The big-time Hollywood film star, her personal aide and mandatory two security men cleared Christchurch Airport after completing Customs formalities and receiving, as her office had requested, a very low-key official welcome to New Zealand.
In a hired 4X4 Land Rover they left the city heading towards the Southern Alps, the alpine backbone of the South Island, real mean country and definitely not for the faint-hearted.
Three hours later they reached their destination, a high country luxury lodge, where the celebrity and her party were the only guests, having booked out the entire facility. Margaret Withers went immediately to her luxurious quarters, ordering everyone that she not be disturbed until ten the next morning.
At five she awoke to the sensation of a fingernail scraping her cheek. As Margaret's eyes flicked open she saw it was a fingernail, attached to a very rough hand that ran all the way up to the shoulder, neck and then face of a weather-beaten, unsmiling man.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi," said she, wriggling a little in her silk pyjamas. He looked, well, hmmmm, interesting. Then she yelped, screaming, "Masters, Jones!"
The intruder looked at her, not moving and expression not changing. When the door burst open he simply raised his eyes and nodded to her security men, both of whom had the handguns they were specially authorised by internal security to carry within New Zealand. Both men were aghast that this interloper had slipped into their client's room undetected.
"Lift 'em," snarled Harvey Jones, adopting his military-trained stance, ready to blow the brains out of the enemy. Brett Masters said nothing, but was obviously itching to get the first shot away.
Margaret tried to sink lower into the mattress, pulling the duvet over her body; hopefully that would soak up the blood and brains before the splattering reached her new pyjamas her mother had sent her from Paris.
"Harry Childs at your service, ma'am."
"Boys, stop! shrieked Margaret. "This is path leader."
"Guide, ma'am. We don't have paths up in these mountains."
The guns lowered, but remained at the ready.
Margaret's protectors weren't at all sure about this hobo. Where were his freshly pressured khakis, polished boots, desert-styled cap with neck protector and backpack?
"You've got ten minutes max, Margaret – I shall call you Maggie – to get dressed and get out of here. The best part of the morning is at dawn and I don't want you to miss a thing."
"Had a tiring flight, I need more sleep," Maggie said dismissively.
"You heard the lady, beat it," snarled Brett, waving his gun.
In one fluid movement Harry had jerked Maggie out of her bed and had her shielding him from the gunmen. A long knife was in his hand, though not threatening her.
"Tell them to kick those dick-empowering toys of their under the bed."
Miss Withers was unable to restrain herself: Dick-empowering toys. She giggled.
Recovering, Maggie said, "You heard the man, boys. Do it."
They obliged and Harry waved them to exit.
"Go, boys, do what the man says," Maggie said, breathing heavily. "I ain't scared."
"Nice tits," whispered Harry.
"I'm scared," whispered Maggie. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"
"Madam specified three days of high alpine adventure. It's begun."
"Not until I say so does it begin."
"Bite your dummy," Harry said to the 38-year-old, pushing her towards the bathroom. "Ten minutes, otherwise I'm coming in and disciplining you."
A shot of excitement made Maggie dizzy but she wisely refrained from commenting.
Harry went through the double doors of the premium suite expecting a reception committee would be waiting for him, and was not disappointed.
Immediately Harry went through the doors he was gripped in a bear hug and saw the grinning face of the man whom the receptionist had privately identified to him as Brett Master, pulling back his fist to depopulate Harry's mouth of some of his aging teeth. Harry is forty-three.
As the fist flew at Harry's mouth he turned the other cheek, so to speak, and the first slammed into Harvey Jones' mouth to re-arrange his teeth, for the worst.
Harry spun out of the slackened grip and faced his two assailants. Spitting blood the gorilla Harvey charged. Harry calmly called "Boo!" and Harvey skilled to a surprised halt. Then Harry chopped his collarbone, going in quite deeply actually, because the bone broke into two.
Brett put his arms up passively and took a message from Harry, very impassively.
"I don't want you following us as it's safe out there. If you do, it's at your own risk."
Just on 10.5 minutes later Senator Withers was at reception night desk asking for the whereabouts of Mr Childs.
"Your coach is waiting outside, ma'am."
Miss Withers, a solo parent with one child, thought it would be unlikely her coach would be pink and fluffy with air-conditioning and all-day American-style coffee. She was not disappointed. Waiting for her was a 1950's style Amy jeep, but a very modified one.
Margaret wondered why he insisted on calling her Maggie? She walked to the vehicle; absolutely aware she'd been totally undressed, mentally of course. She could feel it, and her firming nipples confirmed this. Well, some unrestrained sex on a distant mountain-side would be rather therapeutic – after all she was out here to try to recover from near burnout.
They set off at a surprisingly leisurely pace, both aware the Land Rover driven by Brett was in their wake. Maggie knew that by now Brett would have two handguns and probably a shotgun and carbine and would now watch this hobo of a guide like a hawk.
"Is this guy behind us a bother to you?" Harry drawled.
"Not unless you have something embarrassing to draw from you repertoire."
"Like what?"
"Have you any idea how to give a pooped out gal from Hollywood a physical make-over."
"I have an idea, but it might be too animalistic for you."
"Try me, if you wish?"
"Right, Maggie. As I said earlier, nice tits. Hold on."
