‘Then there’s questions about the origin of some of our plants and animals,’ Aimee said. ‘Like Kumara, you know, sweet potato. It seems to have come from South America sometime. And the rat bones, there are rat bones from European rats that have been carbon-dated to long before Tasman and Cook visited.’
‘I can’t believe there are so many questions. Why isn’t more work being done to investigate these theories?’
Aimee didn’t answer him, but Matt didn’t care. She was so animated and carried away with the conversation and her enthusiasm was infectious.
‘There’s also a tradition among some of the Maori tribes of the fair-haired, tall people. And then, of course, there’s the Spanish Helmet.’ She finished.
‘The Spanish Helmet?’
‘A Spanish Helmet was dredged out of Wellington Harbour, sometime around 1880. It’s quite controversial, coz it’s been dated to the early fifteen hundreds. Some folk argue it’s a sign of Spanish visits. The officials say it was probably a gift to Maori from a later European explorer, or a part of someone’s private collection.’
Matt smiled at Aimee. ‘New Zealand seems to be suffering from an identity crisis, it’s going to be interesting looking around. But I don’t understand. If there are so many questions about your history, why don’t more people bring forward information that might help sort things out?’
‘Probably ninety-nine percent of them don’t even know there’s a question in the first place. It just doesn’t interest them,’ Aimee said. ‘Even I hadn’t thought about this stuff for a while. But now you’ve got me interested again. I’ll probably spend the next few days immersed in pseudo-history websites.’
‘Really?’ Matt thought she was joking, but he couldn’t be sure.
‘Yeah, and it’s all your fault,’ she said, laughing and thumping him gently on the thigh.
‘Sorry.’
Matt grinned and watched Aimee place her knife and fork together, take a last sip of the juice, and sit back in her chair looking thoughtful. He sat thinking, perplexed by what he had learned. It amazed him there could be so many questions about the history of a country, yet so little information about these theories was publicised. He thought about his own England and was convinced if there were serious questions regarding her history, these would be addressed as thoroughly and as quickly as possible. What was standing in the way of the New Zealand government? Or the people for that matter?
After breakfast, Matt and Aimee talked about various tourist sites he might like to visit while in New Zealand and also about a few beaches where he might relax. They also compared their boarding passes for the second flight and saw they would be in different parts of the aircraft. During the descent and transit time in Singapore they made polite small-talk and got to know each other a little better. She even surprised Matt by giving him her contact number, in case he wanted to get in touch for more info. As they boarded the second flight they said goodbye and wished each other a good flight.
The second take-off and landing both went off without a hitch, or a wink of sleep.
It was only as he walked the through the gangway between the aircraft and the Auckland terminal building that Matt remembered he had wanted to ask Aimee how a change in the history of New Zealand could possibly provide some sort of payout to the alternative history theorists. That would be a perfect excuse to call her. He felt in his pocket and confirmed the little piece of paper with Aimee’s phone number was there. Matt smiled to himself. If he continued to meet incredible girls like her on flights, he might have to fly more often.
CHAPTER 9
As he walked through the sliding glass doors that led him out to the bright and airy arrivals lounge, Matt saw Warren immediately. They shook hands, exchanging warm hellos, and Warren took control of Matt’s baggage trolley, insisting that Matt must be tired.
‘You’re right, it was a long flight,’ Matt said.
‘And it’ll be a long few weeks. I’m sure you must be excited about finding your father.’
Matt looked at Warren, confused that the first item on his agenda seemed to be his father. But when he saw the imploring look in Warren’s eyes, he realised there must be a reason why he didn’t want to talk business.
‘Yes,’ Matt said, hoping that the look he gave Warren in return would reassure him that he understood. ‘It sure is great of you to have done everything you have to find him.’
Warren’s smile confirmed they understood each other.
‘That reminds me,’ Warren said, as he stopped the trolley to pull a piece of paper out of his trouser pocket, ‘I found the last known address of your father too.’
Matt hesitated for a moment but reached out and took the paper from Warren. Opening it, he saw a three-line address in a town with a name he had never heard of. It could have been anywhere for all Matt knew.
‘Thanks Warren. Where is this… Devonport?’ he asked, wondering how he would feel when he actually made it to the door of his father’s house.
‘It’s on the North Shore, the northern part of Auckland. Sort of in the direction of where I live in the East Coast Bays. I can take you there, or show you a bus. No worries.’
As they had been talking, Warren had led Matt out into the humid summer air and across a sprawling parking lot. They had come to a stand-still next to a big red Toyota Hilux. Matt had seen these on some of the farms in Cornwall too, and figured they were probably popular out here. Warren tossed Matt’s bags into the back part of the double-cab and they climbed in.
‘Sorry I couldn’t talk back in there,’ Warren said, ‘but the boys from the NISO and the DCI are all over the place.’
‘The Detective Chief Inspector?’
‘The Detective what?’ Warren looked really confused.
‘You said the N-something and the DCI… Detective Chief Inspector.’
Warren laughed. ‘I see where you got it wrong. The DCI is the Department of Cultural Identity. They’re the part of the government responsible for how we identify with our culture.’
Matt laughed too. ‘Sounds complex.’
‘In all seriousness,’ Warren said in a mood-changing tone as a traffic light turned green and they started on a motorway, ‘the DCI are trouble. For you and me anyway.’
Warren pulled into the right lane and put his foot to the floor. Matt noticed him make repetitive glances in the rear-vision mirror.
‘The DCI will confiscate the site if they decide that my findings there are too threatening. I had to call them, of course, and let them know what I found, but until now they haven’t interfered directly. But I’m convinced that they’re watching my every move, as if trying to catch me out or something.’
‘Catch you out with what?’
‘With anything that might throw question over the original inhabitants of New Zealand, or cause changes in New Zealand history to be considered.’ Warren checked the mirror again.
‘Don’t they think that a Celtic burial site raises some fascinating questions?’ Matt asked, not believing it could possibly fail to.
Matt watched as a sly grin appeared on Warren’s face. ‘I haven’t exactly told them the whole story yet. But if we don’t shake these NISO boys, we may lose our little advantage sooner than I’d like.’
‘There it is again, NISO. What is that? And what do you mean. Lose them?’ Matt asked, as he turned to look out the small back window. Behind them was just standard commuter traffic.
‘NISO. It’s your lucky day, Matt. I can answer that question, but many other folk wouldn’t be able to. Most New Zealanders don’t even know they exist.’
Matt caught Warren’s eye and nodded to let him know he was listening. As Warren talked, he turned and looked out at the scenery passing by on the left. A small harbour, a disused road bridge, and what looked like a small sea-side factory.
‘NISO stands for ‘National Information Security Office,’ Warren said, ‘they’re the New Zealand equivalent of an ultra-secretive secret service, similar in some aspects to the National Security Agency in the United States. The NISO has the power and legal right to tap your phones, listen in on satellite transmissions and radio frequencies, and intercept your e-mail. Stuff like that. Basically they’re government spies.’