The Service Read online

  Speed reading it, he hashed it into a briefing document as he went, highlighting relevant points and organising it into a format he could follow. He heard Sam giving instructions to Eric and Rosie, organising checks on Bahar Pasha’s home and work addresses and also through the hospital. The wheels were in motion and once he’d finished his document he cut highlights into a PowerPoint presentation and saved it to a USB stick.

  The briefing room was in a constant state of readiness, and he fired up the computer before checking the time. Ten minutes to go.

  Out in the main office Sam got called by Lewis to bring up a visitor, and upon arrival at the front desk, found a man in a casual bomber jacket and jeans, with a shock of thick dark hair. He was medium height and wiry, with a relaxed air about him. He had Special Forces written all over him.

  Sam felt his gaze run over her as she opened the internal access door, and she caught his eye as she opened the door fully and stood, staring back at him.

  He flushed slightly and stuck his hand out.

  ‘John,’ he said, shaking her hand firmly. ‘I’m from Papakura, Lewis asked us to come up for a briefing?’

  ‘Us?’ Sam enquired, glancing over his shoulder pointedly.

  ‘Well, just me actually.’

  ‘He’s signed in,’ the silver haired receptionist told her, giving her a short nod.

  Sam smiled inwardly. Jeannie McLean had been there nearly as long as Lewis; what she didn’t know about The Service wasn’t worth knowing, and nobody upstairs messed with her.

  ‘Thanks Chief,’ Sam said, using Jeannie’s affectionate nickname.

  Jeannie gave her a subtle wink from behind her spectacles and handed over a visitor’s pass to the man.

  He took it and made to put it in his pocket, before feeling the looks from both women.

  ‘It’s to be worn at all times, young man,’ Jeannie told him firmly, and stood with her arms folded until he had clipped it to his lapel.

  Sam led him through to the lift and up to the office.

  ‘Gee,’ he commented, ‘I’m making friends fast around here, aren’t I? She’s scarier than an ISIS video.’

  Sam smiled as she led him to the briefing room.

  ‘Mmm, it does pay to keep the receptionist onside.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name before?’

  Sam smiled again.

  ‘No, you didn’t did you?’ She let it hang and pushed through the door to the briefing room.

  Charlie looked up from the laptop and straightened up, sizing up the newcomer.

  ‘This is John from the Group,’ Sam explained, and the two men shook hands. Charlie noted the firm grip that held on just a fraction too long and a fraction too tight. He gave it a hard squeeze and released.

  ‘Charlie.’

  They stepped back and eyed each other again. The testosterone in the room was strong.

  ‘And I’m Sam,’ Sam said, taking the lead from Charlie. It was standard practice not to give out names until the confidence had been established.

  John nodded.

  ‘Great. Charlie and Sam. So your names are probably really Bill and Mary then.’

  He grinned cheekily and Sam noticed Charlie's back stiffen ever so slightly. She smiled to herself. His brother was in the Group-it was always a sticking point with him when they got brought into a job.

  ‘Grab a seat,’ Charlie told him, ‘Sam, can you give the others a shout?’

  Chapter Three

  A frontal head shot filled the screen, a hard faced man with weathered skin and dark eyes.

  ‘Josef Durakovic,’ Charlie said, standing to the side of the screen. ‘Former Major in the Serbian Army, commander of the Red Wolves paratroop unit. Now 58 years old. Served most of his adult life in the army, noted as a particularly hard-nosed officer, he actually enlisted as a grunt and rose up to commissioned rank.’

  He glanced around the assembled team.

  ‘He is our target, code name Warlock.’

  He flicked the screen to the next shot, showing an aerial shot of Magas.

  ‘This is the village of Magas, in the Drina Valley, north eastern Bosnia. In June 1995 it was the scene of the slaughter of 144 Bosnian civilians, just villagers who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘And happened to be Muslim,’ Sam added.

  ‘The Red Wolves basically just rolled into town early one morning, gathered as many villagers as they could find, and shot them. Men, women, children. Whoever, it didn't matter.’

  Charlie paused, letting that sink in for a moment.

  ‘A month later came the genocide at Srebenica of 8000 Muslims, which is noted as one of the greatest tragedies of a particularly vicious and tragic civil war.’

  ‘Were these Red Wolves involved in that too?’ Eric asked.

  ‘Not believed to have been,’ Charlie replied, ‘although it certainly sounds like something they'd have been interested in. Durakovic was eventually indicted at the Hague and was due to stand trial for war crimes, but escaped in 2001. He's been on the run ever since.’

  Charlie brought up the next shot, of a corridor in a cellblock. Two uniformed men lay on the floor. One had his head twisted at an unnatural angle, the other lay on his back with a blood covered face.

  ‘As an example of his brutality and single mindedness, these are the two guards he killed during his escape. Both were experienced soldiers, younger and fitter than Durakovic. He killed them both with his bare hands while handcuffed. He broke the first man's neck. The second guard had his eyes gouged out and was choked to death.’

  Eyebrows were raised around the table. Charlie noticed that John didn't even flinch.

  ‘It's unknown where Durakovic has been since 2001, but there have been various sightings of him around the world, some possibly accurate, most probably not.’

  Charlie flicked to what looked like a new photo of Durakovic, looking older and more weathered.

  ‘This is what he would look like today, all things being equal.’ He brought up a fresh photo of a separate man, a bit younger than Durakovic. ‘This is Murat Pilav, who was Durakovic's sergeant. He was indicted at the Hague and is currently imprisoned for his part in the slaughter.’

  Charlie turned to Sam and handed her the remote.

  ‘Sam?’

  She stood and took over, bringing up a woman's photo taken from a driver's licence.

  ‘This is Bahar Pasha, a Turkish national currently living in New Zealand. She is forty six years old and living in the nice part of Flat Bush. She arrived here alone seven years ago from Aussie and has not left since. She works as a receptionist at a medical clinic in Botany, full time, pays her taxes and seems to live alone. No known family here.’

  ‘How'd she get into NZ?’ Rosie asked, ‘refugee?’

  ‘Yep, through the open door,’ Sam confirmed. ‘On Friday evening after work Miss Pasha was the victim of a car accident in the car park at Botany town centre. She was knocked over by a car and sustained a broken leg and concussion.’

  She flicked up a photo of Tatjana Durakovic. The similarity to the driver's license photo of Bahar Pasha was strong but not conclusive, with the license photo being several years more recent.

  ‘When she was spoken to by the attending traffic cop, Miss Pasha gave her name as Tatjana Durakovic. This changed almost immediately and she used the name of Bahar Pasha from then on, without seeming to be aware of having used Tatjana's name.’

  ‘Slip of the tongue due to the concussion?’ Rosie suggested.

  ‘Probably,’ Sam agreed. ‘It appears that they are the same person from the photos, although not conclusively. It’s possible that if it is Tatjana, she's had some work done, maybe just a bit of botox or some work around the eyes and mouth.’

  ‘So we're not sure if it's her or not,’ Charlie continued, standing and taking the lead again. ‘Our job is to find out. If it's not her, fine, we'll probably be able to figure out why she used Tatjana's name. If it is her, we may be able to get a lead on her husband, and that's who we want.’

  ‘Catching him would be a major coup,’ JB interjected, and everyone turned to look at him. ‘He's a real bad bastard.’

  ‘So, I mean, I don't want to be rude,’ Rosie said, ‘but what exactly are you here for then?’

  There was a pregnant pause, and Charlie met JB's gaze over the heads of his team. The Army man was silent and expressionless as he waited for Charlie to answer.

  ‘Because of his background, we are using support from the Group on this job,’ he said diplomatically.

  Rosie opened her mouth to speak again, but caught Charlie's look and held fire.

  ‘Right,’ Charlie continued, ‘we've got a lot to do and not much time to do it, let's get cracking.’

  Chapter Four

  Josef Durakovic made a steeple of his fingers and watched his wife from the comfort of his battered armchair. Like most of the furnishings in the small flat it had come from a secondhand store-he abhorred the disposable consumer society of the west. Having lived here so long now, and with little to do but sit and think, the seat was comfortably moulded to his body shape.

  Their Jack Russell lay at Durakovic’s feet, silently watching and listening. He had belonged to the previous owner and stayed when they left, adopting the new occupants of the flat. His name tag identified him as Otis. Durakovic didn’t mind the dog hanging around. At least it was some company when Tatjana was at work.

  Tatjana fussed about in the kitchen, making strong tea which she brought to him in a stained china cup and saucer.

  He took it without a word, watching her as she returned to the kitchen for her own cup before perching on the edge of the sofa at right angles to him.

  She let out a sigh as she lifted her leg up onto the cushion b
eside her, the cast still clean and white under the folds of her hand sewn black skirt. Durakovic sipped his tea and smiled gently at his wife.

  ‘How’re you feeling now, my dear?’ he asked softly.

  ‘I have to say, I have had better days,’ she conceded, ‘however I have also had worse. It is just a broken leg.’

  ‘And your head?’

  Tatjana tossed her head dismissively.

  ‘Pfff. It’s nothing. I’m fine.’ She smiled coyly at him over the rim of her teacup. ‘But it is sweet of you to worry.’

  ‘I have nothing else to do,’ he replied simply. He gestured at the walls around them. ‘Stuck here in my own little prison cell.’

  Tatjana sipped more tea. She had nothing else to say, so she said nothing. She had shown Josef pity once before, and he had blackened her eye in his rage. Pity was weakness, and men like Josef did not do weakness.

  Durakovic was nearly finished his tea.

  ‘It was a genuine accident, yes?’

  Tatjana looked at him with confusion for a moment.

  ‘Genuine? Of course, I mean...ohhh, I see what you mean.’

  ‘It would not surprise me if it was set up,’ Durakovic continued, ‘the security services do this sort of thing all the time.’

  ‘In America and Great Britain, yes, they do,’ Tatjana agreed quietly, letting the unspoken word hang.

  Durakovic nodded in agreement.

  ‘But...this is New Zealand. This is not an intelligence-led nation. They are too relaxed for their own good.’ He smiled at his wife again. ‘I think we are okay.’

  ‘Of course my darling,’ Tatjana agreed, smiling encouragingly, ‘I also think we are okay.’

  Chapter Five

  In the heart of the building was The Dungeon, the home to the techo geeks who carried out the electronic surveillance and investigations which formed the backbone of the service. It was a windowless, high-security box which housed all the wizardry of the trade and constantly hummed with an electronic buzz.

  The collective IQ of the small team outweighed that of most financial institutions.

  Scooter, the Senior Electronic Technician and head of the unit, was peering at the PC screen in front of him, a mouse in one hand and a pair of spectacles in the other, the arm of which he was subconsciously chewing on.

  ‘Got it,’ he said finally, and leaned back in his chair triumphantly. He reached for the sausage roll on the table beside him and took a bite, flaky crumbs of pastry showering the front of his burnt orange cardigan. He brushed them aside absently and took another bite, before repeating the procedure.

  ‘Hey?’

  A head popped up from behind a screen opposite him, an angular Asian head topped by a shaggy bowl cut of jet black hair. A long bony finger pushed up the spectacles on the nose, which was screwed up.

  ‘Whatchu got, Scoober?’

  Scooter sighed to himself as he did numerous times a day. Leo was the only person who ever called him Scoober, and he’d given up months ago correcting him. The six foot three Chinese beanpole would just laugh and look confused.

  ‘The landline connection on Durakovic,’ he explained, finishing off the sausage roll. ‘We are live and rolling. Next thing is the tracking device.’

  ‘Who’s doing the CTR then?’ came another voice from the third workstation in the room.

  Wheels rolled on the lino floor and a chair slid into view with a girl perched on it.

  Her sneakers barely reached the foot rest below, and she was clad in tartan leggings and a black Rolling Stones T shirt. She had pixie hair, and the only visible tattoo was a bar code inside her left wrist, but everyone knew she had more.

  Scooter sighed again, and the girl pressed him.

  ‘Well? Who’s doing it?’

  ‘Well, probably me I guess...’

  ‘Why? Why not me, Scooter?’

  He hated it when she got indignant like that. Women were so difficult to deal with.

  ‘Rocko, do we have to do this dance every time?’ he moaned plaintively, ‘really?’

  ‘You don’t need a penis to do a CTR, Scooter,’ Rocko retorted.

  Leo laughed, and Rocko shot him a glare.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘You don’t exactly fit in with the neighbourhood, do you?’ Scooter argued, gesturing at her outfit.

  ‘And you do? How many overweight forty-something year old homosexuals who wear cardigans and live with their mothers hang out in that street?’

  Scooter sighed again.

  ‘For the millionth time, I am not homosexual.’

  ‘Whatever, Scooter.’ Rocko waved her hand dismissively at him and rolled back out of sight.

  Scooter rolled his eyes at Leo in a hopeless plea for solidarity.

  Leo cackled again.

  ‘She always busting your testicles, Scoober!’

  Despite her incessant nagging, Rocko actually had a point, which was why Leo ended up doing the CTR that day. The over-enthusiastic chocolate Labrador trying to pull his arm from its socket belonged to one of the agents, and was a regular participant in jobs.

  Straining at the leash, it dragged Leo a hundred metres before he managed to reel it in. He turned into the target street and took the tennis ball from his pocket. He waved it at the dog who wagged her tail frantically and tip-toed, trying to get it.

  Leo unclipped the leash from its collar and let it run, tossing the ball ahead down the footpath. The dog raced after it, got it, and brought it back. Five retrieves later they were two houses short of the target address, and Leo saw the car. A plain red Nissan Sunny sedan parked at the end of the block of four brick flats, nearest to the road under a carport.

  He walked closer then cocked his arm and tossed the ball, letting it ricochet off the edge of the low concrete border where a fence had once stood and disappear under the car.

  The dog bounded after it and Leo hurried along, looking around as if trying to find the ball. He saw nobody looking and ducked lower, looking under the car and digging one hand into his pocket for the tracking device there.

  Unfortunately the dog re-appeared before he had the chance to finish the job, and dropped the saliva-dripping ball at his feet. Leo felt a flutter of panic in his chest, and in that moment he lost his nerve.

  Leo straightened up and picked up the ball gingerly.

  ‘Great, stupid dog.’

  He continued on, throwing the ball ahead for the dog to chase again, hoping anyone watching him thought he was nothing more than what he appeared to be. Two hundred metres away and on the opposite side of the road, an electrician’s van was parked with its back towards him. Leo could almost feel the eyes on him and knew the failure to plant the tracking device had just cost him a cake.

  The earwig in his ear spoke.

  ‘Nice one,’ Sam said, ‘that’s a chocolate mud.’

  A couple of clicks in agreement came through from other team members.

  ‘See,’ Eric grumbled aloud, ‘you send a dog to do a man’s work, and look what happens.’

  Seated behind him in the rear of the covert van, Charlie grunted. He lowered the scope from his eye and frowned. He glanced at JB, who was sitting with his back to the wall, a sports bag at his side with a weapon concealed inside.

  ‘Your guys able to provide cover tonight?’

  JB nodded. ‘No dramas, I’ll make a call.’

  ‘Plan B it is. Let’s get moving.’ He keyed the pressel mike on his chest beneath his jacket. ‘Red 1 clear, moving to the sunrise for Red 2. Red 3 and 4 stay back, Plan B applies.’

  He received acknowledgements from the other two surveillance units, and Eric started up the van, moving round the corner to the dairy which had a large sunny face painted on the side wall.

  A couple of minutes later Leo and the Labrador climbed in the front and the van moved off.

  Charlie glanced at JB again as they headed back to base, and caught him quickly looking away. He wondered what the soldier was thinking.

  Knowing they would be working late that night, the team made the necessary arrangements and settled in.