The Spanish Helmet Page 4

  ‘You’re right, it was a long flight,’ Matt said.

  ‘And it’ll be a long few weeks. I’m sure you must be excited about finding your father.’

  Matt looked at Warren, confused that the first item on his agenda seemed to be his father. But when he saw the imploring look in Warren’s eyes, he realised there must be a reason why he didn’t want to talk business.

  ‘Yes,’ Matt said, hoping that the look he gave Warren in return would reassure him that he understood. ‘It sure is great of you to have done everything you have to find him.’

  Warren’s smile confirmed they understood each other.

  ‘That reminds me,’ Warren said, as he stopped the trolley to pull a piece of paper out of his trouser pocket, ‘I found the last known address of your father too.’

  Matt hesitated for a moment but reached out and took the paper from Warren. Opening it, he saw a three-line address in a town with a name he had never heard of. It could have been anywhere for all Matt knew.

  ‘Thanks Warren. Where is this… Devonport?’ he asked, wondering how he would feel when he actually made it to the door of his father’s house.

  ‘It’s on the North Shore, the northern part of Auckland. Sort of in the direction of where I live in the East Coast Bays. I can take you there, or show you a bus. No worries.’

  As they had been talking, Warren had led Matt out into the humid summer air and across a sprawling parking lot. They had come to a stand-still next to a big red Toyota Hilux. Matt had seen these on some of the farms in Cornwall too, and figured they were probably popular out here. Warren tossed Matt’s bags into the back part of the double-cab and they climbed in.

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t talk back in there,’ Warren said, ‘but the boys from the NISO and the DCI are all over the place.’

  ‘The Detective Chief Inspector?’

  ‘The Detective what?’ Warren looked really confused.

  ‘You said the N-something and the DCI… Detective Chief Inspector.’

  Warren laughed. ‘I see where you got it wrong. The DCI is the Department of Cultural Identity. They’re the part of the government responsible for how we identify with our culture.’

  Matt laughed too. ‘Sounds complex.’

  ‘In all seriousness,’ Warren said in a mood-changing tone as a traffic light turned green and they started on a motorway, ‘the DCI are trouble. For you and me anyway.’

  Warren pulled into the right lane and put his foot to the floor. Matt noticed him make repetitive glances in the rear-vision mirror.

  ‘The DCI will confiscate the site if they decide that my findings there are too threatening. I had to call them, of course, and let them know what I found, but until now they haven’t interfered directly. But I’m convinced that they’re watching my every move, as if trying to catch me out or something.’

  ‘Catch you out with what?’

  ‘With anything that might throw question over the original inhabitants of New Zealand, or cause changes in New Zealand history to be considered.’ Warren checked the mirror again.

  ‘Don’t they think that a Celtic burial site raises some fascinating questions?’ Matt asked, not believing it could possibly fail to.

  Matt watched as a sly grin appeared on Warren’s face. ‘I haven’t exactly told them the whole story yet. But if we don’t shake these NISO boys, we may lose our little advantage sooner than I’d like.’

  ‘There it is again, NISO. What is that? And what do you mean. Lose them?’ Matt asked, as he turned to look out the small back window. Behind them was just standard commuter traffic.

  ‘NISO. It’s your lucky day, Matt. I can answer that question, but many other folk wouldn’t be able to. Most New Zealanders don’t even know they exist.’

  Matt caught Warren’s eye and nodded to let him know he was listening. As Warren talked, he turned and looked out at the scenery passing by on the left. A small harbour, a disused road bridge, and what looked like a small sea-side factory.

  ‘NISO stands for ‘National Information Security Office,’ Warren said, ‘they’re the New Zealand equivalent of an ultra-secretive secret service, similar in some aspects to the National Security Agency in the United States. The NISO has the power and legal right to tap your phones, listen in on satellite transmissions and radio frequencies, and intercept your e-mail. Stuff like that. Basically they’re government spies.’

  ‘But isn’t that illegal?’ Matt asked, looking back at Warren, who was again looking in the mirror. ‘Don’t you have some sort of privacy law here, like in the UK?’

  ‘Sure,’ Warren said with a grin, ‘but it’s worthless. The Privacy Act stops anyone from intercepting your communication, but a special clause gives the NISO rights to intercept again. They basically just have to say that you might be a terrorist, and voila, they can do whatever they want. Nothing is sacred. It’s the same in the US and UK.’

  ‘But they need a warrant?’

  ‘No. They don’t even have to show evidence as to why you’re suspected.’

  Matt caught Warren glancing in the mirror again. When he turned to look himself, he still only saw bog standard commuter traffic. He started to think Warren was maybe a little too paranoid. Matt hadn’t seen him like this before and felt a pang of concern.

  ‘Do you see them?’ Warren asked.

  ‘To be honest with you, I don’t.’ Matt answered. He searched about, desperate to spot a large black SUV or V8 sedan, like in the movies.

  ‘Two cars back. Watch what he does.’

  Warren pulled from the fast lane into the left-hand lane and off an exit, all in one sweeping movement. Matt watched in silence as the black car Warren had pointed out changed lanes and accelerated behind them up the off-ramp.

  ‘But that’s just a Toyota Corolla. Surely not government spies.’

  Warren laughed. ‘That’s the beauty of it, Matt. They drive the most common car on New Zealand roads. They blend in.’

  Matt thought about this. It made sense. Maybe all those American films were a little clichéd.

  ‘So how are we going to lose them then?’ Matt asked, getting a little excited by the situation, but at the same time, a tiny bit nervous.

  ‘We don’t have to, really. They know where we’re going. We just have to bore them into leaving us alone.’

  ‘And how do we do that?’

  ‘We go home, and when we get there, we do nothing. We’ll lie low for a day or two. Give you a chance to get some sleep. Then we’ll go up to my friend’s place and take a look at the site.’

  Matt smiled. Maybe things weren’t going to be dangerous after all. Perhaps Warren was pulling his leg about the occupants of the Corolla. He looked around and saw the black car, still a couple of cars back, but on the same road which led past a sign pointing to One Tree Hill. Matt looked up at the hill. No tree hill, he thought. Looking back at the black car, he could only make out one occupant. A darker-skinned man. A Maori, Matt guessed.

  He started to get hungry. Less than two hours later, they had crossed the harbour bridge and made their way to Warren’s house in Campbell’s Bay. They had dined on Pizza and fries and Matt fell asleep in what felt like the world’s most comfortable bed. He hadn’t seen the Toyota since he looked back while passing One Tree Hill. In fact, he had all but forgotten it.

  * * *

  Hemi had done everything the man on the phone told him to. Up until now that was. But earlier, he was obedient young Hemi, the Clan of Truth’s go-to guy.

  He had arrived at the airport early, using the time to his advantage to find a good spot from which to view the arrivals area from, without being obvious himself. That wasn’t always easy. Although he was not especially tall, Hemi had a commanding aura. Sitting with his back to the wall of the cafe, his muscles rippled as he lifted his coffee cup to his lips. The waitress came over and offered him another free refill. He declined and watched as she returned to the counter, ignoring the other customers who were practically begging for her attention.


  Hemi waited. Bloody customs were far too zealous in their work. A man walked past the cafe and took a look at the arrivals board. Hemi spilled his coffee. What the fuck are you doing here? Confusion set in. Hemi couldn’t think of a logical reason why Warren Rennie, his prey, and now employer, was at the airport. Wasn’t it Hemi’s job to watch Dr. Cameron? Had he misunderstood? He watched as Rennie turned his head and scanned the room. Their eyes met and Warren gave a slight nod of his head. OK, Hemi was meant to be here. He could see that Rennie was nervous. Nervous and excited. The man paced like a husband waiting outside the delivery room while his wife had triplets. Thank God Dr. Cameron finally emerged and put him out of his misery. It looked like Rennie was playing host to Dr. Cameron. They appeared to be great friends. This is getting interesting. What was that bit of paper Rennie passed him?

  Hemi watched as the two men meandered out to a red Toyota Hilux. After they climbed in, he hurried to his own vehicle, another Toyota, but in black and smaller. He patted the steering wheel as he turned into the exit booths approach, keeping his eye on the Hilux two cars in front. As soon as he had paid and driven onto the two-lane road leading away from the terminal, Hemi set his task into stage two. He pulled up behind the Hilux at the lights, and from then on, all the way to the North Shore where they stopped, he made sure to follow them obviously enough to be seen. It worked. He saw Dr. Cameron turn around a number of times. They even made eye contact. Well, Hemi did in any case.

  When they arrived at Rennie’s place, Hemi parked his car a couple of houses away and watched patiently. He didn’t have to sit here any more. His task wasn’t to watch Dr. Cameron right now, it was just to follow them, and to be seen. But with the new development of Rennie’s direct involvement, Hemi had further work to do. His only guess is that Rennie was using Dr. Cameron as his fall guy. It made sense. Bring in a foreigner to justify the claims that no one else will touch. He would have felt sorry for Cameron, but the good doctor was probably as crooked as Rennie.

  This was personal as much as it was business. He knew what he had to do. He pulled a manila folder from the satchel that sat next to him on the passenger seat. This was Leigh’s work, the best resource in the business. Leigh got everything Hemi ever needed, and in record time to boot. Best of all, Hemi was one hundred percent sure of Leigh’s confidence. She supplied him information and left no paper trail. The agency had no idea of the quantity of information that Hemi possessed. He momentarily glanced at the label which Leigh had stuck on for him some years earlier. Warren James Rennie, it read. He opened it and reviewed all that she had collected on the man. Hemi knew he had his work cut out for him.

  CHAPTER

  10

  Friday, January 22, 1526

  We have finally made it into the entrance of the Estrecho de Magallanes, but not without drama. On reaching the straits, a violent storm blew up and we were again thrown into confusion. The Sancti Spiritus was driven ashore. Nine souls were lost. She was under the command of our chief pilot, Elcano, who is also second in command of the fleet. The following day she broke up in a severe gale which destroyed all her bread and much wine and merchandise. Elcano transferred to the Anunciada to resume his acting command of the squadron, leaving his crew to live on shore as best they can.

  Elcano has clearly been affected by the loss of his vessel and, I doubt not, by the loss of his men. I would not like to fall victim to the same circumstance.

  But all is not dismal. We have been greatly blessed by the return of the Santa Maria and San Gabriel. As a fleet of six ships now, we are feeling optimistic about the journey ahead through the straits. The spirits of the men remain high. There has only been some minor disciplinary action needed to date, that for men who have fallen asleep during their watch or used foul language in the hearing of the officers. For the most, the journey is one of the most pleasant I have partaken in.

  Saturday, February 13, 1526

  Our joy at the reunited squadron was short-lived. Another gale blew up and forced me to put my little caravel to sea to avoid being wrecked in the straits. I remained there the next few days, along with the other caravel, drifting south into the coldest seas I have ever known. We travelled fifty-eight leagues south of the straits in all, and had to battle our way back. The men and I are tired and miserable, but there has been something good in our misfortune. When we were at the 56th parallel, our lookout informed me of open waters to the west of a land’s end. This would mean there is a passage between the Océano Atlántico and El Pacífico. Upon rejoining the fleet, I reported this discovery to Loaisa, who has had the cartographer add the passage to our charts. Loaisa has bestowed a great honour on me and named it after my family, el Mar de Hoces. My father, God rest his soul, would have been very proud to have seen this day.

  During our absence, the Anunciada also put out to sea and hasn’t since been seen. The flagship, Santa Maria, has also now run aground and although she has been refloated, is in need of repairs. We are so battered that Loaisa has decided we will return north to the Rio Santa Cruz for a complete overhaul. This decision has greatly displeased the captain of the San Gabriel. He has chosen to depart from the expedition and is heading back to Spain. We keep getting smaller. We are now a fleet of just four ships, three of us less than 80 tons a piece. Our total tonnage has been halved. It means we have taken on some of the supplies of the wrecked vessels, but we are also running heavier, having taken on extra crew. My 36 berth ship is now home to 52 men.

  I am starting to question if we can continue our journey. Will we make it through the Estrecho de Magallanes with our lives?

  CHAPTER

  11

  The sunny Wednesday morning moved backwards past the car window as Warren and Matt drove north out of the Auckland suburbs into the countryside. A refreshing breeze blew in through the open car windows. It brought a tang of the sea and the trees that lined the road. This was much more pleasant than Auckland, which had so far proven to be humid a lot of the time.

  The previous two days had been a perfect welcome to New Zealand for Matt. He had a chance to overcome the lack of sleep he experienced during the flight and had already been introduced to a few lovely little bays around the North Shore of Auckland. Warren had also taken him to a great restaurant in a little shopping area beginning with T. Matt had no chance of pronouncing that name again though.

  As they drove, the world blurred past at 100km per hour.

  ‘The motorway here was extended a few years back,’ Warren said, ‘before that the on-ramp where we came on was the end of the road. From there it used to be a slow half hour drive just as far as Orewa, a little beach town up ahead. Many years back it was a quiet beach holiday destination for Aucklanders. Now it’s just another off-ramp twenty minutes up the road.’

  ‘That’s progress for you, I suppose?’

  ‘Yeah. Still, I don’t mind. The whole journey up to my friend’s place is less stressful with this motorway extension. Knocks a bit of the trip off anyway.’

  ‘Does your friend work the farm?’ Matt asked.

  ‘No.’ Warren laughed. ‘It’s just a hunting haunt for him. Man’s got too much money to know what to do with it all.’

  Matt watched the family in the car in front of them pull off to a service centre. No doubt they were making a bee-line for the Burger King.

  ‘The land is leased out to one of the local farmers,’ Warren said. ‘He’s the owner of the land where our site is.’

  It all came together in Matt’s head. He had wondered how Warren had managed to arrange permission to dig all over someone’s land. He figured the owner got a sweet deal on the friend’s land rental. A few minutes later Warren pulled the car off the motorway at the Silverdale off-ramp.

  ‘Here’s our first spot.’ Warren said as he stopped at the entranceway to a fairly modern looking suburban development.

  Matt spotted their target immediately. Off the side of the road, a few large round boulders were nestled in the ground, looking as out of place as an elep
hant in a goldfish bowl.

  ‘They look like concretions.’ Matt got out of the car.

  ‘Yes, they do, but concretions form in mudstone, not the yellow clay that abounds on this hill. Moreover, how did it happen that a collection of them appeared at the top of this hill?’

  Warren made a good argument. Looking closely at the boulders, Matt could also make out reliefs etched in the rock. Whether this was natural, or made by ancient or modern man was merely speculative. But overall, the rocks bore some thought.

  ‘Now I want you to remember this location as the Silverdale trig,’ Warren instructed. ‘Sometime this week I want to show you the Auckland Alignments, and this trig is a part of them.’

  ‘Understood.’

  They climbed in the car and continued up the road, passing through the beach town of Orewa that Warren had mentioned. Three hours later the car slowed down and Warren pointed out a valley on the left.

  ‘This valley, Waiotapu, is one of the most concentrated points of megalithic remains in the country.’

  ‘Are we going to stop and have a look?’

  ‘No, unfortunately not. The local Maori are causing trouble again. Anyone they find on the land gets threatening notes put on their car. I don’t want to drag you into trouble like that.’

  Matt watched as the valley disappeared behind them, wondering what wonders it had in store. It seemed a bit odd that the Maori would threaten visitors. Maybe Warren was exaggerating. Not more than a couple of kilometres later, Warren pulled the car off the main road on to a smaller country road that led off to the right.

  ‘My friend’s place is just on the other side of the Donnelly’s Crossing settlement,’ Warren said, as they drove towards a spattering of farm houses. ‘But before we go there, let’s go straight to the site first.’