No-one must know my name or why I have come to New Zealand. The very essence of my visit is to move like a zephyr, an unseen spirit, bringing the whisper of democracy on the wind.
I wait in shadows to meet a source in the cylindrical base of power in New Zealand, the Beehive.
Someone stands on my foot.
"Ouch," I said.
"Sorry, didn’t see you there. Why are you standing in shadows?"
"No reason," I said, stepping into the light.
"Hey I recognise you. Aren’t you FBI director Kash Patel?"
"No, you’re mistaken."
"I’m a journalist with Newstalk ZB. Ethan Griffiths. What brings you here?"
"We are opening an FBI office in Wellington," I replied, worn down by his persistent questioning.
TUESDAY
I wait in shadows to meet the most powerful man in New Zealand.
He slides into the booth, and says, "What are you having?"
"Whatever you’re having, Mr Peters."
He clicks his fingers. A waiter takes his order. We sit and wait for the glasses in silence. Advance intelligence has already tipped me off that he is a canny operator who is never the first to blink. But after a while I realise he is, in fact, asleep.
The drinks arrive. He wakes up, takes a sip, and leans closer. He slips a piece of paper across the table.
"Here is a list of undesirables."
"Enemies of the state?"
"Traitors, d........, upstarts, fools, knaves, pestilences, Communists, Trotskyists, Marxists, pains in the neck, nitwits, dopes, desperate obsessives likely lying awake at night congratulating themselves for throwing yet another piece of frivolous mud at New Zealand First."
"There’s only one name on this list."
He drains his glass, and says, "Liquidate him".
I initiate surveillance of Guyon Espiner.
WEDNESDAY
I am shown into a dark office.
"Prime Minister?"
"Over here," says a voice. I edge my way towards it and find him sitting in the corner by a window.
"Is there something wrong?"
"No."
"Can I just open the curtains a little bit?"
"No! No, don’t do that. They’ll see me. And they’ll start booing. It’s terrible. Terrible! I can’t take it any more. The booing! The disrespect. The unpopularity. I don’t know why they don’t like me. Do you like me?"
"I like that the US and New Zealand will work together on some of the most important global issues of our time."
"Well, OK, but let’s not crack down too hard on China. Good trading partner, China. They like me over there. No booing. Bowing. Deep bowing. Lots of it."
He raves on, and on. It doesn’t matter. It was only a courtesy visit. Advance intelligence has already tipped me off that he’ll be rolled before long.
THURSDAY
Our field officers set up a tail on Guyon Espiner.
He goes to his office at Radio New Zealand.
He works long hours.
He doesn’t drink.
It’s very suspicious behaviour for a "journalist".
FRIDAY
The president calls.
"This Epstein stuff, it’s driving me crazy."
"You and me both, Mr President. There’s a theory going around, dubbed ‘the Kash Patel honeypot’, which suggests my much younger girlfriend, country singer and conservative media personality Alexis Wilkins, could be a Mossad ‘honeypot’ sent to influence me to bury Epstein documents."
"Crazy."
"Totally crazy."
"Just keep on doing what you’re doing."
"Yes, Mr President."
"Don’t give them anything."
"I won’t, Mr President."
I lie down in darkness.
