The Kiwi Target

there.”

CHAPTER 13

    While Theodore Kincaid was enjoying his second drink, his mind was sifting facts and ideas with effortless speed. He was not u p on construction costs in New Zealand, but he had heard that the country was overunionized and that some substantial proposals had been killed as a consequence. For the Bay of Islands project, costs would be at a peak because he would have to bring in skilled personnel from other parts of the country. Adding these facts together, he could not assume that putting up the hotel would be a routine matter. The essential curved design, while common in the United States and Brazil, might pose a problem in New Zealand, where this type of construction could be unknown.
    But the profit potential was dazzling.
    The hotel would be called the Bay of Islands and advertised throughout the travel industry as a new and exciting destination. Transportation to and from the facility would not be a problem. One good idea would be a small fleet of sleek amphibious planes that could pick up passengers at Auckland Airport and deposit them right at the hotel’s dock.
    The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that he had stumbled onto a gold mine. He would have to take care of the flap, whatever it was, about the land and then move in.
    He was about to leave the bar when he noticed that Winston was still there. The man’s accent had identified him as a New Zealander. Since he had been openly cordial, he might be a useful source of local information. Kincaid caught his attention and asked, “Are you alone at the moment?”
    “Yes, quite alone.”
    “Care to dine together?”
    Winston was clearly pleased to have been asked. “I’d be delighted,” he responded. He quickly finished his drink and then made himself available. Together the two men crossed the lobby to the restaurant. There they were seated at a choice window table, a tribute to Kincaid’s favorable impression on the staff.
    The ideal weather served as an innocuous topic of conversation until an attractive waitress appeared to take their orders. When she left, Winston spoke. “Since you’re a visitor here, what do you think of our Bay of Islands? No empty compliments, now—your real reaction to the place.”
    “I’ll be completely honest,” Kincaid said, meaning it. “I’ve seen many beautiful places in the world, but this is unique. I’d be delighted to have a home and live here.” While his words flowed easily, he was also thinking very rapidly. “In fact,” he added, apparently casually, “I’ve been toying with the idea of buying a piece of property as a retreat—a change of pace, if you will.”
    “That’s a fine thought,” Winston said. “There are some regulations about foreign ownership, but they shouldn’t prove too difficult—for a private house, that is.”
    For a moment or two Kincaid reexamined the remarkable image that had formed in his mind. He would make the hotel his headquarters when he took over the Pricane operations in New Zealand. A luxury suite in such a setting would guarantee abundant feminine company. His sudden silence did not seem to disturb Winston, who was enjoying the view from the window.
    When the waitress arrived with the first course, Kincaid saw that he was in for another overgenerous meal. Apparently no one in the whole country had heard of portion control. When the main course was served, he settled down to it with relish.
    When he realized that he had been silent for too long a time, he gave his attention to his guest once more. “Sorry,” he said. “I was daydreaming about that house.”
    “I can’t blame you,” Winston responded. “Would you mind if I asked you a question?”
    “No, of course not. Go ahead.”
    “Then tell me,” Winston’s voice was gentle and soft. “How well do you know Peter Ferguson?”
    To cover himself, Kincaid picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth, hoping that simple action would mask the shock he had just received. During his business career he had had many unpleasant surprises, but nothing surpassed the one he had just experienced. To give himself time, he took a drink of water; when put the glass down, he tried to keep his face as innocent of expression as he could. He knew very well who Peter Ferguson was but he would be damned if he would reveal that fact.
    “As far as I know,” he said very carefully, “I’ve never met anyone of that name.”
    He had a sudden urgent desire to know who Winston was.