The Kiwi Target

had also reported him as being involved in heavy narcotics trafficking. Interpol’s assessment was Extremely dangerous, use maximum caution.
    The superintendent in charge was not happy as he absorbed this information. “I hope to God that Perkins was wrong in his identification of this man,” he said to the inspector who was his immediate aide.
    “So do I,” the inspector agreed. “We have enough on our plate as it is.”
    At that moment the phone rang briefly. He picked it up and took a short call. “The cab driver is downstairs,” he reported.
    The inspector took the latest available photograph of Riley from the Interpol folder and from a desk drawer extracted several more of the same general type. Then he looked at his superior.
    “Let’s go get the bad news,” the superintendent said, and led the way out of the room.
    The cab driver was a middle-aged man in blue walking shorts and a large-size T-shirt that covered his substantial torso. Like most New Zealanders, he had a good opinion of the police and was glad to do what he could to give them a hand.
    Before all of the pictures could be laid for his inspection, he picked up the one of Riley. “That’s him,” he announced. “No mistaking the bloke. I had me a good look at him when he had me put him down on a comer with no one there to meet him.”
    “Look again and be sure,” the inspector advised. “That photo is several years old.”
    The cab driver asserted his dignity. “I said that was him. And it is.
    Meanwhile a careful check by immigration was under way. It was soon determined that one passenger listed on the Qantas flight manifest, a Mr. Arvin Branson, could not be located. He had given his local address as the Southern Pacific Hotel, but he had not checked in and no reservation was being held in his name.
    A call to the Commonwealth Police in Sydney produced results within the hour. An Arvin Branson had been located in Melbourne and interviewed by telephone. He reported that his home had been recently burglarized, but he had not been aware that his passport had been taken. Upon request, he checked his personal papers and reported that it was indeed missing.
    That was quite enough to satisfy the superintendent. He notified Police Central Headquarters in Wellington, who in turn advised Interpol that Edward Riley was believed to have been seen coming into the country. He also issued a bulletin to all police stations on both the North and South Islands to be on the lookout for Riley, but not to attempt to take him; that would be a job for the Armed Offenders Squad.
    When they were once more alone together, the inspector spoke. “Sir, have you any idea why Riley came here? To hide out for a while, perhaps?”
    “I don’t think so,” the superintendent answered. “To put it as our American friends do, he’s a professional hit man. There is something—or more likely somebody—that he’s after. Right at this moment I have no idea who has hired him or what his target is, and I don’t like that fact one damned bit.”

CHAPTER 2

    As he tried to go through the various letters and documents that his secretary had so neatly stacked for him on his desk, Charlie Swarthmore, president of Swarthmore and Stone, was having a hellish time trying to concentrate on his work. Twice within an hour he stopped what he was doing, stared unseeing out of the window at the sunny California lawn, and made a determined effort to defeat the thing that was gnawing at his mind. But it refused to go away. He knew that his normally sound business judgment was being affected, something that irritated him even more.
    The first Charles Swarthmore had been a great admirer of Teddy Roosevelt, with the result that from the first, Swarthmore and Stone had considered the environment in every project it had undertaken. Two generations later the results of that policy were paying off handsomely. Ironically that success was responsible for Charlie Swarthmore’s intensely uncomfortable state of mind.
    Finally he flipped a switch on his intercom. “Will you ask Peter to come in, please?” he said.
    Three minutes later, Peter Ferguson came into the big corner office with no idea why he had been summoned.
    “Sit down, Peter,” Charlie said. “Coffee?”
    “Thanks, no—I just had some.”
    “Cherry Coke, then; I know you like it.”
    Peter knew better than to decline twice. “Please,” he said.
    Charlie opened the door to a concealed bar and poured two drinks. He