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 Undercover 12

   By Katzmarek

   Part 12

   Vili found the big city an exciting place to live.  Her home village had
no power, running water and all her family lived in one big room.

   The `fale,' of course, was well adapted to the tropical island climate.
It was open on all sides to allow the sea breezes through, with grass mats
that could be lowered if the wind became too strong.  It was the
traditional island way.

   `What did they need of refrigerators anyhow?' There was fruit in the
trees, fish in the sea and wild pigs roaming the bush.

   It was a simple life in Tonga, inside the nest of her large extended
family.

   But at 13 she had been given the chance of seeing the wide world.  The
village elders, her father, uncles, pastor and the village `Matai' had
given her their blessing to become part of the Sponsored Education Project.

   A man came to the village and introduced the scheme to the village
council.  He said some generous people were providing the money so their
children can be sent overseas for a `proper' education.

   Not that the islands lacked schools.  The churches ran them and there
was even a high school.  But the education was different, overseas.  Girls
and boys were taught the same things and there was a chance for the good
scholars to go on to University.

   Vili didn't want to just learn the things that would make her a good
housewife.  She wanted to see the world beyond the islands, a strange,
exciting world of cars, television, telephones and a room of her own.

   At first the sheer size of everything and the number of people
intimidated her.  But young people adapt pretty fast and soon, with the
help of her sponsor family, and the support she received from her Private
School and the Tongan community, she felt at home.

   Mr.  and Mrs.  Rufus, her sponsors, were kind and generous and Mr. 
Rufus gave her many presents.  She was able to buy enough clothes and
things so she was dressed just like her `Palagi' peers.  Mr.  Rufus gave
her an allowance every week that she used to buy the latest CD's, make-up,
magazines, pretty much anything she wanted.

   Sometimes Mr.  Rufus gave her extra money as a present.  This was for
being a `good girl' and letting him touch her or watch as she changed her
clothes.

   She was no stranger to the `interest' men and boys had in girls.  Back
home the boys used to try and spy on the girls bathing in the stream, it
was an old game.  Indeed, many of the girls used to do the same and spy on
the boys.

   At 12, she'd let a boy who `liked' her, see her `kitty' and in return
he'd shown her his `peewee.' In the carefree islands it was just innocent
fun.

   She knew about sex, too.  What island child had not peeked around the
grass curtain at their parents after hearing `unusual' noises late at
night? But for her, for all the island girls, the pastor had told them to
wait until they were married and the pastor was close to God.

   Mr.  Rufus had confused her at first.  Hadn't he a wife to do such
things for him?  She decided it must be some `Palagi' thing and besides,
she liked the extra money.

   Jim Rufus was angry with Gray Treadwell.  He had done a `bunk' on him
just as the cops were starting to ask some questions and now it was HE that
had to come up with the explanations.

   `Flesh trading?  Unthinkable!  They were sponsoring an education project
so the island girls could get an education; that's all.

   Red Ray?  Merely a holding company.  No Asian syndicates, prostitution,
drugs or racketeering.  Everything was above board.'

   He hoped this Sperle was satisfied, he really didn't want the cops
crawling over his business affairs.  Hell!  Who HADN'T cheated on their tax
a little?

   Jim Rufus had just turned fifty.  His hair was greying and he was
carrying a little too much weight.  On the plus side, he was now reasonably
well to do and could afford a nice car, expensive suits, country club
membership and commanded considerable respect throughout the business
community.

   But Vili was turning out to be his weakness, so innocent and obliging
with a developing young body and a shy smile.

   He remembered the first time she'd brought home some new clothes.  She'd
got so excited that she'd changed right in front of him.  He'd got an
erection so hard it was painful as she innocently peeled down to her
underwear.

   Her brown skin was so smooth, he wanted to smear himself over those
flared hips and round bottom.  Her nipples raised little bumps through the
cups of her bra.  He wanted to touch them, lick them and ease those
beauties out of their confines.

   Later, beating himself off, he knew he was becoming obsessed with her.

   Gray sat beside Misha, his pilot, in the cockpit of the Mi 8 helicopter.
Lacking a crewman meant he had to haul the supplies to the dacha himself
and he wasn't looking forward to the exercise.  Ahead was the snow covered
rising ground that heralded the approach to the little lake.

   The helicopter skimmed low over the trees, sending upward flurries of
snow from the down wash.  Misha circled the flat area, about 100 metres
from the cabin, which was the landing zone.  Checking the area for
obstacles that might snag a rotor or damage the landing skis, he brought it
to the ground.

   Together they hauled the supplies out of the chopper, but Misha was
anxious to be off, so Gray was left to his own devices.

   It was understandable because, at this time of year, the weather in
Siberia can change dramatically and the pilot didn't want to be caught on
the ground during a snap blizzard.  A drift could build up over the craft
in half an hour, requiring hours of digging out.

   Gray crouched to the ground as the Mil's rotor kicked up its own little
blizzard as it took off again.

   As the `chukka-chukka' died away, the tundra fell silent except for the
whistle of the wind.  Gray began to haul the supplies to the dacha.

   The Russian embassy was perched high in the hills behind the city
centre. It had changed little from the Soviet era except for the crest on
the gate.  As Jess got off the bus outside, she glanced at the houses
across the street.  The same houses that, no doubt, used to house members
of the Security Intelligence Service and their spy gadgets.

   Jess had obtained her passport relatively quickly but she knew her visa
would require considerably longer to process.

   Instead of ringing a bell and announcing herself to a speaker, the gate
was open and she was free to walk into the public reception area.  Russia
was no longer suspicious of this pacific country.

   The woman at reception was quite happy to chat, once the formalities of
her application had been completed.  Jess told her that she was going to
surprise her fiancée on holiday in Siberia for a romantic stay in a remote
cabin.  The woman became quite excited by the story.

   Yes, she remembered Gray Treadwell and wasn't he a `catch,' she gushed.
She even printed out a copy of his visa application, even though she wasn't
supposed to.

   It was dated two months ago.  Under `reasons for travel,' was,
`recreation, I will be staying in a lakeside dacha for three weeks.' The
location was stated as `60km SSE of the Tunguska River.'

   `A good start,' Jess said to herself as she left.

   In Nuku'alofa, Tonga, Warren Hastings held the A4 sheet up to the light.
It was obvious to him the font on some of the entries was different.  It
was obvious, also, that what he got from the Palace Guard were colour
photocopies of the accounts of the Tonga Weekly Revue.

   In fact, the Palace Guard had been altogether too damned evasive all
round.

   The suspect entries record regular payments of $12,000 to a Mr.  Chen.
$12,000 was a significant payment for a newspaper with a circulation of
perhaps 10,000 people.

   Warren immediately surmised the entries had been faked.  Repeated
requests to the Palace failed to produce the originals so the detective had
to report to his boss that the evidence was at best `unsafe.'

   "My guess is A'oka's being set up," he told his chief, " and not very
expertly."

   "Everyone seems to be setting up everyone else," Sperle told him.

   Warren," the DS continued, " how do you like the idea of our pal
Swinbourne, the human rights lawyer, wading into the fray.  Call it an
unholy alliance, but I rather thought he might shake a few trees for us."

   "How would he intervene?"

   "Why, your friend Moses A'oka needs a lawyer doesn't he?  To be honest
I'd rather have that pain in the arse over there than here, getting in my
way."

   "Is he keen?"

   "Is he what!  There's quite a storm brewing here about press freedom and
the repression of human rights in Tonga.  He can hardly restrain himself."

   "By all means, let's rattle a few cages."

   "I'll call him straight away," Sperle said, ringing off.

   Jim Rufus picked Vili up from school like he often did.  Also like he
often did, his hand stretched across to rest on Vili's leg.

   Vili was used to this little performance by now.  She was grateful he
was some ways down the road and out of view from her school friends.

   She parted her legs a little and moved her right towards Mr.  Rufus's
hand.  Looking out the window, she felt his hand slowly stroking her,
moving steadily up her blue regulation tights towards her short skirt.

   At the junction of her legs, his hand would rest, Mr.  Rufus removing it
only if he needed it for driving.  Having negotiated the corner, or
whatever, it would return.

   Vili sat in the car as if completely oblivious to the invading hand. 
Even when his index finger was pressed against her mound, she simply
ignored it.

   When they got home, Mr.  Rufus watched her as she changed out of her
school clothes.  He sat in her dresser chair while she peeled off her
uniform, sometimes pressing himself between his legs with his hand.

   Vili simply pretended he was not there.

   One afternoon Mr.  Rufus had asked her to come closer then reached out
his hand and stroked her bottom.  Slowly that initiated a new dimension to
their activities.

   The young teenager trembled at his touch.  He'd spend some time now
running his hands over her body, over the exposed portion of her skin. 
Silently she accepted his touch, she didn't want to offend him by shrugging
him off.

   Two weeks later Jess had everything ready.  In the folder she received
from the travel agent the flight plan was to be; Qantas, Auckland to Tokyo,
Japan Airlines to Beijing, China Airlines to Ulan Bator, Aeroflot to
Irkutsk.

   The schedule intimidated her, she had never traveled so far in her life.
Nearly 30 hours of flight time spread over four days and all on her own.

   The Travel Company had warned her about the reliability of flights in
that region, in the tail end of winter.  Airports can close for weeks on
end through bad weather.

   Everyone had advice for her.  Sperle gave her some points about
searching for someone who didn't want to be found.  Chris told her to enjoy
herself, Jerry told her to keep away from the `Ivans' because they were all
horny.

   The police psychologist suggested Gray probably had a `personality
disorder.' Jess thought the psychologist probably was an idiot.

   By Ulan Bator, Mongolia, Jess'd had enough of travel.  The novelty had
worn off the longer she was in the air.

   The China Air Airbus had just made it into Ulan Bator before the weather
closed the airport.  She flopped into one of the terminal chairs and
promptly went to sleep.

   The same weather had delayed Gray's weekly supply drop.  He had tried
venturing outside but the blizzard had driven him indoors.  At least he had
a good supply of fuel left for the Diesel stove.  The Russians had
thoughtfully stored a few extra drums in the store shed.

   It was, however, a labourious business topping up the stove's tank.  It
perched on an angle-iron frame nestled against the back of the dacha.  To
refuel you had to run a hose from the shed into the tank and crank the
stuff in with a hand pump.

   In the cold, the Diesel oil became very sluggish and required a lot of
muscle to force it through the canvas hosepipe.

   When going well, the stove provided all the heat anyone could ever wish
for.

   On the other side of the world, Moses A'oka was collecting his bundle of
possessions from the front desk at the Police station.  Mamaku, the police
chief, stood with arms folded, glaring at him in the fashion only
Polynesians have.

   "You check everything then sign," he told him in Tongan, "you don't go
around telling folks I stole from you, ok?"

   "What are you scared of, Chief?  He replied, " afraid of a little
telling off from the palace."

   "You show respect for His Majesty," Mamaku roared, "if it was up to me I
would have you chained up with the dogs."

   "You just don't get it, Mamaku.  You boss is too busy stuffing his face
to see what's under his nose."

   The police chief raised his hand as if to lash at Moses but restrained
himself, bristling with anger and stuck for words.

   "The Kingdom is been stolen from under our feet and sold off to
foreigners, hell!  Even your kids are being sold overseas.  Don't you
realise what's going on?"

   "YOU steal..." Mamaku blustered.

   "Steal what, Mamaku?  The Palace fabricated all kinds of `evidence'
because I was telling the truth about them.  One letter to the Chief
Justice from my lawyer and poof!  Nothing... no `evidence' no charges.  And
now there will be no trial and no cross examination by sharp lawyers."

   "You have always been troublemakers, you A'okas.  I think you want to be
Kings yourselves.  That's what this is all about."

   Mamaku shoved him rudely out the door.

   Meanwhile, outside Jerry Hanlon's garage a red, late model Chevrolet
pulled up.  Three men got out, all wearing dark glasses, looking like the
cast of `Men in Black.' Sliding open the door to the garage, two went
inside while the other hovered outside.

   "Jerry?  Is that you?  The shorter man called.

   Extricating himself from an under a bonnet, Jerry looked up in surprise.

   "Silvio, Hell!"

   Indicating towards the two other men, Jerry exclaimed,

   "What are you doing bringing your boys this side of the river?"

   "They're being respectful," Silvio replied, "they're not wearing any
colours."

   "Bloody incognito all right!  You just park a red Chevy outside and that
guy has a Mongrel Tat on his cheek," Jerry said indicating one of the men.
" Are you looking to kill my trade?"

   "Calm down... I just wanted to have a little chat."

   "The last time I chatted to you I wound up in maximum security for 8
years."

   "Hey!  Don't blame me for that.  You were a contractor, you accepted
your own risks."

   "You threw me to the cops to save your own arses."

   "A business decision, Jerry... Look I didn't come here to talk over old
times..."

   "Good!  Leave the door open on your way out, I need to get rid of the
smell."

   "Have you heard from you pal Gray?" Silvio asked, ignoring the comment.

   "Why do you want to know?"

   "I hear he's been a naughty boy... Got into a bit of trouble."

   "So?  Have you been misdirecting your packages again, Silvio?"

   "Oh that!  Sorry I used your address.  We just had to check for
canaries."

   "$600,000 is a lot of investment to go on a rat hunt, Silvio.  It must
be a big rat."

   "It was, Jerry, a very big rat."

   "And you think that Gray tipped off the cops?  If so then what are they
after him for?"

   "Smoke screen... Look, no one knows the Pacific like your pal.  Ever
since `Red' parked himself in the islands we keep getting fucked up out
there.  We bring in some bait and what do you know?  The cops are waiting
for it."

   "Silvio... I'm getting a `road to Damascus.'"

   "What the fuck are you talking about?  I could never understand what you
say"

   "A revelation... it tells me Black Dot is screwing around with Gray's
life."

   "He screwed with us..."

   "And you want to hit him?  Where the fuck do you think you are, Miami?
You strut around like some Colombian firm but you're playing for chicken
shit, Silvio.  If I see your boys over here again, I tell the Black's
council your trying to shake me down."

   "Don't threaten me..." Silvio said advancing on Jerry.  All of a sudden,
daylight flooded into the garage as the doors were thrown back.  A line of
gang soldiers stood silhouetted.

   "You lost your way, dog shit?" one of the soldiers asked.

   "Private business," Silvio replied walking slowly towards them, hands
outstretched to prove he had no weapon.

   "You need Dog soldiers for your private business?  Hey Jerry!  I don't
like your clients."

   "Me neither... they were just leaving."

   The two Mongrel gangsters glared at the Black Power `cavalry' menacingly
as they made to leave.

   "Keep in touch, Jerry?" Silvio said, nonchalantly, as he slipped through
the line of men.

   "I send you a Christmas card."

   The Chevy roared down the street sending up a cloud of blue smoke from
the rear tyres.  George Tamahere, the Black's `President' lingered behind
as everyone else left.

   "What's going down, Jerry," he asked.

   Later that afternoon, Jerry waited for Chris in the police station's
watch house.  Chris appeared through the staff door, a look of concern on
her face.

   "What's the matter, Jerry?  They said you wanted to see me urgently."

   "Can we go for a stroll?" he said, " this place gives me the creeps."

   They sat in a little park down the road, out of public view.

   "Chris," Jerry said, sucking in his breath, " where is Jess now?"

   "Ulan Bator, Mongolia, I heard, waiting for clear weather, why?"

   Jerry looked around him, then said in a low voice,

   "Black Dot have a contract out on him."

   "What?  Who?  Why, Jerry?"

   "They think he's been messing with their business... that whole drug
shipment was organised by them.  They think he's a police mole."

   Jerry explained what had happened earlier at the garage.

   "They're pretty desperate to bring Mongrel soldiers over the river," he
explained.

   "I didn't know Black Dot were still in business," Chris said, "I thought
they'd been cleaned up."

   "Nah, they just got smaller.  Other dudes took over from the seniors
when they were busted, or ran.  They use Mongrel muscle these days.  You've
got to get a message to Gray to stay put.  Tell Sperle if you have to.  If
this goes down there'll be fucking warfare, tell him that!"

   "I will!  Jerry... how can we stop it?"

   "The only way I can see is to prove Gray was not informing for the
police.  He wasn't was he?"

   "If he was they're keeping it very quiet, even from Sperle.  He's still
convinced Gray's involved in something criminal."

   "Maybe he's doing both... I dunno.  Or maybe he just accidentally
stepped in something.  It happens, Y'know, dude's minding his own business
and then someone puts two and two together and comes up with the square
root of infinity."

   "Shit, Jerry, what a mess."

   Chris lay her head on Jerry's shoulder to be comforted by his arm around
her.

   "So, you're telling me that Black Dot have a contract out on Treadwell?"
Sperle was telling Chris later, in his office, "that they think he's an
informer?  That the drug shipment was bait?  Are you telling me that they'd
blow 600 grand just to entrap him?  Does that sound credible, Constable?"

   "I don't know, sir.  I'm just reporting the information, what you do
with it is up to you."

   "Don't get cocky... Hmm so Silvio Kosmadakis is frightened enough to
risk bringing his muscle over the river.  Now THAT'S interesting.  Hmm, if
they want to take him out, why tell Hanlon?  It doesn't make sense, unless
they want him to make contact with Gray.  Do you know what I think?" Sperle
suddenly asked Chris, "I think they want him out of the way, to stay
hidden. For some reason they don't want him back in the country.  I don't
think they're going to risk gang warfare by murdering him, that's just
silly."

   "You think so, sir?"

   "I think so.  If Dayshe can bring him to civilisation, we can provide
some protection for him, providing he'll co-operate.  If you can reach her,
tell them not to talk to strangers, just in case.  I'll ask our gang-watch
people to keep an eye on the Mongrels, too."

   "Yes sir."

   In Siberia the day was dawning crystal clear.  An antique Illyushin
airliner sat on the tarmac at Ulan Bator winding up its engines.  Jess
gathered up her hand luggage and headed for the counter.

   At the home of James Rufus, accountant, Jim was tapping lightly on the
door of Vili's bedroom.  When he received no response, he silently opened
the door and crept in.  Kneeling by the side of the bed containing the
sleeping Tongan teenage girl, he thought for a moment before gently easing
the covers from over her young body.

   Her eyes flicked open and she looked up, startled.  Putting a finger to
her lips, James Rufus shushed her.

   "It's me," he whispered to her.

   Pulling down the covers, the accountant silently eased himself into her
bed.  Wordlessly, Vili moved over to accommodate him.

   Chapter 13 follows

   Katzmarek (C)