The Kiwi Target

whole operation was in his hands, and he welcomed the responsibility.
    All he had to do was to drive to Auckland, which was not too far away, and deliver the merchandise entrusted to him. He had no cause for concern. The tank was full of petrol. The tires were new, and the spare was properly inflated if it came to that. The car was conventional and inconspicuous, a rental unit no different from a great many others.
    When he had arrived at his destination, he would be paid a thousand dollars for his easy work, plus an additional bonus to keep his mouth shut. The only risk he faced was a possible traffic accident, so he drove with maximum care. He was still congratulating himself on his secure position when he turned a corner and found a tall, uniformed figure standing in his way. Behind the man an official car was canted across the narrow road so that he could not get by.
    A sudden cold sweat burst out on his body. He could not imagine why he was being stopped, but almost at once he knew what he must do. He had to be a law-abiding motorist ready to cooperate with whatever the policeman asked. In that way he would attract the least amount of attention. He had an international driving license available for inspection. It was a forgery with a false name, but it was so well done, it would pass any but the most rigorous inspection. In the organization for which he worked, details like that were always efficiently handled.
    He pulled up and stopped. As the tall man advanced toward him, he leaned out his open window and asked, “What is it, officer?” in a definite American accent.
    He had seen the policeman before. He was an old fellow, probably kept on for the sake of his pension long past the time of his real usefulness. The driver was twenty-four, a hundred and eighty pounds on a six-foot frame, and in fine physical condition. At the same time, he knew that to get into any kind of an altercation with a police officer was the most dangerous thing he could do. That would only be a last resort.
    “Good afternoon, sir,” Pettibone said. “I’d appreciate it if you’d be kind enough to step out of your car for a moment.”
    The driver complied, doing what any good citizen would. “What’s the problem?” he asked. “Something wrong with the road ahead?”
    “No, sir, I just wanted to exchange a few words with you. I believe you were on that fine boat that came in a short while ago.”
    The young American smiled. “Yes, I was. She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”
    “Undoubtedly. Were you a member of her crew?”
    “Invited guest, actually. Some friends of mine asked me along.” He kept his tone friendly and relaxed despite the fact that he was still sweating and his knees had a tendency to shake. He wasn’t scared of the old man, but he was a cop and he would have a radio in his car. Or perhaps he wouldn’t in this Godforsaken place, but it was a risk he couldn’t take.
    “There’s been a recent crime in this area, and I’m looking for possible witnesses.”
    So that was it! Miraculously, the sweating stopped, and the young American felt enormous relief. “I’ve been at sea for the last three days,” he volunteered.
    The policeman looked disappointed. “Three days?” he repeated.
    “Yes, we only planned a short cruise.”
    “And you were, as you say, only a guest onboard?”
    “That’s right. Of course, I made a hand here and there when I could. Helped wash the dishes and things like that.” He was completely at ease, using the winning personality that had helped him in so many things.
    “It must have been a real pleasure, especially in such nice weather.”
    The American grinned. “It sure was.”
    “Then tell me,” Pettibone continued, “if you had only planned such a short cruise, why did you take along two such large and heavy cases? I noticed them when you got off the boat.”
    A swift sharp sense of terror hit the younger man, and the sweating started up again with a rush. He had no ready excuse at hand, because cars were never stopped like this on the roads in New Zealand—that had been part of his briefing. There was one out he could use, but he would have to sacrifice the merchandise, and that would never be forgiven. The knowledge that it was worth millions made him sweat even more. “They aren’t mine,” he said. “I was asked to drop them off in town.” Pettibone appeared relieved. “I understand, sir. Then in that case, where is your own bag?”
    “Look, officer, what’s