The Kiwi Target

company depends on Bishop. I’ve talked to the attorney, O’Malley, on the phone. He was courteous, but he wouldn’t give out any information.
    “I want you to go to New Zealand, before the end of the week if possible, and sit down with O’Malley. See what you can do on a face-to-face basis. Since I may be spending Pricane’s money, I’ll pop for first class.”
    “You’re putting a lot of trust in me,” Peter said.
    “I know,” Charlie answered, “but if I had any doubts, I’d send someone else. Do you mind?”
    “No,” Peter answered. “You’ve put me on the ropes for the moment, that’s all.”
    Charlie visibly relaxed a little. “Pricane may be there ahead of you, so get to O’Malley as fast as you can. I’d suggest that you go as a tourist: look around the country a little. Pricane has long ears, so keep your business connections to yourself, except with O’Malley. And Bishop, of course, if you get the chance.”
    “I think it would look better if you went yourself,” Peter said. “I don’t dare. The name Swarthmore is too conspicuous, particularly right now. Your name shouldn’t tip anyone off, in case Pricane has their antennae out.”
    “I see the point of that,” Peter agreed. “My name won’t ring any warning bells.”
    As far as he knew, that was a true and accurate statement.

CHAPTER 3

    The first major reaction that Peter had as he walked outside the Auckland terminal, pushing a cart with his luggage, was gratitude that he was in an English-speaking country. Since this was the first time he had been abroad, he had a firm desire to do things properly, right from the beginning. Customs varied, he knew that, and he could not afford to make mistakes anywhere along the line. There was far too much at stake for that.
    The next taxi driver in line was a firmly built man of about fifty who was standing beside his vehicle. He wore an open cotton shirt and a pair of walking shorts that barely covered the tops of his muscular legs. “Here, let me have a go at that,” he said, and took over the luggage cart with swift efficiency. He loaded Peter’s two suitcases onto the back seat and shut the door. “You can ride up with me,” he added.
    If that was the way they did things in New Zealand, all right, Peter thought. He dutifully tried to get in on the right-hand side and then realized his mistake. The driver took it in stride. “A lot of you Americans do that,” he said. “We drive on the left, you see.” He waited while Peter walked around and got in, then started up and pulled onto the exit road. “Where to?” he asked.
    “The Southern Pacific Hotel.”
    “That’s a good choice, right at the foot of Queen Street. Convenient to everything. Your first visit here?”
    “Yes.”
    “Welcome to kiwi land. That’s what we call ourselves—kiwis. After the little bird that can’t fly.”

    Once he was in his hotel room, Peter stripped and took a reviving shower that washed away some of his fatigue. Despite a tempting look at the comfortable bed, he dressed and put through a call to the office of Raymond O’Malley.
    It took a few minutes for the connection; then O’Malley’s secretary came on the line. Her voice was rich with accent. “Mr. O’Malley knows of your visit, Mr. Ferguson,” she reported. “Unfortunately, he’s entirely tied up for the rest of the week. He left word that if it’s convenient for you, he can meet with you in Queenstown for lunch on Saturday.”
    Peter had no idea where Queenstown was, but there was no doubt about keeping the appointment. “I’ll be there, of course,” he said.
    “I’ll inform Mr. O’Malley. He has suggested that you might put up at the Mountaineer Establishment. He knows the management very well, and they’ll take good care of you.”
    “Thank you. Will I need a reservation?”
    “I’ll be glad to make one for you. There’s a direct flight on Mount Cook Airlines. Where are you staying?”
    “At the Southern Pacific in Auckland.”
    “The booking office for Mount Cook is just around the corner. I’d suggest that you check in with them as soon as possible. The Queenstown flights are usually filled up early.”

    Shortly thereafter, the receptionist at the Southern Pacific Hotel answered a police inquiry by confirming that Mr. Peter Ferguson had arrived and checked in. He had asked the way to the Mount Cook office and had presumably gone there. He had returned after a short while and was believed to be resting