carnation in their lapel. Cigar smoke hung over the table like a miniature storm cloud. Standing silently around the room were other guards, their weapons openly displayed and ready to use. There was tension in the air, a sense of foreboding. "Welcome, Mr. Chalmers and Mr. Rata," the man at the head of the table said. "I am Roberto Mario, the head of the Mario family. It is unfortunate that your journey had to be made at such stressful times. When the invitation was extended, our friends, the Gabarinie family, still operated within the guidelines of the truce that has existed for many years in Sicily. Unfortunately that is no longer true. They have changed the rules without consultation with the other families." "But that, my friends, should not concern you or our joint New Zealand venture. We will discuss that later, but first I will have you shown to your rooms so that you can rest and freshen up after your long journey from the other side of the world. I am sorry that you had to make the journey from Palermo by bus, but the risk of an ambush by the Gabarinie was too great and our helicopters are needed here to protect the mansion." Roberto snapped his fingers. A young maid, dressed in a black and white miniskirted outfit, hurried into the room. "Show my visitors to their rooms," he told her. "See that their needs are met. Dinner will be served in two hours." The maid curtsied, then left with Brookes and Walsh following. In the corridor she passed them over to another maid, also dressed in the same sort of abbreviated outfit. They were led down a long corridor, then turned into another that led off at right angles. Armed guards were posted at each window. Mario was taking no chances at being surprised by his enemies. The maid reached the end of this second corridor and stopped between two doors

opposite each other across the corridor. She opened the first and curtsied to Walsh. He stepped through the opening, pulling the door closed behind him. "_Entrare in, per favore_," she said with a smile as she opened the second door. Brookes walked through the open door. He guessed she had told him to enter the room. He heard the door close behind him, stretched, then wandered off to look for the bathroom. He could do with a shower after the long journey. "It is not polite to leave a woman alone in your bedroom, Mr. Chalmers," a soft voice said from behind him. He spun around. The young maid was now sitting on the bed, legs crossed as she leaned back on her elbows. "Who are you?" he asked in surprise. "I didn't know you could speak English." "I can speak it very well, and also French and German. It makes it interesting when the Mario family has guests. The visitors speak in their own tongue when old Roberto is not in the room; I find out many interesting things." "Which you no doubt pass on to the patriarch for a price," Brookes said with a smile. "Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't; it all depends on what they say and if I like them or not," the young maid said, giggling merrily. "They act surprised when Roberto appears to know their thoughts when they meet the next time." "So we have established that you can speak English. But who are you? You seem too well educated for a maid." "I would be, wouldn't I? It is fun, at times, pretending to be what you are not, is it not? Don't you enjoy doing that?" "I'm not sure I get what you mean," he said, a trifle taken aback. This young woman seemed very self-assured to be just a maid. Was this a trap set by Mario to trip him up? But if it was, she wouldn't have told him she could speak English. He needed to warn Walsh. They would have to be very careful what they said when she was around. "Oh, come now, Mr. Chalmers, you must have disguised yourself at some time so you could pretend to be somebody else?"

"I suppose I did, especially when I was at school," Brookes admitted. "But who are you?" "Have you not guessed yet, Mr. Chalmers," she said with a pout. "I have given you enough hints." Brookes looked at her blankly, then more carefully. There was a strong facial resemblance to Roberto Mario. Could she be related? It was possible, he thought, but then why keep her in the house working as a maid? He had always believed that the Mafia families looked after their own. "You must be related to Roberto Mario," he said slowly. "Very good, Mr. Chalmers," she said with a delighted giggle. "I am his daughter Giovanna." "Then why are you working in the house as a maid?" he asked in surprise. "Not so clever," she said. "I said I enjoyed games. As a maid I can move freely around the house and no one will follow me. Constantly being followed by guards is not good for the libido, Mr. Chalmers. It can lead to a very frustrated daughter." "How do you manage to get away with it as a maid?" "Fools guard my room. They think I spend the afternoons and nights resting; little do they know the real maid spends those hours lying naked and trembling in my bed while I roam the mansion dressed in her uniform." "What if somebody enters your room and finds that you are not there?" "That will never happen. Only my personal maid may enter my room unsummoned. Nobody else would dare invade the privacy of the daughter of Roberto Mario." "But why this charade?" "It is fun, and I have so little fun as the real Giovanna Mario. I am not allowed alone in the company of any male without my father's permission, and then only if either my mother or he is in attendance. It is harsher than a convent." "And you don't like that?" Brookes said with a smile. "I hate it," the young girl said, falling back on the bed. Her short skirt rode up her

legs. Brookes found it hard to ignore the vision of perfection spread out in front of him. Her legs were long and slender, going from shapely ankles up to firm thighs. She wore long black stockings, held up by a black lacy garter belt. She squirmed, making her skirt ride further up her thighs. She wasn't wearing any panties. The quick flash of black he had seen under her skirt as she pivoted outside in the corridor had been the dark patch of hair between her thighs. It was the same silky black colour as the long hair cascading around her shoulders. Slowly she spread her thighs further and began to undulate her hips. "I am frustrated, Mr. Chalmers," she purred. "What are you going to do about it?" "What if somebody comes in and finds us together?" "They will think that you have wasted no time in making your maid your compagno di gioco." "Compagno di gioco?" Brookes said, a puzzled look on his face. "Your playmate," she whispered, letting her hands run down her body, caressing her smooth velvet thighs. "Did my father not tell the maid to make sure all your needs were met? I must not disobey the commands of the patriarch, must I, or I would not be a good servant and would be harshly treated by the head of the household. Do not keep me waiting. It is less than two hours to diner. Let us not wait for the entree." Brookes handed her the dark red wig that had slipped from her head shortly after she lay on the bed. She hadn't realized it had fallen. She put it back on her head, then accepted the hand he was holding out to help her to her feet. This was the first man who had ignored her offer of sexual release, not from fear but by choice. She rose unsteadily to her feet, unsure what to make of this stranger from the South Pacific. "I hope you remain as our guest for a long time," she whispered. "You are the first real man that has visited here for many years, ever since I was a young girl. Those who come are either frightened off by my family's reputation or are only here to try and impress my father." "Then I am sorry for you," Brookes told her gently. "But surely you don't have to stay?" "It is the tradition of our people," she said sadly. "I must not leave until I am married, but no one will marry me because of my father's reputation. If I did leave the villa and tried to start a new life, the other mafioso would search for me to extract revenge for what my father has done in the past. I cannot leave here, yet I do not want to

stay." She kissed him gently on the lips then slipped silently out of the door. She didn't see the shadowy figure looking out the window toward the distant hills. He didn't recognize her, just the maid's uniform that she wore.

CHAPTER 24: THE FAMILY MARIO Brookes showered, dressed and waited patiently for the call to dinner. His talk with Giovanna had made him realize just how famished he was -- for food and drink! He had eaten sparingly on the flight over and there had been little time for refreshments at Palermo. He heard a soft tap at his door. "Come in," he called. There was no movement, just another gentle knock. Of course, whoever it was probably didn't speak English. He rose from the couch, crossed the room and opened the door. A young blonde maid, dressed in the same brief black and white outfit, stood shyly outside. She blushed when she saw him running his eyes over her curvy young body. Her eyes dropped. _"Scusi,"_ she whispered shyly. _"La cena e servote."_ She looked up to see the blank look in his eyes and giggled. She mimed the motions of eating, then rubbed her stomach. Brookes grinned, then copied the motions. As she nodded, he let his hand rub her stomach. She gasped and turned a bright scarlet. She looked up again, then giggled when she saw him laughing. She went toward the other door. He placed his hand on her arm and shook his head, touching his chest. She smiled gratefully as he knocked on the door and called for Rata to join them for dinner. _"Seguire, per favore,"_ she said, turning on her high heels, which revealed the pale flesh of her thighs. Her skirt rose almost as high as her waist. The maid led them down the corridor toward the dining room.. The Mario family was already seated around the large banquet table when Brookes and Walsh entered.

Roberto, as head of the family, rose to welcome them formally to his humble home. His wife Costanza sat at his left. An imposing woman, Brookes could see where Giovanna had gotten her beauty. "You have already met my son Bernardo," he said, pointing to the young man sitting at his right hand. "Next to her mother is my daughter Giovanna." Brookes and Walsh inclined their heads in her direction. She smiled back, then dropped her eyes. She wore a tight red satin dress, cut to accent her figure. The creamy mounds of her breasts, forced up and out by the dress design, reflected the lights from the chandelier. Quickly Roberto flew through the introductions to the other members of the family, just as quickly Brookes forgot their names as his eyes kept darting back to watch Giovanna. "Tonight we dine," Roberto said. "Tomorrow we talk. I hope you do not mind the delay in finalizing our plans." "I'm sure Mr. Chalmers will not mind," Bernardo said with a smile. "He has other things on his mind; he has already found himself a _compagno di gioco."_ "So quickly, Mr. Chalmers," Roberto said in surprise. "Who is she?" "I don't really know," Brookes said. "It looked like one of the maids," Bernardo said. "I saw her leaving his chamber as I stood at one of the windows looking back towards the snows of Etna." "Do you wish her sent back tonight, Mr. Chalmers?" Roberto asked. "I don't think I could stand the pace after flying halfway around the world," Brookes said with a laugh. "All I want tonight is a good sleep, so I can be fresh when we start our discussions tomorrow." "A wise move, my friend," the old man said with a smile. "But the girl might have other plans," Bernardo said. "Did she say anything before she left?" "She muttered something, but I could only pick up three words. They sounded like _sesso, piu and ritorno._ That wasn't the order, but I'm certain those were the words." "Then you had better lock your door if you don't want a visitor," Bernardo said with a laugh. "The girl will be back."

"I suppose you are curious as to why we have so many armed men in and around the house," Roberto said, looking at his guests. "I was a bit curious," Brookes agreed. "It did seem like very heavy security, especially in view of your position in Sicily." "Six months ago it would have been totally unnecessary and I would have needed few armed guards, now I need an army. The Gabarinie family has gone mad. They have grandiose plans. They fight us all for control of the mafioso as if they want to build a new empire. It will never be, but many good men will die to stop them. Vincente Scarlati was killed last week, his house destroyed by a massive car bomb that his own guards allowed into his garage. With him went many members of his family and control of Palermo. That is why I was not able to meet you at the airport. That territory is now controlled by the Gabarinie family. They are slaughtering the members of any other family who tries to cross their territory." "Surely the other families will combine to return him to his proper place," Brookes murmured. "His proper place is in Hell; that is where he was spawned and that is where he belongs," Bernardo said bitterly. "He is bringing in men and weapons from other countries, mainly the break-away Russian republics, and turning them against his own Brotherhood. He might win control of the land but he will never win the hearts of the people. They would rather work with the police." "Could it be a government plot to destabilize the Brotherhood?" "We have thought of that, and it is possible, but only time will tell. In the meantime we must be prepared to fight to retain what is ours by tradition." "Is it effecting your cartel?" "In Sicily, yes. Our overseas interests are as yet untouched. Even now I have several captives waiting shipment to my houses in Naples where I am running short of women, yet there is a risk in moving them by road." "Why not fly them out?" "I have suggested that," Bernardo said. "However, the risk is great of being intercepted by police helicopters and forced down. Then we would not only loose our new girls but also the helicopter. While the girls can be replaced, the aircraft are necessary at this time for our protection."

"How are your drug shipments being effected?" Walsh asked. "They are not; our clearing houses are not in Sicily but scattered throughout Italy and Europe, as well as in the Middle East. Even if we were to loose one or two, the supply from the others would fill the gap. Your supply line to New Zealand would not be effected, the clearing house that handles your shipments is being moved to Australia." "That's good news," Brookes said, apparent relief in his voice. "Our clientele is growing, we must continue to provide what they crave or they might turn to other suppliers." "The South American drug barons would be eager to fill the gap if our supplies dried up," Roberto agreed, his voice growing harsh as he imagined a future without the money and power that had been around him since childhood. "They are already doing that in America; it is hurting the families based in the south and west coast areas." Roberto rose, stretching. As if on cue, the two women also rose and excused themselves. Brookes glanced down at his watch. It was almost midnight. "Do not be anxious, Mr. Chalmers," Bernardo said with a smile. "The night is still young." "And I'm not as young as I thought I was," Brookes added. "The journey has taken more out of me than I thought. It will definitely be a case of locked doors tonight." An elderly maid led Brookes and Walsh back to their rooms. It was night and everywhere the young maids had been replaced by their older counterparts. The young were allowed to rest at night, unless they were required for other _services._ There was a faint nightlight over the king-size bed. The covers were pulled back. He could smell a delicate perfume hanging around the bed. He smiled when he recognized it. Giovanna had been in, or maybe her maid had borrowed some of her perfume, but it was definitely the perfume she had been wearing at dinner. "I will not stay," Giovanna said as she stepped from behind the curtains. "I want to thank you for not telling my father I had been in your room earlier." "Nobody recognized you, so you're safe. I will not tell them of the games you enjoy playing. That is not for them to know. Tell me, are you worried at what is happening outside the walls of the mansion?"

"For my own safety, no. As a woman I am nothing in this country. If I was captured by one of the other families, they might force me into a marriage of convenience, but that would be no great deal. I would have a new name, but I would be just as ignored as I am now. But I do fear for my father and brother. If they are taken prisoner, their fate is death. There would be no chance of a reprieve, but they take that risk by choice." "Are you frightened of being seen here with me tonight?" "Should I be?" Giovanna asked with a smile. "What if I, like you, am playing a game? I might not be what I seem to be." "That wouldn't worry me, but I would be concerned for you if you are caught. If you are not who you say you are, take me with you when you leave. It would be a release from an uncertain and unstable future." "But I'm not Italian," Brookes told her. "I would be leaving your country and you might never see Italy or Sicily again." "I don't care," Giovanna muttered. "I need freedom for myself. This life is worse than being in a prison. I have all the comforts that money can provide, yet I cannot leave this mansion without risk. It is a horrible feeling, never knowing who your real friends are." She started to sob softly, no longer the young self-assured woman who had first come to his room. Brookes held her gently in his arms while she sobbed. "You are a truly beautiful young woman," he told her when her tears stopped. "There would be no shortage of suitors for your hand if you were anywhere else in the world." "Thank you," Giovanna whispered, letting her lips brush against his cheek. "You are the first man who has spoken to me like a human, not a prize to be won. I hope that some day I can repay your kindness and consideration. But now I must return to my room, otherwise I might try and melt your resolve, and that might not be good for either of us in these dangerous times." Giovanna slipped quickly through the door and glided down the corridor towards her own room, while Brookes settled back in his bed to try and get some sleep. His dreams were confused, a tangle of conflicting images -- prominent among them his wife, his daughter and now Giovanna. It had been hard to resist her charms -- had he been unmarried -- but there were more pressing problems on the horizon.

Brookes woke with the sun, taking a few seconds to get his bearings and to slide back into his assumed identity. Brookes knocked softly on the door to Walsh's room. There was a muffled curse, then the sound of footsteps padding across the carpet. The door slid open. Walsh looked out through the crack. "Oh, it's you," he muttered, opening the door fully. There was a squeal and a flash of golden limbs as Brookes walked through the door. The young maid dived under the blankets. She peered out from under them, then let them slide off when she realized it was the other foreign visitor. She stood up and slipped her uniform back on. She had a beautiful, cuddly body.

CHAPTER 25: CAPTURED Roberto Mario glared furiously across the breakfast table at his son. Why had Bernardo elected this time in his life to exert his independence and make a decision without consulting his father? True, he had been urging Bernardo to stand on his own feet for many years now, but why pull such a stupid trick in the middle of the family confrontation between the Gabarinie and the other families of Sicily? He knew the house would be watched, why try and ship the girls to the brothels, and at night when ambushes could be laid at every twist and turn of the road! The only thing in his favor was that he had decided to take them through Catania, a town on the opposite coast from Palermo. It was a town under friendly control so the transfer, to the boat that would have taken the girls to the mainland, should have gone without a hitch. Instead there had been problems right from the start. On the road between Caltanisetta and Enna the cars had come upon a hay wagon drawn across the road at one of the narrowest parts, blocking it completely. They were forced to slow, but there was no way they could turn and return to the villa. The guard from the lead car got out to try and move the wagon. He had been the first casualty of the ambush. The Mario men had put up a fight, but they were no match for the Gabarine men lying in wait behind the wagon. The dozens of empty shell cases, both near the cars and the wagon bore witness to the severity of the shootout, but there was no sign of any of

the women who were being transferred to the mainland. The Mario helicopter pilot confirmed that the two cars had been forced off the road and into the deep storm water drains, but they had not been able to get any closer because the police were already at the scene. The police confirmed the pilot's worst fears. Nobody had survived the gun battle, but their body count differed from what Bernardo said should have been in the cars. The police had only found five men; the vehicles each had a driver and two guards when they left the Mario villa -- and a load of young women. Eyewitnesses in Caltanisetta confirmed that at least three other vehicles had taken off after the Mario vehicles, following them at a safe distance. They had also taken the precaution of traveling without lights, which was a hazardous undertaking on the narrow, winding Sicilian roads. This was a classic trap and now he had lost two vehicles and at least five men. He was not sure about the sixth. There should have been a sixth body, but the police had only been able to find five. Had the other man managed to escape into the hills in the darkness? The helicopter had seen no trace of anyone on foot in the area Or had he been a spy sent to lay the trap for the Mario men? Just as important, where were the women? There had been no female bodies at the scene of the ambush, and no traces of blood on the back seats. The police were adamant of that. With all the bullets flying around, it was be a miracle that none of them were killed. Maybe the Gabarinie family, as a snub to the Mario's, had kidnapped them. Their end use would be the same, no matter which family held them. They both ran brothels that needed an endless flow of new flesh to satisfy their patrons. Still it was the principle of the thing that annoyed Roberto. He had gone to a lot of trouble bringing these women to Sicily. They were not common local stock, nor were any of them Italian. He'd had the total consignment collected overseas so they would add a new dimension to his brothels in Naples. Roberto vowed he would get his revenge on the Gabarinie, no matter how long it took. Brookes had watched the heated exchange between father and son. While he hadn't understood the actual words, the implications of the gestures were clear. Roberto was definitely displeased with something Bernardo had done. Giovanna had changed places at the table so she now sat next to Brookes. He smiled at her, then leaned sideways to ask what the fracas was all about.

"My dear brother took it upon himself to send the new girls out last night, trying to get them past the Gabarinie in the dark." Brookes managed to hide his concern. "Was he successful?" "Not at all," Giovanna said. "We have lost two cars and at least six men, which we cannot afford at this time." "What about the women," Brookes asked, trying to hide the fear in his heart. "I don't know," Giovanna shrugged, as if it was a matter of little or no importance. "There were no female bodies at the scene of the ambush, so I suppose the Gabarinie have taken them and they will end up working for them now." Thank God for that, Brookes thought. At least it appeared they were still alive, even thought the search would now have to start again. Now there was nothing to keep him at the Mario villa. When a suitable excuse presented itself, Walsh and he could leave Caltanisetta. But they wouldn't be taking his wife and daughter with them. After breakfast Giovanna invited Brookes to walk with her in the garden. It was a fine day, cloudless with a warm sun beating down on them as they strolled through the landscaped grounds deep in conversation. Their walk took them past a long, low building that once was the stables but was now the garage. Brooks noticed a young Arab boy busily engaged in filling the bullet holes in the side of one of the vehicles as it was repaired prior to repainting. The Arab notice him. A gong echoed around the mansion. It was time for the midday meal to be served in the lounge. The family was already assembled when Giovanna led Brookes through the door. It seemed a very solemn occasion. Walsh was seated to one side, talking with Costanza. Bernardo stood behind Roberto. There seemed to be an unusual number of armed guards present for an informal occasion such as lunch. "It is good of you to join us, Mr. Brookes," Roberto said, very formally. Brookes stopped in mid-stride, trying to hide his surprise. He looked around as if trying to seek out the new face.

"There is no one else here, Mr. Brookes. It is no good trying to pretend you do not know the name." "Of course I know the name," Brookes said. "Brookes was the bastard who helped the police hijack our guns, ammunition and drugs from the ship off the New Zealand coast. He cost us a lot of money, and a major loss of mana. He's been a pain in the butt for us for months." "But you will not be that any more, will you, Mr. Brookes?" "I do wish you'd stop calling me Brookes," Brookes muttered. "Why not? Don't you like your own name, Mr. Brookes?" "Of course I do; that's why I have a passport made out to Alan Chalmers. That's my name." "I'm afraid not, Mr. Brookes. I have just received information from New Zealand that Mr. Chalmers was killed in a shoot-out with the New Zealand police less than twenty-four hours ago. That is why he is not here, and you are, Mr. Brookes." "But I've been out of New Zealand for several days, so it can't be me who was killed," Brookes protested. "As you can see, I'm very much alive. Somebody must have taken my identity." 'Rather, you took his identity, Mr. Brookes." "Check my passport. It's genuine." "I have, and it certainly appears to be genuine. That worries me; it means that you must be here with your government's blessing." "But the New Zealand government would never issue a passport in a false name," Brookes protested. "Maybe, maybe not. But it is not only your passport that reveals your true identity." "So what other lies do you have about me?" "A young boy watched you in the desert while you killed his father. He tells me that you blew him apart with some sort of explosive device." "You've got to be joking. I've never been in any desert, other than the tussock lands

of New Zealand. I've sure as hell never blown a man apart." "The picture he took of you tells me otherwise. He took it from the shelter of a tent at the Home of the Angels. He has carried it with him, hoping some day to avenge his father's death." "He must be mistaken," Brookes insisted. "I'm afraid not. Abdul, show Mr. Brookes your picture." The young Arab boy jerked forward and thrust a well-worn picture under Brookes' nose. It was a Polaroid taken just before he had thrown the pen-bomb that dismembered the Arab torturer. While scratched and stained, his face could be clearly seen in the light from the flares dropped from the aircraft during the raid. "As you say in your country, Mr. Brookes, the game is up. I am sorry. I was beginning to like you, but why are you here in Sicily? What have you come to seek?" "My wife and daughter." Costanza and Giovanna both gasped out aloud, their hands flying to their mouths. Roberto stiffened. "What do you mean, your wife and daughter? What are they doing in Italy and why do you seek them in my house?" "Because, until your son lost them last night, they were being held prisoner in your basement. They were the two women given to you by your Maori friends, the two women you smuggled out of the country only hours before we destroyed the Maori hideout near Wellington." "Then you are not Mr. Rata," Roberto said, turning to Walsh. "Of course he is," Brookes snapped, trying to cover for Walsh. "He didn't know who I was; he thought I was one of their group planning the overthrow of..." "I am not a radical," Walsh scoffed. "I am not Rata, my name is Walsh. I am with the New Zealand Police." "This is not good," Roberto groaned, dropping his head onto his hands. "I do not need these complications at this time." He straightened, glaring at his two now unwelcome guests.

"I have no option, you know too much," he snapped. "Take them to the basement and lock them in a cell. We will decide their fate when the family meets tomorrow. Until then, do not lose them like you lost the women, Bernardo." "But, father..." Giovanna gasped. "Do not interfere with what does not concern you, Giovanna," he told her sternly. "The family will decide, and their will shall be carried out. Go to your room. I have much to think about." The cells under the mansion were dark and dingy, carved into the solid rock on which the mansion was built. It was hard to keep track of the time, or even to tell if it was day or night. They seemed to have been there for hours, but it could have been only minutes. The solid doors had only small viewing ports, opened from the outside. There was a single bulb set in a recess high in the ceiling and covered with a metal grill. The floor was damp rock, the walls reinforced concrete. A single wooden bench and a small bucket were the only pieces of furniture. Brookes and Walsh had been put in separate cells. While they adjoined each other, conversation was difficult through the solid concrete. There was no way through. Brookes tried the door. It was solid. Without tools, it would be impossible to shift it. Maybe one of the exploding pens would have been of help, but this time he only had an ordinary biro. He heard a slap, followed by a loud giggle. The slide at the top of the door opened. "Are you awake," a harsh voice called through the gap. "How can I sleep with so much noise out there," Brookes called back. "It's your lucky day," the guard sniffed. "The mistress must be weak in the head; she has sent you and your friend a last supper, with instructions that it be served to you by the maids. Treating you like royalty. Still, I suppose it won't matter. There'll be no more suppers where you're going." He slid the door open. A young maid slipped through the gap, twisting and giggling as she tried to avoid the guard's questing hand. "He'll pay for that," the maid muttered as the door slammed shut behind her. Her voice was no longer high-pitched and giggly. It had dropped to a more melodious tone, strangely familiar.

The girl threw herself into Brookes' arms, pressing against him. She raised her face, her lips seeking his. He gasped. It was Giovanna. "What the hell are you doing here?" he muttered. "I am going to help you escape," she said determinedly. "And just how are you going to do that?" he asked gently. "We are in the basement under your father's mansion, with many meters of solid rock and concrete between us and the outside world. Just how are you going to get me out of here?" "I don't know, but I will. I will not let them kill you." "Why should you risk everything for me?" "You made me realize just what I have been missing. I have been a prisoner in my own father's house. My friends have to be approved by him. My trips away from the villa have to be with an armed escort. No wonder no one my age is interested in me. I must frighten them." "What would your father do if he found you here with me?" "I don't know, and I don't care. When you leave, I'm coming with you. "You took a risk coming here," Brookes whispered, stroking her hair. "Not as great as the risk you took following your wife and daughter half-way around the world." "It was because of me that they were kidnapped . I can not let them spend the rest of their lives as slaves in some low-class brothel." "I am jealous of her," Giovanna whispered. "Jealous of Jan?" "Yes, if that is your wife's name," Giovanna said, a deep passion in her voice. "I am jealous that you must love her so much that you followed her to Sicily to get her back. Oh, that someone could love me as much." "Many will, if they get the chance to meet you away from the restraints of your family," Brookes told her. "I am sorry for you that you have so little real freedom. Wealth on it's own means nothing unless you can enjoy it."

Brookes glanced at the solid door. It looked impenetrable. He looked down at Giovanna. "How do you expect to get me out of here," he asked curiously. "I will taunt the guard with my body; you can hit him over the head so we can leave." "What will I hit him with, I have no weapons, just an empty bucket? All he has to do is to drag you into the passage and slam the door behind him, then he can rape you at his leisure while I am still helpless in the cell." "There must be a way." "There is. I will give you the name of the local Interpol agent. You must find her, so that she can mount a raid on the villa." "That will take too long. She will have to get enough men together who do not have links with the mafioso. That will take a very long time here in Sicily." They stood looking blankly at each other. Their situation seemed hopeless, yet there must be some way out. Giovanna screamed and threw herself into Brookes' arms in fear as the mansion rocked from a massive explosion. Other explosions followed in rapid succession. They could hear the clatter of automatic weapons fire outside, coupled with the screams of wounded and dying men. What an earth was happening? Was this the Gabarinie attack Roberto had been expecting? The door to the basement blew open, then a hail of bullets flew down the passage. Brookes heard a gurgling gasp as the guard fell dead outside the cell door. The body was dragged clear, then the door was swung open. A black-clad gunman stared through the opening into Brookes' cell, then smiled when he saw the prisoner with a struggling maid in his arms. A similar scene had been enacted in the next cell as well. Giovanna had brought another maid with her to serve supper for Walsh. A young man in a dark business suite stepped into the basement. He stared at the two prisoners and their female companions. "_Parla italiano?"_ he asked.

Brookes and Walsh both shook their heads. "_Parla francese?"_ They shook their heads again. "We are from New Zealand," Brookes said, hoping it made sense to their rescuer. "I speak English, also," the young man said with a smile. "What are you doing in the Mario basement?" "That's a long story." "Then you shall tell my father. Come with me." "Can we keep the presents we were given in our death cell?" Brookes asked, fondling Giovanna's rounded hips. "Why? They are only common working girls, even if their form isn't too bad." "True, but this is the only present I have ever received from that old miser Roberto, and I haven't had time to enjoy it yet." "_Buono_," the young man said with a grin. "It would be bad to be frustrated by one as rounded as yours. Do you also wish to keep your present?" he asked Walsh "I guess so," Walsh said. "If she's no good, I can always trade her for a better model at the local brothel." "That would be easy to arrange, it you want. But come, we must not waste any more time. Gather your clothes," he told the young maid with Walsh. Quickly they collected the scattered garments and the maid slipped into them. The two women then meekly followed their new masters into an unknown future.

CHAPTER 26: PALERMO The initial attack had launched grenades through the windows to explode inside the building. Immediately following, rockets broke through the main gate and three areas of the surrounding walls. The well-organized attack caught the defenders by surprise as they rushed around the smoking ruin trying to guess where the next attack was going to

hit. Fragmentation grenades followed the path of the first salvo and had caught the guards in the open as they rushed to their defensive positions. The damage to life and limb was horrific. Broken bodies lay scattered around the lounge and dining room. Roberto and Bernardo had been in conversation with Costanza when the first grenades came through the windows. They had died instantly Giovanna managed to hold her grief in check when she saw their bodies lying on the bloodstained carpet. There would be time for grief later. Now she was a maid, and must act the part. It was time for the performance of her life; her survival depended on it. An elderly man stood by the bodies, looking down at his former adversary. His eyes held no trace of pity or sorrow. "Papa, I have found these two prisoners in the cells beneath the mansion," the young man said. "They were given the maids for their last night on this earth. They have asked if they can keep the young women to use at their leisure. I have agreed. Is that acceptable?" The old man nodded in agreement. Brookes breathed a sigh of relief. At least they had surmounted the first hurdle in getting Giovanna out of the mansion. "There are only three members of the Mario family here," he snarled. "Find Giovanna. She must be hiding in the mansion some where, Roberto would never let her out of his sight. Do not let her escape." Men ran from the room to carry out his commands. "When they find her, she can be your plaything, son," he said, turning to the young man. "They tell me she is a spoiled bitch, so it should be fun bending her will to your pleasure. When you grow tired of her, she can be put to work in our brothels. I'm sure we would have many who would like to screw old Mario's daughter in revenge for the way he used to screw them. It will be the first honest day's work she has done in her life. The experience will be good for her soul." "But not for her back," the young man added with a laugh. "Excuse me," Brookes said politely. "I thought I heard your father mention the Mario daughter. Would her name be Giovanna?"

"Yes. The bitch has escaped." "I think I might be able to help you," Brookes said, not looking in the direction of the two maids standing at the end of the smoldering table. "I think I might know where she could be." The old man looked up, his eyes filled with hate. "Then tell me, so my men can find her and drag her before me." "I don't know much Italian, only a few words that I have picked up since coming to Sicily. I heard the girl and her mother talking before I was sent to the basement. They seemed to be arguing, so I listened in case they said anything that I could use later. I'm not too sure of the words and my pronunciation is probably terrible, but you might be able to make sense of them." "I will try," the old man said with the first hint of a smile. "What did the bitches say?" "I heard something that sounded like _Viaggiare_, then _Roma -- _I figure that means Rome." "That is correct. _Viaggiare_ means to travel to. So the bitch could have gone to Rome. What else did they say?" "There was a word that sounded like _Settimana_, or something like that, then two more that could have been _Giorno_ and _Festivo._ They were run together, quite fast." "A week's holiday," the young man muttered. "But when, now or in the future?" "That I don't know. The mother was shaking her head vigorously at the start of the conversation as if she was saying _not so,_ then she gave an exasperated shrug of her shoulders. There was a look of delight on her daughter's face, almost as if she had won something. She hurried from the room, calling for her maid. She was in an obvious rush." The guards came back. They had been unable to find any trace of the missing Giovanna. "Then she must have taken the holiday immediately," the old man muttered in anger. "We will have our men search the hotels in Rome. She will only stay at the best. When they find her, bring her back to Sicily. She must have slipped away during the night."

"What strange events brought you to be a guest in Roberto's cells?" he asked, turning to Brookes. "My friend and I represent a New Zealand interest that would open up trade routes for drugs and guns to our mutual benefit. The New Zealand police, because of poor security at the departure point, intercepted a trial shipment. We were already on our way to Sicily to negotiate a further shipment when we heard the news. The Mario family had guaranteed a successful delivery or no further payment was to change hands. Roberto wanted to change the rules. We were to be kept as hostages as he demanded payment for the consignment in police hands. We are new in the market. We cannot make payments for goods that we do not receive." "That seems a reasonable business commitment," the elderly Gabarinie agreed. "What size shipment was the first consignment?" "Two metric tons of hard drugs, several cases of automatic weapons and rocket launchers, as well as several thousand rounds of ammunition." "_Santa Madre Dio_," the old man gasped. "What are you starting, a private war?" "We fight for the return of our lands," Walsh said, adopting the role of a good radical. "The time for talking is past, now the blood must flow as we drive the colonial oppressors back into the sea from which they came more than a century ago. The drugs will take the money out of their pockets, which we will turn into the guns that drive them from our shores. There will be the dawning of a new day in our country as the _tangata whenua_, children of the land, rise to reclaim their rights." Brookes could see the old man's eyes light up at the thought of the massive new overseas market opening to him. After the revolution there would be a friendly government. It would give him a secure base on the other side of the world. It was too good an opportunity to miss. "Tomorrow we will talk more of business deals that will be good for both of us," he said. "Tonight we return to Palermo. Are you sure you want to take these sluts with you?" he asked, turning to look at the two maids standing with downcast eyes. "There are many better and more skilled at my villa." "But they were not a gift from Roberto," Brookes said with a smile. "It will be the last gift I get from a Mario, and I want to make the most of it. He tried to screw us, now we can at least think about him as we screw his gifts." "Well put," the old man said with a laugh. "Let them travel with you, you can warm them up on the way."

Brookes climbed into the back seat of one of the cars. Giovanna was forced in beside him. Walsh traveled in a different car with the young blonde. Giovanna was as cold as ice. Brookes drew her onto his lap and wrapped his coat around her. Slowly she warmed in his encircling arms and buried her head against his chest. He could feel her tears wetting his shirt, yet she still managed to hold herself in check. He marveled at her self-control. She had seen the death of her parents, yet she had not been able to show her grief. If she had broken down she would have revealed her identity, and that would have ended any hope she had for freedom.

The drive to Palermo was made in silence, each person deep in his or her own thoughts. Giovanna dozed in Brookes' arms. She was still sitting in the jaws of a lion, but at least Brookes was there to keep them apart. One false move from either of them and the teeth would close around her neck. It was a perilous situation, but she nevertheless felt strangely secure. He could have easily given away her identity at the villa. That would have put him in good standing with the Gabarinie family, instead he had not only lied to save her but he had sent the searchers off on a wild goose chase. They were strange men, these foreigners from the South Pacific. They appeared weak, yet they were prepared to take great risks for the people they loved. Many would have grieved at the capture of their loved ones, made the appropriate demands of the authorities, but they wouldn't have had the courage to chase the enemy around the globe. The car slowed as it approached the outskirts of the city. They swung to the west, then turned south again and followed the road around the hills overlooking the main industrial area. Above the road stood a large white mansion surrounded by high walls, only approachable from the south. The other three walls were built right to the edge of the steep cliffs that plummeted down to the valley floor. Within the walls stood a stately old villa surrounded by beautifully landscaped gardens. It was almost as old as the hills on which it stood, dating back to the days of the Roman emperor Julius Caesar, but adapted to meet its new use. Immediately around the inner walls was a three-meter wide perimeter of bare earth, then a high barbed wire fence. Between the fence and the walls was a no-man's land patrolled by savage Doberman guard dogs. Two pair were kept in the villa's kennels. They each did a 12hour period on patrol, fed only after they returned to the kennels. They would make short work of anyone who accidentally, or deliberately, strayed into the forbidden area. The car stopped under the over-hanging balcony. Uniformed servants hurried down the steps to open the car doors. Unlike the Mario villa, armed guards were not so much in evidence. Brookes had no doubt they were around, but the security was much more

discrete. Gabarinie did not feel as threatened as his Caltanisetta counterpart. Brookes and Walsh were ushered into the lounge, the maids following at a discrete distance. "Ah, you have brought me new compagno di gioco," a tall young woman cried, hurrying forward to openly run her hands over the bodies of the two young women, cupping their breasts and feeling under their short skirts. "Leave them alone, daughter," the old man told her. "They are not for you, they belong to our guests." "But you promised me a new _ragazza._ I grow tired of the ones I have, their bodies no longer please me." "That is too bad. These _ragazza_ belong to our guests, you cannot have them." "Can't I at least try them, to see if I find them pleasing, in case our guests tire of them," she pleaded, her eyes hungrily devouring the two maids in the brief outfits. "You will have to ask our guests for their permission, but that will have to wait until tomorrow. They have only just been given the maids by old Roberto Mario and they haven't used them yet themselves," he told his daughter. "Children," the old man muttered, turning to his guests and looking to the heavens in mock despair as the young woman flounced around the room, her eyes flashing. "It is bad enough having a daughter, but this one acts more like a man. She even dresses like a man," he added with a sigh, watching the lights reflect off the shiny black leather trousers and jacket that clung to her tall, elegant body. "I would not like to be a maid in this house," her brother added. "The girls are more at risk from her than all the other men put together." "Take the maids to their masters' chambers," he instructed a guard. "I'll go," his daughter said, springing to her feet. "Stay, Leonora," he told her with a wave of his hand. "You must speak with our guests first; later you can think about their servants." Leonora dropped back onto the couch, crossing her legs in open defiance but not brave enough to disobey him further by leaving the lounge in pursuit of the two young women.

"You must excuse Leonora," the patriarch said. "She is not like other daughters; she challenges the will of her father..." "And gets away with it," his son added. "She is not a dutiful daughter..." "I do what I am told," Leonora muttered. "Eventually," her father interrupted. "Now you must act the hostess to our guests. I know you find men uninteresting, but that is no excuse for ignoring them." "Why?" she demanded, her eyes flashing with anger. "They are only interested in me because I am a Gabarinie. They want me because they think that they will gain favor in your eyes if I accept them. I might be polite and dutiful, but I will never willingly enter a man's bed unless it is on my terms." Brookes watched her through shaded eyes. This was one feisty young woman, prepared to challenge the conventions. God help the man who eventually ended up with her -- if she ever turned from women back to men. Or maybe her refusal to acknowledge men was a protective mechanism to shield her from the sudden deaths and disappearances of males around the Mafia families. She was a strange combination of conflicting characteristics. She tried to appear cold in the presence of males, yet he could sense a hidden heat when she watched some of the younger men without their knowledge. When they were watching, she appeared distant and aloof. She would be a complex challenge to any male. They talked long into the night. The elder Gabarinie relented and let Leonora leave after an hour or more. Brookes figured Gabarinie was keen to cement relations with the growing markets of the south pacific, so he didn't want her strange behavior to detract from the business talk with his guests. Chalmers and Walsh sounded like good contacts to develop. They were proof of the dispatch of the shipment to New Zealand he had found in Mario's records in the villa, together with a telegram advising that certain trade goods had been _mislaid_ on their delivery voyage. The evidence supported Brookes' story.

CHAPTER 27: LEONORA Leonora had pleaded a headache to get permission to leave the lounge at least an hour before the discussion came to an end. A last brandy, then the guests were shown to their rooms. Brookes was happy with the progress they made that evening. He had been

able to lead Erberto, the father, into a discussion on the successful hijacking of the young women on the road to Enna. He smiled proudly as he explained that his eldest son Edoardo had organized the whole operation with help from his second boy Francesco. They had a spy in the Mario villa. "The missing sixth body," Brookes exclaimed. "Correct," Erberto said with a smile. "And that old fool Roberto never suspected a thing." "What happened to the women?" Brookes asked with just the faintest trace of curiosity in his voice. "Surely you didn't plan the ambush just to add more women to your brothels?" "The women were irrelevant." Edoardo grinned. "They were just the catalyst that caused Bernardo to have a convoy try and make a run from the villa. We wanted the Mario guards. The loss of six men, their weapons and two vehicles would add tension in the villa and make our attack more effective." "Did you just dump the women? Surely they would have some commercial value?" "I never dump valuable trading goods," Erberto protested. "They have been sent to Naples, where they can refund me the cost of their capture by earning a living on their backs. They are new faces, and while they are fresh they will be worked in the better houses. When the society gentlemen no longer want them, they will be sent to our houses near the waterfront. Drunken seamen are not so selective, yet they are prepared to pay almost as much for a night with a whore." "Did you loose any of them?" "Not one," Francesco said proudly. "They were dragged from the cars as good as new, not even a scratch on them." _Thank God._ Brookes breathed a sigh of relief. Jan and Jannine were at least alive, even if they were in Naples by now. He must get away from Palermo as soon as he could and renew the search. The thought of Jan being used in a brothel tied his guts in a knot. A faint light glowed under the door to his chambers. He eased the door open and stepped into a small lounge. To one side was a tiny cocktail bar, complete with an espresso coffee machine. Two doors led off the other side, one shut the other slightly open. No light reflected under the closed door. A faint glow shone through the open door.

Brookes walked slowly forward, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. He stopped in surprise. Subdued noises floated through the opening. What was the matter with Giovanna? Had her grief broken free at last, the tension too much to control? It sounded as if she was gasping for breath. She must be letting her grief find the release that it should have had earlier. It would do her good to let her tears flow freely. Giovanna started to groan, then let out a muffled, high-pitched scream. Brookes rushed into the room to comfort her. He stopped dead in his tracks, his jaw slack with shock at the sight. Leonora had gotten there first, and was using some potent comforting tricks that he would have never imagined, but were obviously very effective! "So you beat me to my maid," he said, breaking the silence. The two women gasped, then sprang apart, trying to hide their nudity. "I didn't hear you come in," Giovanna said softly, blushing. "I don't think you were in a position to hear anything," Brookes told her with a smile. "I knew Leonora would come; her reputation is well-know in Sicily. She would not be able to resist a new woman in the villa," Giovanna said with a giggle. "I wondered if she would get here first, or if she would have to spend a frustrated night wondering at the delights she was missing." "And I found much more than I expected," Leonora said. "I had come expecting to find a young and inexperienced servant girl, not the daughter of the Mario's." "What do you mean," Brookes asked calmly, although his heart had skipped a beat. "You found my maid, the one given to me by Roberto Mario." "A maid might have been given to you by Roberto Mario, but this young woman is most definitely his daughter Giovanna. I have lusted after her ever since I first saw her in Palermo when she was only a young child. You do not remember me," she said, turning her head to look at the surprised young woman lying at her side. "We first met at school in Palermo, then again at finishing school in Rome." "I do not remember..." "I was blonde, then, and shy..."

"And you already liked girls better than boys," Giovanna said with a delighted giggle, pressing her body excitedly against her former friend. "I remember now. We shared a room together on that trip to the Alps." "We shared more than a room, we shared each other." "And now we are on opposite sides," Giovanna said sadly. "Your father is looking for me in Rome; what will he do now that my identity is known and I am already a prisoner in his villa?" "Nothing," Leonora said, her voice sharp and brittle. "I know who you are, my father does not. If you do not tell him, then neither will I. We are not part of their stupid war. It is time the women of Sicily showed that the families can live together as friends even when their men are business rivals." "But that can never happen here," Giovanna said in surprise. "The traditions of the mafioso go back for centuries, nobody would dare be the first one to break with history." "Do you have to stay on Sicily?" Brookes asked. "This is not the only country in the world." They looked at him in amazement. Although they were still entwined, the two young women had forgotten Brookes was with them. "A whole world exists outside Italy. You are both young, you can make new lives for yourselves. Take new identities. Make new friends." "It is a tempting idea," Leonora said, looking around the room. "I will ask my father to let me travel to Rome as a first step." "Not a good idea," Brookes said. "Remember, your father is searching in Rome for the missing Mario woman. His men would be able to keep an eye on you and report your every move to him. Why not suggest Naples, then you could vanish from there." "And you?" "Your father thinks that we are going to Rome, but we also intend to go to Naples." Leonora rose slowly from the bed, making no effort to hide her nakedness. "I will return to my room," she murmured. "I have had many new doors opened to me this evening, I must have time to think about my future. I must plan. I leave you to your maid, Mr. Chalmers. At least I will get some sleep. I hope you do, too."

Giovanna giggled as she quickly kissed Leonora on the lips. "My future is also in your hands," she said with a smile. "Guard it well, carino." Leonora left the room; Giovanna pulled the bedclothes around her chin and lay back against the pillows, a contented smile on her face. She didn't know what the future would hold for her, but at least she would have enjoyable memories of the present to take with her into her old age, if fate decreed that she had an old age! Erberto was reluctant to let Leonora travel alone to Naples, but her persistence wore him down. He eventually agreed that she could go, provided she took her maid with her and one of his most trusted guards. She fumed at his lack of trust until he drew her attention that there could still be some Mario supporters alive who would be seeking revenge on anyone or anything linked with the Gabarinie family. This made her fall into line with his wishes, especially when she noticed Brookes nodding guardedly at her, sending signals that she should agree and not risk a confrontation with her father. She got Erberto's secretary to book her into a suite at the top hotel, the one the family always used. Brookes asked her politely if she could also book a room for him and Walsh, as well as the two maids. Erberto looked at him in surprise. "So soon. Why not stay and share the triumph of the Gabarinies," he said with a smile. "That triumph is inevitable," Brookes replied. "I must return to my own country to prepare for the renewal of the shipments. Our group will be getting restless. We have been gone for many days, far longer than we planned." "How far will you take the maids?" "To Naples; after that I haven't decided as yet," Brookes said, letting his eyes run over the two young women. "They are pleasing. I might even take them back to New Zealand with me as our _guests._ After all, they were given as gifts, so they have cost us nothing. They can be added to our _entertainment_ group at our marae in the hills. They would be a useful addition." "Surely there are better women in your own country," Edoardo muttered in disbelief. "These are only common servant girls." "That's true," Walsh said, nodding in agreement. "If they do not satisfy our every

need while in Naples, we might leave them behind." "Talk with my daughter; if you do not take the women with you, I'm sure she would find a use for them. She would either keep them for herself, or arrange for them to be bought by one of our houses. They should work well in a brothel after the training you have no doubt given them."

Francesca Nicola was again a passenger on the flight from Palermo to Naples. The agent at the airport had advised her of the bookings made for the two New Zealanders, but this time they were traveling with two servant girls. Leonora Gabarinie was also a passenger on the same flight. It was too much of a coincident, especially after the destruction of the Mario villa. The passengers arrived from the villa, walking openly together into the terminal. Francesca looked carefully at the two young women behind the two visitors. She recognized the young blonde; she had only recently arrived at Caltanisetta to take up an appointment at the Mario household. How was she now with Brookes in Palermo? The other girl looked vaguely familiar; she bore a strong resemblance to Giovanna Mario, but it was most unlikely she was the Mario daughter. The travelers had come together from the Gabarinie villa. No Mario would be allowed to leave the villa alive. It was lucky that the Gabarinie hadn't picked up the likeness. Word had it that Giovanna hadn't been home when the assault was launched on the Mario's. If she had, she would now most certainly be a prisoner. It was a wonder they hadn't picked up on the vague likeness, then claimed that the young woman was the missing Giovanna Mario and that she had been captured while trying to escape disguised as a maid. Even if the girl had protested that she wasn't, nobody would have believed her. As the travelers passed through the security fence at the Naples terminal she felt a hand slide something into the pocket of her dress. She tensed, looking around. Brookes was standing close behind her, no recognition in his eyes and a noncommittal look on his face. Francesca slid her hand into her pocket. Her fingers touched a piece of folded paper. It hadn't been there before.

CHAPTER 28: NAPLES A smartly-dressed chauffeur with a stretch limousine was waiting in the airport car park. The name of the Grand Hotel was proudly emblazoned on his cap and on the woven coat of arms attached to the pocket of his royal blue blazer. He hurried forward to open the door for Leonora. The Gabarinie were regular visitors to the hotel and a penthouse suite was permanently booked in their name, never to be rented to any other guests. This time the adjoining suite had also been reserved, yet they had ordered only one limousine. He looked at the three young servant women and the solitary guard. Surely they were not going to travel in the same vehicle as their masters. It was unheard of in this level of society. Equality was for the middle and lower classes, not the elite. What would they dream up next! Airport porters quickly loaded the luggage into the boot. The driver sniffed, looking down his nose in disgust as he checked the rear view mirror. One of the maids was squeezed between Miss Gabarinie and a male guest, the other male guest was squashed in a side seat with the blonde maid. The guard and the third servant were seated next to him in the front seat. The Grand Hotel was a magnificent building set in the center of Naples, not far from the Opera and other famous landmarks. The imposing colonnades of white granite flanking the high carved wooded entrance doors shone in the late afternoon sun. It was a hot day, yet the reception lounge was cool. A feeling of old world luxury pervaded the building as liveried porters and messengers hurried about their business with a sense of urgency coupled with quiet efficiency. Tall vases filled with beautiful floral arrangements of exquisite taste complimented the long velvet drapes and plush furniture. The manager hurried forward when he saw his important guests ushered through the entrance. He didn't know who they really were, but that was irrelevant. They were with Miss Gabarinie. That was sufficient reason to make them important. "_Buon giorno, Signorina Gabarinie_," he gushed. _"Accogliere a Napoli. Sequire per favore."_ He led the party to a single elevator set apart from the bank of lifts that serviced the public floors of the hotel. This lift went directly to the foyer that serviced the two penthouse suites. A porter was constantly on guard at the ground floor to ensure that no unauthorized person tried to get in. It didn't stop at any of the other floors, so there was no reason for other guests to use it. The only other access to the two suites was by a private staircase that led to a dummy suite on the floor below. These doors could only be

opened from the inside with the special electronic keys to the dead bolt locks. Leonora and her maid entered the suite on the left; Brookes and Walsh went into the other suite with the two maids in tow. The guard remained on watch in the foyer. "So far, so good," Walsh muttered when the door closed behind them. "We've made it to Naples, but we are no further ahead than when we passed through last time." "Not so," Giovanna said softly. "At least you know the women you seek have been sent to work in the Gabarinie brothels in this city." "Now all we have to do is find the right one," Brookes muttered. "I bet none of you know how many brothels there are in Naples, and which of those are operated by the Gabarinie family?" They shook their heads in unison. "Well, there is a way," Brookes said smugly. "Very soon I have to go down to meet a young lady in the bar. She is with Interpol. I will ask her help in tracking Jan and Jannine. At least we have a more definite lead this time." "If you find them, how will you get them out?" Giovanna asked. "Not if, but when we find them. How we get them out will depend on exactly where they are held. Interpol will help, but first we have to be certain of our targets. If we were to launch a rescue attempt only to find out we were in the wrong house, it could well be our last chance. It would blow our cover." "Who is this woman from Interpol," Walsh asked. "A young woman I rescued from a slave camp in the Gulf on my last trip. Her name isn't important; it is safer for you if you don't know." Brookes looked at his watch, then reached for the telephone. He called the operator and asked to be put through to the Gabarinie penthouse. Leonora answered, her voice husky. Either she had been asleep, or she had been entertaining her maid. Brookes told her he was going down to the bar, but would be back within the hour. He suggested they dine in the penthouse to keep public attention away from them. They could then plan their next move without any chance of interference. Brookes went down the stairs to the next floor, then let himself out into the passage. He took the electronic keys hanging inside the door with him. It would be safer to return to the penthouse the same way.

The bar was almost deserted at this hour of the day. The lighting was very subdued, giving an intimate atmosphere. A long polished wooden bar and stools stretched the length of the narrow room. Small booths nestled against the other wall. The lighting inside the booths was even more subdued. Several larger tables, surrounded by low padded armchairs, were scattered through the rest of the room. Small groups of people sat at the open tables, while only a couple of the booths were in use. Brookes looked around the room. He couldn't see anybody he recognized. Maybe Francesca hadn't arrived yet. He had said he would meet her at the bar, so at the bar he would wait. He swung on to a stool and ordered a brandy, lime and soda, then settled back to watch the proceedings in the full width mirror behind the bar. He saw the eyes of some of the patrons turn toward the main entrance, then drop back to their drinks. He let his eyes follow the path theirs had taken. No wonder they had turned to look toward the entrance. A tall, slender brunette stood in the doorway framed by the heavy brocade curtains, her short hair cradling her face in a soft halo of curls. Her skin-tight dress started just above the line of her nipples, hugging her full breasts and ended just above her knees. She smiled in his direction, the flash of white teeth breaking the red slash of her lips. Brookes smiled back, then returned to his drink. This was no time for liaisons. He had work to do. A soft hand rested on his shoulder. "You seem very preoccupied today, Mr. Brookes." "Francesca?" "Maybe you were expecting somebody else?" she said with a smile. "No," he muttered. "It's just that I didn't recognize you in that outfit. It is very elegant, so different to what you were wearing at the airport and a lot more than you wore in the desert. You made quite an entrance." "I did seem to attract a bit of attention, didn't I," she murmured, her cheeks glowing with subdued pleasure. "I got your note. What appears to be the problem?" "Let me buy you a drink, then we can go and sit where we can talk undisturbed." "Well," she said as they settled back into the booth farthest from the entrance?

"I need your help." "Tell me the problem, and I will see what I can do. And you can also tell me what you happen to be doing here with the Gabarinie girl and the two servants from the Mario villa." "They are part of the problem," Brookes said with a rueful grin. "One is a servant, the other is not." "Giovanna," Francesca gasped. "I didn't think my eyes were playing tricks on me, but what is she doing disguised as your servant?" "It was a gamble to get her past the Gabarinies when they attacked the Mario villa. Fortunately it worked on all of them except Leonora. They were at school and they recognized each other." "Then how did you get her out of Sicily and here to Naples?" "With the help of Erberto," Brookes said with a smile. "The girls kept their friendship hidden; the old man thinks he has sent me on my way with a new sex friend." "He won't be happy when he finds out." "He will be even less happy when Leonora doesn't return to the villa." "_Scusi?"_ Francesca said, her astonishment obvious. "Neither of the young women want to return to Sicily. They want to severe their ties with their families and go their own way in some foreign country as far away from the mafioso as possible." "I will speak with my superiors in Interpol; we will help them establish new identities and settle in a new country, if that is what they really want. Arrange for me to meet them before you leave Naples." "That's the other problem," Brookes said, his voice hardening. "The two women I seek are now in Naples. They were captured by Erberto when the Mario's tried to smuggle some girls from their villa. The old man told me in conversation that all the girls taken in the ambush had been transferred to his brothels in Naples. I need to know in which house they are working so I can get them away from their captors." Francesca watched him through downcast eyes. "I'm so sorry. Most of the Gabarinie brothels are in the poorer areas of Naples. If the girls are not considered good enough,

they will have been sent to the waterfront dives and will already be experiencing a living hell. I hope they are in one of the high-class houses, but not in a specialty house. I will try to find the information that you seek; when does the old man think you leave Naples?" "I didn't give him an actual date. I think I could be expected to spend at least two nights in the city. Any longer and he could become suspicious, especially when his daughter does not return to Palermo within the week." "Do the women know that you are in contact with Interpol?" "Giovanna knows that I have made contact with the Sicilian agent, but she doesn't know who the agent is." "That is good; she cannot be persuaded to reveal information that she doesn't know." Francesca sat silently looking down at her drink, then she glanced up at Brookes. "The other woman?" "She was a maid who had just started work at the Mario mansion. Walsh found her attractive, so she was given to him as a present by Erberto." "What do you intend to do with her? Do you intend to take her back to New Zealand with you?" "That will depend on what she wants to do," Brookes said with a smile. "If she feels strongly enough about Walsh, then we could try and persuade the New Zealand government to bend the immigration laws and let her in." "Will they do that?" Francesca asked in surprise. "They did for Jannine." "I will try and find the information you want," Francesca said. "I will be back here tomorrow afternoon, around four. I will bring any information I've found with me." She rose, then blew him a kiss as she walked sinuously down the length of the bar toward the entrance. The eyes of all the other men followed the seductive sway of her hips. It was a symphony of fluid motion. Brookes returned to the penthouse by the secret stairs.

Dinner was ordered and served in Leonora's suite. She acted the part of the generous hostess, instructing her maid to invite Chalmers and Rata to dine with her. To preserve decorum and not give the guard any inkling that something strange was going on, he was told to have his dinner with the three maids. Giovanna appreciated the wisdom of this subterfuge. After dinner, Leonora summoned her maid to help her prepare for bed. She called the guard and told him to find himself a room in the hotel staff section for the night. He protested that he was there to guard her. She pointed out that he couldn't protect her if he was asleep at his post. If he slept during the night, he would remain alert during the day when they traveled around Naples. Anyway, the lift to the penthouse would be turned off during the night so nobody would be able to get in or out without using the secret stairs. Reluctantly the guard left. The maid helped Leonora slip from her clothes. The feel of the maid's cool hands on her heated skin gave Leonora an involuntary shiver. Leonora walked into the bathroom. The maid rushed past her to adjust the water flow, checking to see that the bath had filled correctly at the right temperature. Leonora slipped the robe from her shoulders and stepped naked into the recessed tub. She sank into the luxuriously scented warm water until it covered her shoulders. The young maid was flushed, obviously ill at ease and not sure what she was supposed to do. "Why are you so nervous," Leonora snapped. "I have not been in service long, mistress," she said shyly. "I have only helped as a housemaid. I have never assisted in a lady's chamber." Leonora smiled to herself. She had known that, which was why she had selected this young woman to make the journey with her. She had checked her background, so knew that she had come to Palermo from an orphanage at Catanzaro on the Italian mainland. It had not been her choice to leave the orphanage, but the decision of the church, when it was decided it was time for the residents to meet some of the costs of running the orphanage. The older children could do this by going out to work and sending some of their wages back to the church. The maid had been one of the older girls, those who were capable of seeking employment. Leonora had known the maid was an orphan, which was why she had been selected for the present trip to Naples. She would not be missed and, if they were successful in

making their escape, she was unlikely to reveal their location by writing to her relatives in Italy.

CHAPTER 29: IL PAPPAGALLO VERDE Francesca Nicola was waiting in the bar when Brookes arrived the next afternoon. Her eyes held an elated gleam. It had been far easier than she expected to track down the new girls in the Naples brothels. The Gabarinies had made no attempt to conceal them from the other families. Quite the reverse. Their presence in his houses was openly touted as a ploy to attract more customers away from the older, longer established houses. He had installed them in his better class brothels, but had spread them between the establishments to widen their attractive powers. The two New Zealanders were in houses a kilometer apart in distance but many hundred apart in taste. Jan was in the brothel known as _Il Pappagallo Verde_, or the Green Parrot, while Jannine was at the _Casa Del Dolore._ Francesca mentioned the last name with deep loathing, but she had omitted the meaning. Brookes wondered why, and asked her what the name meant. "It doesn't matter," she said. "We know where they are, and that is what is important, is it not?" "If it doesn't matter, then tell me," he insisted. "Casa Del Dolore is one of the specialist houses in Naples," she muttered reluctantly. "It is the House of Pain. It specializes in bondage and sadomasochism. It is not a nice house to visit, unless you like the perversions of bondage and beatings. It must be even worse if you are one of the girls who are constantly abused by their masters in the name of pleasure." "Then we should go there first," Brookes said in anger. "It does not open its doors until nearly midnight," Francesca told him. "The other never closes. If you visit _Il Pappagallo Verde_ as soon as you can, we could have your wife away and into safety before the other house opens to the public." Francesca looked at Brookes, a worried expression on her face. "We must be sure in which room each person will be working. We must be certain in

case we don't get everybody out. The Italian police will give us token support when the raid is launched, but many of them are in the pay of the mafioso. We cannot risk letting our plans be known too far in advance in case word is leaked to Gabarinie. We will need to have at least one man in the house at the time, preferably in the room with our target woman. We do not know them well enough by sight to make positive identification once the raid has started. It will be chaos as the clients try to escape the police, so you will have to be in the house at the time, preferably with the woman we are going to rescue." "But I don't speak Italian," Brookes protested. "That is part of my problem," Francesca agreed. "It will be necessary for you to present yourself at the house as a prospective client, a tourist from overseas. Hopefully you are not known by anyone who works at _It Pappagallo Verde._ I will send an agent with you and Walsh; there will be safety in numbers." "In that case you had better also send in the US Marines, the cavalry and anybody else with white hats" Brookes joked. "They would be too busy poking around to be able to help," Walsh grunted. He had joined Brookes in the bar so he wouldn't need a separate briefing. "Be in the bar at eight tonight," she said with a smile. "Pretend to be drunk, but stay sober. You will need to be alert for trouble, or you will be in grave danger. The agent will join you there. His name is Jacques Marquet and he is seconded to us from France for this exercise, then he will return to his former area. He speaks Italian like a native and he knows Naples like the back of his hand." "And you?" "I will be waiting in the safe house. We will keep the women under cover until we can smuggle them out of Italy." "Giovanna and Leonora as well?" "Yes, all the women, even the maid if she wants to leave. There will be no future for her in Sicily when this story gets out."

The bar was starting to fill up when Brookes and Walsh staggered in. They breasted up to the bar and demanded handles of beer. The barman drew the foaming liquid and pushed the glasses toward them over the highly polished surface. The two men drew deeply on the amber liquid, then leaned forward, apparently in deep conversation but

watching the other activity in the room reflected in the long bar mirror. A young man, dressed very informally, wandered up to the bar and stood a couple of meters away. He stared into his glass, deep in thought. He muttered something, then moved toward Brookes and Walsh. His voice was slurred, but loud enough to be heard by the barman and those patrons at the nearby tables. "It's like a morgue here tonight," he stated. "How is one supposed to enjoy themselves with no unattached women around?" "It might warm up later," the barman agreed, his voice filled with sympathy at the frustration of his clients. "So might the North Pole in the middle of winter," the man said with a disbelieving laugh. "How long has it been so dead? This used to be one of the lively bars in Naples." "It has been quiet for the last couple of nights," the barman said looking around the room. "I don't know what's caused it, but it gets even more boring later." "Maybe the young unattached women have found a new watering hole," Brookes murmured. "Is there anywhere else where there is a bit more life?" Walsh asked. "There is a disco just around the corner," the barman offered. "Too noisy," Brookes muttered. "You have to work too hard to find company." "If it's only company you want, I know just the place," the young man told them. "There is a house of entertainment not far from here. They will supply all the women you want." "Are they safe?" Walsh asked. "Safe?" "Free of AIDS, and that sort of thing. I don't want to carry any unwelcome bugs back to New Zealand as a memento of our trip to Italy." "Which house were you referring to," the barman asked. _"Il Pappagallo Verde."_

"No problem. It is safe. That is a Gabarinie house and it is visited every week by their own doctor. The girls are tested; if they are clean they work, if they are not then they don't work." "Then maybe we should try it," Brookes suggested. "Why not."

The facade for _Il Pappagallo Verde_ was plain and matched the surrounding business premises. A simple plate glass window had been frosted to stop casual passersby from looking in. Painted on the glass, as large as a human figure, was a huge green parrot perched on the branch of a tree. If you looked carefully at the picture you could see that it had very human eyes and a naked female figure reflected in the pupil of each. The parrot had a strangely puffy chest and a careful inspection showed what looked suspiciously like human nipples poking through the feathers. The legs were the naked legs of a shapely girl, but from her ankles down were the claws of a bird. The glass doors were also frosted. Painted on them in stark black letters were the words, _Vietato l'ingresso. Ingresso vietato, privato, solo soci._ Brookes looked at the sign with a puzzled expression on his face. The words made no sense to him. Marquet translated for him. "Those words say Keep Out. Private. Members Only. _Il Pappagallo Verde_ is a members only club, but that is in name only. With the right amount of lira, anyone can buy membership at the counter just inside the door. The membership rule is only to make police raids more unlikely." Two very large and very ugly Italians lounged in armchairs just inside the door. They appeared to be half-asleep, but Brookes could sense them watching the new visitors through slitted eyelids. Any hint of trouble and they would be instantly awake. A young girl was seated behind the counter that blocked off one end of the room. She looked bored to tears, in spite of her attempts to greet them with a warm and cheery smile. Her heavy makeup almost cracked under the strain. She was short and quite plump, her filmy white blouse, unbuttoned almost to the waist, fought to contain the mountainous mounds of pink breasts. She wore no bra; her stubby nipples were clearly outlined through the thin material, appearing as two huge round brown circles. She took an extra deep breath when she noticed Walsh staring fixedly at the dark valley between the white hills. The strain was too much for the last two buttons. The

thread holding them gave way under the strain, the blouse burst open and the white mounds spilled free. She giggled but made no effort to draw the garment together again. "Is there something I can do for you?" she asked. "We would like to join," Jacques muttered, suddenly developing an alcoholic slur. "Oh, is that all," she murmured. "That will be 100 lira each for each visit, unless you want to take out an annual membership." "How much would that be?" Jacques asked, trying to sound interested. "Ten thousand lira each, but then you can come as often as you like, or able to stand the strain," the girl added with a giggle. "Do you come with annual membership?" Brookes asked, leering at her exposed nipples. "I don't come with any type of membership," she said, looking at them coyly through half-hooded eyes. "But we can negotiate." "I don't have 10,000 lira on me," Walsh muttered, searching through his pockets. "I suppose we will have to be satisfied with just tonight, then we can come back later if the club meets our needs." "If it does not meet your needs, then you are insatiable," the girl murmured. "The annual membership will entitle you to visit any of the other Gabarinie houses, including those which specialize in other tastes." She took their money and handed them embossed membership cards that had been endorsed with that night's date. The card was valid until 6 am the next morning. She called to one of the guards. He guided them through a curtained doorway and down a narrow passage. Another heavy wooden door opened for the guests and they were handed over to a young hostess. And she was certainly young. It was unlikely she had yet seen her sixteenth birthday. She was dressed in a very brief bright red lace mini-dress that contrasted nicely with her long fair hair. Under the dress she wore a pair of bikini briefs, also in red, and nothing else. She hadn't yet lost all her baby fat and all her rounded curves were clearly on display. She smiled at them and asked them to follow her, then swayed seductively toward a curtained area at the other end of the room.

Behind the curtains, several patrons hung around a small bar with drinks in their hands. An expectant air pervaded the room. Something was due to happen. "You are just in time for the first floor show of the night," the young girl said, a note of mystery in her voice. "Do you wish to see it before you move in to your private room?" "Why delay," Brookes asked, as if frustrated from already waiting too long for satisfaction. "Because you can also select from the girls in the floor show. One of the new Mario girls is in it. She is a foreigner, but she might appeal to you. She is older than many of the other girls, but she is still pleasing to the eyes." Brookes tried to suppress his excitement as he looked across at Walsh. Could they at last be within reach of Jan? She would certainly be older than the normal run of the girls working in the better class brothels. In them it was the youth of the girl that was the most important factor, coupled with the skills that she developed later. They had to hope they had struck the jackpot and found Jan. "I'll wait until after the show," Brookes muttered. "I cannot speak for my friends, they might want to make their selection now." "We might as well also wait and see what else is on offer. Where are the others that we can compare them after the show?" "Look through the curtained window at the end of the room," the girl told them. "Those who are available are behind the glass. Pick the number that they carry and they will be brought to you. These are the numbers of your rooms for the night," she added handing each of them a metal tag with a key and a number on it. They had adjoining rooms. Walsh and Marquet walked to the curtains and drew them apart. Inside a small room several young women lounged around in various stages of undress, revealing their charms to those they knew would be looking through the one-way glass. The shapes and colors on display would appeal to a wide range of tastes. The youngest was a slender young nymph who had not yet started to sprout body hair and could have been taken for a boy if not for the slit between her thighs. Others were much more buxom. "Think of a number," Marquet muttered. "Any number will do, we won't be with them for long." "I'll take the child," Walsh muttered. "It will keep her out of harm's way."

"Don't feel too much sympathy for her," Marquet whispered. "She has known nothing other than this life. She was born in this house, and has been working here on her back since she was old enough to bleed. She has never been to school; she has no other trade." "Oh," Walsh muttered. "And the others?" "Most have taken to the trade voluntarily, others work to support their families in the country. It is safer in the brothels than on the streets. At least here they know where their next meal is coming from, and they do get to keep most of the money they earn. That is not so on the streets. Here they are protected from the excesses of the pimps who prey on the younger girls trying to work on their own." "You sound as if you approve." "I do not make moral judgments; that is for others with more time on their hands and less strain on their budgets." "Have you made your choice," the young hostess asked when they drew the curtains back across the window. "What is your number," Marquet asked, leering at her. "I do not serve tonight," she said with a smile. "Though it is nice to be desired." "Then I will have number seven," he said. "And I'll have number eleven," Walsh added, not having the faintest idea which young women he had selected. It would make little difference for the short time that remained before the start of the raid. The blare of a trumpet heralded the start of the floorshow. The other men in the room rose and headed for a side door. Brookes and his friends followed them. The room had a small raised stage in the middle and lit by bright spotlights. The stage was surrounded by seats outside the glare of the bright light. The performers wouldn't be able to see who was watching them, but they would be clearly visible to the guests of _Il Pappagallo Verde._ The lights dimmed. Three figures came through a curtained opening and climbed up on to the stage. They were covered from head to toe in long black cloaks, faces hidden

under hoods. A fanfare of trumpets blared and two of the figures dropped their cloaks, kicking them off the stage. They were young and slender, their skin the colour of burnished copper. Their bodies were oiled and gleaming in the bright spotlights that had been turned on again. Slowly they advanced on the third figure. Working in unison, they stripped the cloak from the woman. She was dressed in a long silky dress and wore a black mask. Quickly the dress, and the brief underwear she wore underneath it, were stripped from her fair body as the two girls worked together to arouse her. They were skilled in their art. Within minutes they had the young woman writhing on the stage, totally at their mercy. Brookes was strangely effected by the young woman's arousal. He looked around. So were the other men in the room. Some had their hands in their pockets, others had openly dropped their trousers around their ankles and were overtly paying homage to the erotic play enacted for their pleasure. With a quavering cry the young woman fell back on to the stage, her two tormentors falling across her spent and exhausted body. They lay still for a few moments, then rose to their feet, drawing their victim upright. They whipped the mask from her and made her face the audience. Brookes gasped, he had found his wife. She stared ahead, devoid of expression, her eyes dull and unfocussed. Thank God, he muttered. She was drugged. She would remember nothing of the ordeal she had been through.

CHAPTER 30: RESCUE The young receptionist had been watching Brookes closely during the floorshow. She had noticed his arousal and obvious interest in the foreigner. When he approached her after the room lights came on again and asked for the foreign woman for the night, she smiled and nodded. "I thought she would be your choice," she murmured. "I have already had the young woman taken to your room. She is not as experienced as our other girls, but the challenge of making her respond to your needs will add spice to your night. The drug she was given to help her perform will wear of in an hour or so, but it will not reduce her responses. It deadens the mind but not the body."

The guard opened a door beside the one leading in from the foyer. Behind it was a flight of stone stairs leading up to the first floor. "Follow me, _per favore_," the hostess murmured, leading up the stairs. The steps were carpeted. The sounds of their footfall muffled. At the top a wide corridor, with closed doors on either side, led away from them. Each door had a number set above the keyhole. "The numbers on the doors match the numbers on your tags," they were told. "The key will open your door. Your choice for the night will already be waiting inside. The management wishes you _Buon notte._ We will call you in time for you to leave before sunrise. If you wish for anything during the night, there is a telephone beside your bed. Call the desk and I will try to meet your requests." The other clients, many already under the influence of alcohol, wandered down the corridor, squinting at the room numbers and trying to match them with their keys. As each found the correct number, he slid the key into the lock and vanished for the night. Jan was already in the room when Brookes opened the door, but she would never remember the look he gave her. She stared blankly at him, her eyes dazed and looking straight ahead. Brooks spoke, but there was not even the slightest flicker of recognition, only the turning of her head to look in the direction of the voice. Brookes wondered what drug they had given her, and what side effects there would be when it wore off. He would have expected the excitement her body had experienced on the stage would have been enough to react against any induced stupor, unless she had been given another dose since. The only good thing was that she would have only the haziest memories of her time in _Il Pappagallo Verde._ That was just as well. He didn't know how long she had actually been working at the brothel, but he doubted the management would have allowed her the luxury of an acclimation period. As far as they knew, she was a girl hijacked from the Mario stable. They would have assumed she was already a working girl. But why go to all the trouble of drugging her unless she had let her feminist streak come to the surface and refused to work on the stage. If she had, there would have been only two possible outcomes, a beating until she cooperated or work her under drugs until she was reduced to cooperating as a reward for a fix. He was glad they appeared to have taken the drug path. It was the more logical, he thought ruefully. At least you didn't damage the merchandise and the girl was able to carry on servicing the clients and earning her keep even if she wasn't aware of what she

was doing. Brookes walked over and put his arm tenderly around Jan, drawing her against his chest. She moved mechanically, her body responding to the feel of the arm around her shoulders. He led Jan to the bed and drew her down beside him. From his prone position, he let his eyes wander around the room. His suspicious nature had him looking for hidden ports through which video cameras could be trained on the unsuspecting occupants of the bed. He was sure the management would be interested in protecting their investments. While girls were cheap, they were still valuable and those who were popular with the clients could earn the house many thousands of lire a week. It would be sensible to protect them from those sick enough to want to damage the merchandise. His eyes fastened on a small recess in the ceiling; a small dark hole about five centimeters in diameter directly above the bed, which happened to be in the middle of the room. The hole would be the ideal location for a surveillance camera. If the camera were equipped with a fish-eye lens it would cover the total room. He hadn't seen any bank of video monitors, but that didn't really surprise him. You would hardly expect the management to advertise they were secretly monitoring your sexual activities. It could drive many clients away, especially those who wished to hide their visits to the house from their families, friends and colleagues. Good additional source of income, Brookes thought with a grin. All you had to do was play the incoming picture through a video recorder and you could sell the product back to the client for a good price. He wondered how many people were performing unsuspectingly in black market sex videos. It would be another good use of the videotapes, genuine performer participation. But if he was being observed, he had better perform. He had paid a hundred lira for the privilege of being in this room. If he just lay in Jan's arms the watchers would become suspicious and wonder why he was in the house. He couldn't afford to arouse their curiosity. Gently he let his hands run down Jan's back as he drew her against him. She tensed, starting to pull away, then the drug took over and she threw herself against him as she tore at his clothes. This had to be more than a simple tranquilizer, Brookes mused as he lay back and let Jan work on his slowly responding body. They must have implanted a subliminal trigger in her mind that forced her to react like a common whore at the first sign of sexual stimulus, no matter how slight. It must have been some trigger!

Jan was insatiable. His body responded in spite of the dangers of the situation and his wife's condition. He moaned at the skillful touch of her fingers and lips, then he willingly rolled between her thighs when she turned over on to her back. Quickly she guided him into her body and locked her legs around his hips. She rose to meet his trust, working much faster and out of synchronization, unlike the Jan he knew and loved. He fell on her, exhausted. She continued to move against him. There was no stopping her drive for satisfaction. Muffled shouting rose from somewhere below them. Brookes could not make up his mind whether it was from inside or outside the building. The noise didn't penetrate Jan's drugged brain. She continued to move against him. Even the pounding of some heavy object against the door of the room didn't slow her movements. He wriggled out of her arms and grabbed his trousers. She lay on her back, her hips continuing to rise and fall in a parody of the sex act. The blows rained on the door again, this time accompanied by words in Italian. Brookes recognized the words Open and Police. The raid had been launched, and very successfully, by the sounds outside. He opened the door to stare down the barrel of an automatic pistol held in the hands of a young uniformed policeman. _"Come si chiama?"_ he demanded. Brookes looked at him blankly. _"Parla loro,"_ the officer said angrily. _"Come si chiama?"_ Brookes shrugged his shoulders. "No speak Italian," he said, shaking his head. _"Staniero,"_ the young man muttered. He pushed past Brookes and stood looking down at Jan. She had stopped moving and lay staring blankly at the ceiling. He prodded her with the barrel of his weapon. "She no speak Italian either," Brookes said slowly, shaking his head. _"Santa Madre Dio,"_ the young officer swore. _"Un altro straniero."_

He stuck his head out of the door and called for his superior. _"Staniero,"_ the young officer muttered as the captain walked through the door. _"Grazie,"_ the captain said, then he turned to Brookes. "Mr. Brookes?" Brookes nodded. "Mrs.Brookes?" Brookes nodded again. The captain turned to his officer and burst into a torrent of Italian. The look on the young face turned from disdain to respect as he listened to the captain. They had been briefed before the raid and told that a stranger had gone into the brothel to find a missing woman. When he found her, he would remain with her until the police broke in. This was no ordinary tourist but a stranger prepared to put his life on the line to find a missing woman. He had been prepared to buck the might of the mafioso and travel halfway around the world to search for his wife. He had not only survived the Gabarinie attack on the Mario's, but managed to follow his target to Naples and track her down to a specific brothel. The other stranger was the cause of his search, successfully concluded. "We will treat you like the other clients we have netted in the raid," the captain said, turning back to Brookes. "We will return you to the station for processing, then I will arrange for you to be secretly released. That way your identity will be preserved. But do not fear," he added, noting the expression of concern in Brookes eyes. "You will be released on time to reach _Casa Del Dolore_ before the next raid. We need you inside before we arrive." "What will happen to Jan?" "She will be taken to a private hospital for treatment, but she will not be allowed out of our hands. It is unlikely that old Gabarinie will relate her to the raid. To them she is just another one of their girls. They are expendable, just trading commodities who know nothing of their organization." "What about the other girls?" "They will be processed as usual and given the opportunity to return to their

families if they wish. By tomorrow most of them will be back on the street; if not in another brothel, working for some small-time pimp," he said sadly, shaking his head in sorrow. "It is a hopeless task. We do not have the resources to help them to a better life and the state isn't interested. They are only women, and most come from a past to which they do not want to return. They will be lectured on the evils of following the path they have chosen, but what alternative is there for them in the present climate of dog eat dog. They do not have the resources or the powerful friends that are necessary if you wish to make a success in our country at this time. It is not what you know that counts but who you know. Connections are everything, and the mafioso have the connections. The tentacles of the families extend into everything. They will soon have the girls back working. This will have been just a small hiccup in their organization." "You sound frustrated," Brookes murmured. "I am," the captain said. "This is a thankless task, especially when those who openly attack us for not combating the families are secretly in the pay of those same families. We know this, and they know that we know. We see the results of the pay-offs, but are helpless against the powerful friends who protect them. It is sickening."

CHAPTER 31: CASA DEL DOLORE The processing of the clients of _Il Pappagallo Verde_ was a scene of bedlam. Embarrassed officials rushed around trying to meet the demands placed on them by the teams of lawyers that descended on the police building following the mandatory free telephone call. The clients themselves remained huddled against the walls, trying to hide their identities from each other. There were many more at the police station than Brookes had seen during the floorshow. Some of the more prominent citizens had watched from behind one-way mirrors in private cubicles, and had then been whipped off to the rooms before the general clientele were brought up the stairs to the bedrooms. Word had been leaked to the media about the raid and the large numbers of prominent citizens who had been discovered on the premises. It was enough to ensure that the dreaded Italian _paparazzi_ had gathered like vultures, waiting in flocks outside all the entrances to the building, ready to pounce on the clients caught visiting _Il Pappagallo Verde._ The papers would have a field day. Even if the clients were able to suppress the judiciary, they would be unable to control the media. There was nothing the _paparazzi_ liked better than a juicy scandal, and this event promised to blow into a major embarrassment for both central and local government.

Captain Enrico Giacomo looked down from his second floor office window and smiled. He turned back to face his guests. "A good night, _Signorina_ Nicola. It is not much on it's own, this closing of _Il Pappagallo Verde,_ but when we also strike _Casa Del Dolore_ it will send shock-waves through the families. They are being destabilized by the feuds in Sicily, attacks on their assets on the mainland will make them even more worried." "It might even make their clients more reluctant to visit the houses," Francesca murmured. "Unlikely," the captain said. "Those who would be most embarrassed by the revelations will have powerful friends who will get them off the hook. They will not be convicted; some will never even get to court. The media will find new scandals and these raids will fade from the picture. But at least two houses will be put out of action for a short while and it will serve as notice to the families that they cannot subvert all the police. "How will you get our party out of here without attracting too much attention?" she asked. "We will dress them as police and take out two police cars at the same time we release some of the clients. They will attract the _paparazzi_ attention while we slip away unnoticed." Captain Giacomo was right. The _paparazzi_ were so busy rushing to mob the freed clients and their team of lawyers that they let the two police cars slip through unchecked. The clients had been put out the front entrance with their lawyers despite their protests and demands that they be given police protection from the media. Captain Giacomo was very apologetic. He said he appreciated their concerns but he was paid by the state to fight crime, not the press. That would be unconstitutional and the President had already spoken out strongly, only the previous week, about guarantees to ensure the press remained free from official interference. The two police cars sped away to their next target. They stopped in a dark alley where Brookes, Walsh and Marquet slipped out of the police uniforms and into something more appropriate for continuing their tour of the red light district. A beat-up old taxi was parked in the alley. They climbed into it, then drove away from the scene. They had two hours to get to the club and find Jannine before the police hit the building.

_Casa Del Dolore_ was even more discretely advertised than _Il Pappagallo Verde._ It was in a rundown area of Naples, surrounded by warehouses and many shuttered and closed buildings. A good area for the disciples of pain, Brookes mused. There would never be many people around to hear the screams from the targets of the discipline freaks. There was no shop window, just a small plate that read: _Negozio di Frusta. Esercizio Accoglinza._ Brookes saw Marquet smile ruefully when he looked at the sign. "What does it say," he asked? "I see no sign showing the name of the establishment." "That is true, but the sign speaks for itself," Marquet replied. "It says Whip Shop, Practice Welcome." "Rather pointed advertising," Walsh muttered. "Same membership requirements as the other establishment?" "Much more stringent; it is just as well we have our membership cards from our earlier visit. You have to come recommended from another Gabarinie establishment otherwise you don't get in." "Then lets hope they haven't heard about the raid on their friendly neighborhood knock shop," Brookes said. "That won't matter. While we were at the station the lab did a slight alteration to some membership cards that were _borrowed_ during the raid. Our new cards now show that we visited there three nights ago, so they wont suspect us." "I hope you're right," Brookes muttered. "We have to get in there soon, or we'll be outside when the raid occurs." The receptionists checked out the cards. Her only comment was that it was just as well they had visited the club when they had or they might have missed out on their night of pleasure. When Walsh looked at her with raised eyebrows, she added that the club was going through a slightly difficult time and had been forced to close it's doors for a couple of days while a few minor problems were sorted out. Brookes smiled inwardly; they already knew about the raid. News, especially bad news, traveled fast through the underworld.

The furnishings in the foyer were stark but striking. The walls and drapes were jet black, the lighting subdued except where small spotlights shone on a number of paintings hanging from the walls and small statues set in recesses. Brookes glanced at them, stopped in his tracks and took another look. They were all miniature masterpieces with the central theme of sadism. He could feel the young receptionist's eyes drilling into his back. "You like our art?" the girl asked, her voice surprisingly deep for such a slender frame. "It is interesting, and rather unusual, something that would be hard to find in my country," Brookes agreed. The girl was slender, naked but with firmly rounded breasts which were encircled by gold chains. She had bracelets around her wrists, attached to a studded black belt by narrow chains so she could move her arms, but not freely. Golden rings dangled from her ears and nose, even her nipples had been pierced so more golden rings could hang around her body. She stepped from behind the counter to lead them into the next room. Brookes gasped, the illusion vanishing to be replaced by another much less enticing. The girl was actually a very young he, his manhood encircled by more gold chains attached to the belt. His ankles were chained together so that he could only shuffle slowly ahead of them. His back and buttocks were criss-crossed by the scars of old beatings. He must have been part of the show at some time or he had offended his masters! The room, they were in, resembled a medieval torture chamber. The walls were built from imitation stone blocks; the lighting was dim and added to the menace that the ancient torture instruments invoked. Hanging in one corner was a copy of an Iron Maiden, whose caress was Death in the old days, while chains and manacles hung from the ceiling. Everything was covered in dust and cobwebs. It wasn't close enough to see if this was real. Against the walls, spread-eagled and secured by their ankles and wrists, were several naked women. All were gagged by a ball and belt fastened securely around their head. They could see and feel everything that happened in the room, but they would do so silently, even if they were the targets of the pain. Near each suspended woman hung a soft leather whip with a small notice, in several languages, inviting the patrons to _Have a practice shot._ At one end was a small platform with chains hanging from the ceiling. Wooden hardback chairs surrounded the stage.

A young woman, her head in a black leather full-face mask, was being attached to the chains by the bracelets around her wrists. The chains jerked. The ropes tightened around her wrists and yanked her upwards until she hung, rotating slowly, with just her toes brushing the floor. A man in a red hood stepped out of the shadows at the back of the stage, snapping a whip. He came to a stop about a meter from the suspended body. The whip snaked out to curl lovingly around the naked hips. It was like a tongue of fire caressing the firm young flesh for just a moment, but the body responded, jerking and heaving in pain. A shrill wail echoed through the room, muffled by the heavy hood. This victim hadn't been gagged, her cries designed to titillate the audience. The whip went away, as reluctantly as the touch of a lover. Again it reached out, then again. The suspended girl jerked at each touch. The pain must have been sickening. The girl struggled, but she couldn't gain leverage because her feet didn't fully reach the floor. She fought the ropes, but they held firm. She tried to anticipate when and from where the next stroke would come but she was at a disadvantage. She was responding blind, the whip master could pick and choose his time and target area. The audience applauded lustily at the sight of the firm breasts heaving and buttocks jiggling as the young woman cringed one way and then the other in a futile attempt to avoid the rain of strokes aimed to torment and hurt her. The whip master was an expert. He could hurt without marking his victim. Brookes had expected to see blood flowing under the whips caress, but there was no blood on display, just angry red welts glowing in the bright spotlight trained on the stage. The whip master stepped forward and pulled the hood off the suspended young women, letting the audience take pleasure in the pain, suffering and humiliation they had watched her suffer. Walsh reached out a restraining hand as Brookes went to rise in anger. _Jannine._ "Later," he whispered. "Later. Just remember this. Our turn will come later. God help the whip master, because I won't, if I get there first." Brookes sat back, fuming. The police had better get the whip master before he did, or they would not need the paddy wagon but an ambulance to take the monster to the morgue. Brookes would not be responsible for his actions if he got there first. Sounds of a disturbance came from the front entrance. The whip master tensed, then hurried to the door through which he had entered the room. Screams of anger, were followed by bursts of automatic weapons. This raid was not going as smoothly as the

earlier one. Brookes ran toward the stage and started to lower Jannine to the floor. Marquet ran toward the door, Walsh close on his heels. They wanted the whip master, dead or alive, they didn't care which, but they wanted that whip master more than anything else. Brooks heard the sounds of bodies bouncing against the wall in the corridor. He paid no attention to the altercation. He was too busy fighting to release the catch on the chain that held Jannine. He gave a sigh of relief as the catch gave and the chain started to slide through the pulley suspended from the ceiling. Jannine crumpled forward as the pressure eased. She fell on her knees, then farther until only her upper body remained suspended. The chain stuck again. Brookes heaved, trying to pull it through. _Jammed._ It wouldn't move. He swore, fighting to tear it free. Nobody came to his aid, the other patrons too concerned with their own safety to worry about a nameless prostitute hanging from the ceiling. The manacles. Of course. He turned his attention to them. They were fastened by clips. He had one free when the door from the corridor burst open. Two of the establishment's guards backed into the room, automatic pistols firing down the passageway. One guard crumpled and fell forward, a red stain appearing in the middle of his chest. The other started to turn, still firing, looking for a way out of the room. His face exploded in a burst of red gore as a bullet struck him between the eyes. He was dead before he hit the floor, but his finger had already tightened on the trigger. Bullets sprayed the room. Screams and curses filled the room as random fire found a mark in some of the patrons. Brookes felt a searing pain in his left shoulder. He turned to try and shelter Jannine. His legs crumpled under him. His world turned black as he fell across Jannine's prone body.

The pain in his body was excruciating. It felt as if someone was forcing red-hot pokers into his flesh, then turning them to extend the agony. He tried to force his eyes open. He had to get the second manacle off before other guards forced their way into the room. He tried to struggle into an upright position, to free his arms to reach the manacles, but something was holding him down. He forced his eyes open.

A face swam hazily into view. He blinked, trying to bring it into focus. Slowly the image cleared. He gasped aloud. What was Francesca doing at _Casa Del Dolore?_ She should have been back at the police station. He tried to speak but the words wouldn't come. What the hell was going on? What had happened to him? He felt a prick in his arm. Everything went black again. Brookes opened his eyes. The blackness was gone at last, but everything had gone silent. The shooting had stopped. He looked around in surprise. This was not like the _Casa Del Dolore._ This was more like a hospital ward. He tried to clear his head, to focus on the hazy shapes around him. His eyes cleared, bringing the images into focus. There could be no doubt; he was in a hospital. A young nurse sat by his bed, watching him. She smiled when she saw his eyes open. She reached out and pressed the patient call bell, then leaned over him and mopped his forehead with a cool moist cloth. "Where am I?" Brookes asked, his voice little more than a whisper. "You are in Naples hospital, Mr. Brookes," she said in imperfect English. "What happened?" he asked. "Where's Jan? Where's Jannine?" "Everything in good time, Mr. Brookes." He turned his head in the direction of the new voice. At the other side of the bed stood Francesca Nicole. She looked tired. "What are you doing here?" he whispered. "I have been waiting for you to wake up, my friend," she said with a smile. "You had us worried." "Worried? Why, what has happened, why am I here?" "You have been here for nearly 48 hours. You were shot during the raid. It has been a very traumatic time waiting for you to come back to us." "Shot. I can remember something hitting me in the shoulder, then nothing," Brookes said. "Your most serious injury was the bullet lodged in your chest; it had to be removed by surgery. Another hit you in the thigh, while a third, the first one, went right through

your shoulder." He wasn't interested in the description of his own injuries. "Where's Jan?" "She has been returned to New Zealand in the care of Interpol. She will be waiting for you when you get back to your home." "And Jannine?" "Rest now," the nurse interrupted. "You are still not well, you need to sleep." She moved toward him with a hypodermic syringe in her hand. "You're not sticking that bloody thing into me until you tell me where Jannine is," he said, trying to turn away from the nurse. He was too well tucked in to be able to move far enough away. "We must tell him," he heard Francesca say as the needle penetrated his arm. "He must know that his daughter is dead." He struggled to regain consciousness. Did they say _dead?_ They couldn't have said _dead._ Jannine must be alive. She couldn't be de... Brookes tossed and turned, caught in the grip of the nightmarish images flying through his mind. He could see the whip master lashing Jannine until the blood flowed. He stood there unable to help as she was impaled on the handle of the whip and forced to endure the indignities forced on her tortured young body. Shots flew past his head. Jannine danced as they struck her flesh, each hit marked by little spurts of fresh red blood. Brookes moaned as he tried to reach her, to shelter her with his body but he couldn't move. He looked down. His feet were shackled to the floor. The whip master laughed at the futile efforts. He mocked him as he continued to whip the body jerking under the impact of the bullets.

Francesca looked down at the body moaning and tossing in the hospital bed, caught in the combination of pain of mind and body. Slowly the tossing eased as the drug took effect and Brookes dropped into a fitful sleep.

Several hours later, he woke again. His mind was cleared now, more refreshed, yet he could still remember his nightmare. Francesca was still at his bedside. She looked exhausted. "How long have you been here?" he asked her. "Nearly three days," she murmured. "You had us worried." "I remember only vaguely some of the things you told me. I think you said that Jan had been sent back to New Zealand, but what about Jannine?" "She will also be sent back, if that is what you would like." "Of course I want to take her back to New Zealand with me, where else would she go?" "We thought you might like to send her back to her family in the Gulf." "What the hell for? She was handed to me so that I could help her make a better life for herself in my country, away from the conflict and terror she had been through. She has a great future in New Zealand where she can grow up and carve out a new life for herself." "I'm afraid that will no longer be possible, Mr. Brookes," Francesca whispered. "I don't know how to put this, I..." "Tell me straight." "Then I will. When the guards burst into the room and you collected three bullets, Jannine also collected one. Unfortunately hers was fatal. I'm afraid Jannine is dead, Mr. Brookes, along with three other women who were shackled to the walls. The others will live, but only after a long time in hospital." Brookes lay back on his pillow. He tried to fight the tears welling in his eyes. Why Jannine? She was so young. She had experienced so much pain and suffering in her young life. Yet now she lay dead. It wasn't fair. His tears started to flow. Brookes wasn't aware of them as he lay staring blankly into space. The nurse reached for the hypodermic again. The doctor reached out and stopped her.

"It is better that he get it out of his system. We cannot drug him every time he thinks about what happened. He will have to learn to face the truth, it is the only way he will recover fully." Francesca looked down at Brookes, tears in her own eyes. He had come so far to rescue the two women in his life, now he had to face the truth that one had been killed at the very moment of rescue. Was there no justice in this harsh and cruel world?

CHAPTER 32: DEATH OF A RADICAL Brookes spent two more days in the Naples hospital, then he returned to the penthouse suite at the hotel to collect his belongings and prepare for his long and lonely trip home. Walsh had been shifted to a safe house in case the Gabarinie's were able to trace the links between him and their two establishments. If they did, and he was still around, their revenge would be swift. The young blonde maid had decided to move with him, wherever he wanted to take her! Leonora, her maid, and Giovanna had also been spirited away from the hotel. The young guard, when he realized that his mistress had vanished and had no intention of returning to her father's villa, also went to ground. He was nobody's fool. To go back to Palermo and tell Erberto Gabarinie that his daughter had run away from home would be bad enough, but to then have to tell him she had also taken her maid and Mario's daughter with her was more than any sane man would do. He had no wish to answer to the old man's wrath. Captain Giacomo drove Brookes far into the country. Walsh had been taken to a farm several hours from Naples. It was perched on the top of a hill, commanding a clear view in all directions. An apparently innocent family farm, the house and outbuildings were so well equipped with electronic surveillance gear that nothing could get past the farm fences without being noticed. The sophisticated radar network, that covered the property like an umbrella, picked up even small birds like sparrows and finches. Francesca and Marquet were also at the farm. "Quite a setup," Brookes muttered in admiration.

"We like to think so," Francesca said with a smile. "We have never lost anyone from here and, as far as I know, the location is still a well guarded secret, known only to Interpol and a few trusted police officers." "What happened at _Casa Del Dolore_ after I passed out?" Brookes asked, eager to fill in the gaps in his memories of the fatal night. "The whip master shot himself, rather than face capture. The she-male at the reception desk took the opportunity to get his revenge on the Gabarinie. He set fire to the building while we were rounding up the clients and staff. The building was totally destroyed, he elected to perish in the flames." 'Where did they find such a person?" Brookes asked. "They didn't find him, they made him. He was captured as a young lad, then forced to take hormone treatment to bring out his feminine characteristics. He has been kept as an oddity in that house since he was eleven." "The poor bastard, no wonder he wanted revenge," Brookes said, sad at the cruelty that had changed a normal boy into a physical freak. "What about Leonora and Giovanna?" "We have already removed them, and their maid, from Naples -- from Italy, actually." "Where have they gone?" "That will be for them to tell those they want to know," Francesca said with a smile. "They have selected their new county. Now they must make new lives for themselves." "How goes the feud between the families on Sicily?" "It is warming up," Francesca said sadly. "They will continue to oppose each other until a strong new leader comes to unite them. I see no such man on the horizon, and while they fight between themselves is the best time for us to hit them where it hurts as often as we can. "Will you ever win?" "No one will ever win. It will just remain a war of attrition as we try and restrain them. It is ingrained into their national psyche. If we are to ever drive the mafioso from Sicily, we have to attack the minds and hearts of the population as well as the strongholds of the families."

_"Buona fortuna,"_ Brookes said with a smile. "Congratulations, Mr. Brookes," Captain Giacomo said with a laugh. "Italian that is understandable to an Italian. You have learned something on your visit." "I have learned many things," Brookes said, grinning. "Some have left me exhausted, other have been more traumatic. I have also made many new friends. I hope we can keep in touch, but I will still be happy when I can see the green shores of New Zealand again."

Inspector Gilliard and Sergeant Norris were waiting to meet Brookes when he arrived in Wellington on the international flight from Sydney. It was a beautifully sunny day in Wellington as Brookes looked happily at the green hills surrounding the city. The two Interpol agents, who had accompanied him on the flight from Italy, were whipped away to a hotel. The police would be looking after the agents during their stay. They would have a couple of days to relax before facing an equally arduous flight back home. Gilliard drove sedately through the busy Wellington streets. The flight had been late arriving, their journey home was now in the middle of the lunch hour rush. The inspector turned into Brookes' drive. Zorba bounded out to greet him, ignoring the other two men as she danced around her master in excitement. Jan was waiting just inside the lounge. She ran forward and threw herself into his arms, a happy smile on her face. He winced as she jarred the wound in his chest. Jan tried to pull back, concern in her eyes. Brookes held her firmly against him. He was shaking, tears in his eyes. She watched him, puzzled. "What is wrong? Where is Jannine? They told me in Italy she wouldn't be coming home with me. Is she still in hospital? Was she too weak to travel?" She tried to push from his embrace. "Where is Jannine? I thought..." "Jannine will not be returning to us," Brookes told her gently, holding her close. "Why? What has made her change her mind? She seemed so happy here, I thought..." "What did the Italian Police tell you before you left? Did they tell you anything about the rescue? Did they tell you what happened in _Casa Del Dolore?"_

"Only that you were injured and would have to spend some time in hospital. They said you had been shot during the rescue." "I took three shots, Jannine got one," Brookes told her gently. Jan froze. Nobody had mentioned anything about Jannine being wounded. "How is she? When will she be coming home?" "She will not be coming home. The bullet that struck her was fatal." "Oh, my God," Jan gasped, fighting back the tears that welled in her eyes. "But we must bring her back. We must bury her among her friends. She deserves to be with those that love her." "She is," Brookes told her, his voice gentle but the sadness in his heart evident in the tone. "She has been returned to her family for a proper Moslem burial. It is best that she be with her family now that she is dead." "Then it is all over." "Not really," Brookes said grimly. "There is just one more task, which I will face when I can move more freely again." "One more task," Jan said in surprise. "What is that?" "Get Titoki. That bastard started all this. He must accept the blame for Jannine's death. By God, he must pay." "Too late, Al. Titoki is finished," Gilliard said softly. "He will never be finished as long as he is alive." "That's what I mean, Al. He is finished. Dead." "That's what we thought before, but the bastard came back to haunt us," Brookes said, his anger clear in his body language as he struggled to believe what his friend was telling him. "True, but this time we have his body." "What happened?" he asked.

"He thought the time was right to launch his revolution. He misread the signs and launched an armed raid on the maximum-security prison at Paremoremo in an effort to free the radicals we had captured before you left for Italy. He broke in, certain that the Maori inside would rise in support of his cause. Bad decision. Nobody wanted anything to do with him. The only people still with him were the hardcore who had joined him in the attack." "How did he die?" "Like the fanatical warrior he was. After they broke in, we surrounded the prison with the army. Titoki refused to surrender. He set fire to the wing where the radicals were housed, then came out shooting. His group was well armed but the Army was ready for them. Not one of them escaped. None of them surrendered." "Then it is truly all over," Brookes said with a sigh. "Or at least until some other idiot tries to start the same thing in the future." "Let's hope that doesn't happen," Gilliard murmured. "The troubles we have had will do nothing for the reputation of New Zealand. The overseas media has had a field day. Now we will have to work to rebuild the picture of a green and pleasant paradise." "Have you finished your post mortems?" Jan asked, trying to smile. But deep sadness was etched in the lines in her forehead. They had not been there before, neither was the cloud that covered the sparkle in her beautiful eyes. "I suppose so," Gilliard said. "I'm sorry, we seem to have hogged center stage." "You sure as hell have," Jan said. "Just as well you've finished or our guests might get tired of waiting." "I'm sorry, dear," Brookes muttered. "When are they coming over?" "They're here already." "Then where have you managed to keep them hidden?" "They've been waiting in the kitchen. Close your eyes, I want to surprise you." Obediently, Brookes closed his eyes. He froze as he heard the shuffle of footsteps hurrying across the carpet. Warm arms encircled him and two sets of lips pressed against his cheeks. He opened his eyes wide. Three young women were standing around him. They looked vaguely familiar, but he

couldn't put a name to any of them. He looked blankly at Jan, eyebrows raised. The redhead giggled delightedly, pressing against him. "I told you no one would recognize us," she said with a laugh. "They have done a good job in changing our appearances. We will not have to hide for the rest of our lives. As long as we stay away from home, we should be safe." Home. Safe. It couldn't be. "Giovanna? Leonora?" "Yes," they answered together. "Can you tell who is which?" "No," he said, looking from one to the other. "What are you doing here?" "This is their new home," Jan answered for them. "When they have settled into their new identities, they can think about what they want to do with the rest of their lives. Until then, I've told them that all three can stay here with us." Three! Giovanna and Leonora made two. Who was the third? Of course. Giovanna's maid. She must have decided to also assume a false identity and come to New Zealand. "Do you mind?" "Of course not," he said, drawing the three young women into his arms. "They helped me get you back. They are more than welcome to spend as much time as they like with us. My only hope is that we can offer them a more secure and peaceful existence than the ones they left behind in Italy. They will pine for the old country, but have to be very careful that they don't drop their cover and reveal their true identities. There are a lot of Italians in New Zealand, some might be friends of the mafioso, some might even be their relatives!" "That is the chance they have decided to take," Jan said with a smile. "Their new passports show them as New Zealanders; if and when they want to tell people of their Italian background, they can, otherwise they will be plain old Kiwis." "Kiwis, certainly, but I don't think plain or old does them justice," Gilliard said gallantly. The three young women giggled happily, feeling free and easy for the first time in many years. It would be an interesting challenge to carve out a new life in this green and pleasant land, and one they were looking forward to as they moved into the future with

their new friends.

GLOSSARY There are several Maori and Italian words and phrases used in this story. Rather than translate each within the chapter, they have been listed here together with their generally accepted translations. Maori Aotearoa: Maori name for New Zealand Bush: Locally used term to describe temperate rain forest Hangi: A meal cooked in an underground earth oven (an umu), which is then covered with leaves or sacks. The earth is piled on top of heated rocks and cooks from their heat and in its own juices. Kai: Food, any and all types. Kaumatua: Tribal elders. Long Pig: Human body, when cooked and eaten Mana: Prestige Maoritanga: History, customs and legends of the Maori, handed down by word of mouth in the old days. Marae: Maori meeting house, protocol set and controlled by Maoritanga. Pakeha: Maori name for white races. Has a racist and derogatory connotation. Tangata whenua: Children (people) of the land Tangi: Traditional Maori funeral Utu: Revenge Wahine: Women, lower cast Waaka: Traditional hand-carved canoes Italian Accoglienza: Welcome Accogliere: Welcome (giving hospitality) Buona Fortuna: Good Luck Buon Giorno: Good Morning Buona Notte: Good Night Buona Sera: Good Evening/good afternoon Casa Del Dolore: House of Pain Che cos'e questo: What is this? Come si chiama: What is your name? Compagno di gioco: Playmate

Entrata: Entrance Entrare in: Enter, Come in Esercizio: Practice Frusta: Whip Giorno festivo: Holiday Gli parlo: I'm speaking to you. Grazie: Thank You Il Pappagallo Verde: The Green Parrot La cena e servita: Dinner is served Membro: Member Napoli: Naples Negozio: Shop Paparazzi: Freelance Street Photographers Parla francese: Do you speak French? Parla italiano: Do you speak Italian? Per favore: Please Più: More Privato: Private Ragazza: Girl Ritorno: Return Roma: Rome Santo Madre Dio: Holy Mother of God Scusi: Excuse me or Pardon me Seguire: Follow me Sesso: Sex Settimana: Week Signora: Woman Signore: Man Signorina: Miss (young woman) Straniero: Foreigner Tenersi in piedi: Stand up Un altro: Another Unico: Only Uscita: Exit Viaggiare: Travel to Vietato l'ingresso: Keep Out Vigile: Policeman

Alan M. Brooker

Does a character resemble the author in some small way or does a little bit of each character get absorbed into the author's psyche? An interest thought if the author happens to write science fiction, fantasy, horror and adventure with large doses of romance and a bit of good old-fashioned violence thrown in for good measure. That would give analysts a fertile field to investigate, as fertile as the fields covered in the novels by New Zealand author Alan Brooker, who has joined the Amber Quill Press stable after some frustrating experiences with publishers in his own country and in the USA. Alan's own life reads a bit like a novel, neatly divided into chapters that all seem to have a finite start and end. There has been no gentle progress from one chapter to the next, rather a distinct and sudden change of direction. Yet throughout, the steadying influence of words and images has taken him far beyond the confines of his earthly existence. Starting his working life as a reporter with _The Otago Daily Times_ in Otago in 1954, Alan slowly worked north from the southern tip of the country to the most northern, where he has slung anchor and plans to stay -- beside the beach and in contact with the rest of the world through the miracles of cyberspace. In the intervening years, he had a career with the Royal New Zealand Air Force, both in New Zealand and overseas, worked with a nationwide construction company, managed a health service and worked with the mentally and physically disabled in a paid and also voluntary capacity. He is a qualified scuba diver, a New York trained photographer and once held a pilot's license. He is also interested in gardening and web page design, as well as being involved with the SETI League as one of the millions around the world who have linked the power of their computers together to try and find intelligent extra-terrestrial life. Yes, definitely as complicated as some of his characters, and it is not surprising that many of his novels stray into these fields of interest. "I love creating the worlds in my science fiction and fantasy stories," Alan says. "At least nobody can claim I've got the geography or history wrong or have even made errors in my scientific assumptions because these are my worlds and nobody has been there to check them out. I'm the final arbiter, the sole judge of what's right and wrong -but it's up to the public to show their acceptance of the stories by spending their money and supporting Amber Quill Press, who have been brave enough to bring them into

print." Visit www.amberquill.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.