Silent Predator (26 page)

Sannie spoke to the caretaker when they pulled over and he unlocked the door of a small blue bungalow, the walls and roof of which looked as though they were made of asbestos sheeting. He switched on the light and a single naked light bulb revealed a double bed at the front of the room and a kitchenette. They walked in and, behind a curtain at the rear, found an alcove with two single beds.

‘I was worried there for a moment.’ Sannie nodded at the double bed. ‘You were almost spending the night in the car. You get one of the singles. I hope you don’t snore.’

The hut smelled mouldy and damp, and Tom heard mosquitos buzzing around his ears. When he asked Sannie the price he thought it seemed exorbitant for what it was, but neither of them was in the mood to haggle. ‘We’ll take it,’ he said to the caretaker, and Sannie translated.

He checked his watch as they walked back out to the car to unpack their meagre supplies and belongings. ‘Let’s listen to the news again.’ It was close to nine pm and Tom pulled out the battery-operated portable shortwave radio from his bag. He always took it with him on overseas trips and they had tuned in at regular intervals to the BBC World Service. While the news of Greeves’s abduction still rated highly, it had been usurped as the lead item by a report of a scandal
involving footballers’ salaries. Typical, Tom thought. The pips sounded the hour.

‘I’ll get us a drink,’ Sannie said, opening the rear hatch of the Chico.

‘Thanks, I could use one.’

‘
An African-based terrorist group has claimed responsibility for the abduction of British defence procurement minister Robert Greeves and an as yet unnamed staff member and released a video in which they threaten to behead
…’

‘Coke?’

‘Shush.’ Tom beckoned her closer. The reception was bad so they both leaned in to hear the report.

‘
Mr Greeves is seen in the video, head shaved, dressed in orange overalls, kneeling in front of three men wearing camouflage uniforms and carrying automatic weapons. One of the alleged terrorists holds a long-bladed sword resting on the minister’s shoulders and says, in Arabic: “This war criminal, Robert Greeves, will be beheaded in forty-eight hours unless the British Prime Minister agrees to withdraw all of his country’s troops from Iraq and Afghanistan.” The low-resolution video clip was reportedly emailed today to an Arabic language satellite television news channel and has been airing for the last hour. The abductors say they are members of a so-far unknown group called Islamic African Dawn. Mr Greeves, who says nothing in the video, disappeared from a luxury game lodge in South Africa yesterday morning following talks with
…’

Tom straightened in the car seat as the announcer recapped the story. ‘They must have sent it this
afternoon, while we were out looking for them. That means they’ve stopped – holed up somewhere.’

Sannie nodded. ‘So they couldn’t have gone much further than where Alfredo’s men last saw them. The newsreader said “low-resolution video”. They could be sending it via a satellite modem, or even from a phone. If it’s a phone-camera they’ll need to be in an area with mobile reception.’

Tom nodded. ‘At least he’s still alive – and they’re giving the government forty-eight hours. No news of Bernard, though.’

Sannie leaned against the car, arms folded, her mind processing the new information. ‘They might want to use him in a separate video, to keep the media interested in the story. You know TV – they can only show the same footage so many times before people lose interest.’

‘Let’s hope so, for his sake. I’d like to see that video.’

‘Over there,’ Sannie said, pointing to the caravan.

‘What about it?’ Tom asked.

‘Come with me.’

As they approached the caravan they saw an over-weight white man sitting in the annex area. His camp chair looked like it might buckle under him. He drank from a big yellow can of Laurentina beer while his diminutive wife mixed something in a bowl at a fold-out table. Sannie walked towards them and Tom followed. As they closed on the couple, Tom saw flickering light reflected in their faces and heard people talking in Afrikaans. The couple, though, were silent.

Sannie pointed to the rear of the caravan and it
dawned on Tom what he was seeing. A portable satellite dish, about the size of a large wok, stood on a white metal pole which was anchored to a spare wheel, sitting on the sandy ground. A cable led into the annex and, although Tom still couldn’t see the screen, he realised the couple were watching satellite television – hundreds of kilometres from home, on a stretch of beach in Mozambique.

‘
Ja
, we love our TV,’ Sannie said. ‘Some of these people wouldn’t leave home if they thought it would mean missing their soap operas or their rugby games on the weekend.’ She greeted the couple in Afrikaans.

The man looked up from the screen, a slightly annoyed look on his meaty face. ‘
Ja?
’

‘We need to see your TV, please. Can you please change it to BBC World or one of the other news channels.’

‘My wife’s watching her soap opera,’ he said dismissively.

‘This is important. We’re police officers – I’m Inspector Susan van Rensburg.’

The fat man laughed. ‘What, you come to check my TV licence? This is Mozambique, not South Africa.’

Tom walked in front of the screen. ‘The lady said it was important.’

The man started to stand, but then saw the look on Tom’s face. ‘We need to see the news.’

‘You can’t just –’ But the man’s wife had changed channels with the remote and his protest was silenced when the image of Greeves, kneeling under the executioner’s threatening blade, filled the screen. Tom
and Sannie crowded into the annex for a closer look. ‘You’re after these
skurke
?’

Sannie nodded, watching the video in silence.

‘Sorry, hey. Good luck. But I think this guy’s for the chop,’ the man said as the news item finished.

Tom had seen the three armed men in the grainy video clip and knew that while he and Willie had hurt them, reducing their number by two, the big man was probably right. There was nothing they could do right now, except wait.

‘I’ll pray for him,’ the thin lady said.

‘Can’t hurt,’ Tom said. He felt Sannie take his hand, and looked across at her, at the unexpected gesture. He saw that her eyes were downcast and that her other hand was in one of the big man’s and his, in turn, was joined with his wife’s. Tom felt a lump suddenly come to his throat at the gesture from these strangers; and at the sight of Sannie – beautiful, smart, determined, brave Sannie, who was risking her career for him – praying.

Tom took the elderly woman’s hand to complete the circle.

He bowed his head and said, softly, ‘Please.’

Even though it was midnight, it was still hot under the aircraft hangar’s tin roof at Hoedspruit air base, close to the western border of the Kruger National Park. The black fire-proof jumpsuit that Jonathan Fraser wore didn’t make him any cooler, but he would stay dressed like this, ready to don the rest of his gear, until the situation was resolved one way or another.

His men didn’t need to be told what to do – they were all professionals. Weapons were being unpacked from carrying cases; the M4 assault rifles and Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns stripped and cleaned; pistols checked and magazines loaded with ammunition. Demolitions experts rigged charges of varying strength to blow in everything from a wood door to a welded steel security gate. Until they knew where the civilians were being held, and what sort of stronghold the terrorists were using, all they could do was try to prepare for any eventuality. SAS troopers cross-trained as combat medics unpacked and repacked their
first-aid kits, checking that their controlled stores of morphine and bags of IV fluid had survived the trip.

Outside, the aircraft at Fraser’s disposal were bathed in floodlights and watched over by a black African airman with an Alsatian guard dog. The British C-17 looking as elegant as a pregnant walrus; three sturdy Atlas Oryx helicopters – upgraded South African versions of the French Aérospatiale Puma – resting like a rank of stationary cavalry mounts; and the US Navy FA-18 Hornet, as sleek, grey and deadly as a shark.

A South African colonel had hastily been put in nominal command of the multinational operation, but Major Jonathan Fraser was under no illusions who would be calling the shots if and when someone set eyes on Greeves and Joyce: him. For now, though, all he could do, apart from clean his own weapons and check and recheck his personal gear – body armour, radio, stun grenades, tear gas – was wait and study maps and aerial pictures of the wide stretch of coastline where the policeman who had gotten them all into this
believed
the hostages were being held.

Fraser’s signallers had in record time done a sterling job of getting their satellite communications system up and running inside the hangar. As well as secure phone and email links back to the UK, he had a broadband internet connection. Until they could get access to direct feeds from a rerouted CIA satellite – which the Americans had promised – he was making do with images from the civilian equivalent, Google Earth, to start getting a feel for the coastline north of Xai Xai.

The police chief inspector, Shuttleworth, had arrived
an hour ago, picked up from the local airport by a South African National Defence Force driver. His connecting flight from Johannesburg had been delayed. Fraser had no idea why the man was here – the UK police element of this operation was irrelevant. If their man had done his job in the first place, none of them would be here now. ‘Morning, Chief Inspector.’

Shuttleworth sipped from a plastic water bottle and checked his watch. ‘So it is, Major.’ He had discarded his suit coat, and large damp patches stained the underarms of his shirt. He looked pale and close to expiry.

‘Jonathan, please. And nice to see a fellow Scot on the job.’ Fraser prided himself on his diplomacy. It was the same on exercises. There were always egos to stroke before the regiment was eventually called in to finish the job, once the police had realised they were out of their depth. ‘You’ve spoken to your man Furey?’

‘Aye.’ Shuttleworth had been in the air when Furey had tried to call him with an update of the progress across the border in Mozambique, but the Met’s switchboard in London had put him through to the COBRA situation room in Downing Street and they had given him Jonathan Fraser’s secure satellite phone number at Hoedspruit. Tom had passed his information on to the SAS commander, and Shuttleworth, playing catch-up after his delayed flight, had just made Tom talk him through the same information again. ‘The Mozambicans did a good job today, identifying the suspect vehicle – assuming it was the right one – and they’ll be ready to start their search at first light.’

Fraser had to stop himself from laughing. Talk
about shutting the gate after the horse had bolted. As usual, the military was one step ahead of the civil police, and not afraid to take decisive action. It was the South African defence force which had provided the description of the likely getaway vehicle to the Mozambicans. Several hours after the kidnappings had taken place, the South African military had still not been given permission to cross the border in pursuit of the terrorists. To his credit, though, the colonel in charge of the operation, an African chap who had once been a senior cadre in the ANC’s military arm, had ordered one of the Oryx helicopters carrying a stick of South African recce commandos across the border to try to pick up the trail of the fugitives.

Fraser had been impressed by the man. Not only by his risk-taking decisive action, but because the colonel had had the foresight to order the commandos to Hoedspruit as soon as he was appointed. They wouldn’t be assaulting any terrorist strongholds in Mozambique – South Africa wouldn’t risk offending its neighbour if things went pear-shaped – but they were an excellent resource to have on tap during the pursuit phase. There were six of them, all intimidating-looking fellows. The whites reminded Fraser of Springbok forwards; while the blacks could have played Zulu warriors. The British SAS prided itself on its ability to sneak into a place undetected and slit a few throats or rescue a hostage or two, but this bunch of recce commando ruffians looked like they would ram in the doors of a hideout with their foreheads and lay waste to everything and everyone in their path.

One of their key skills was a knowledge of tracking
in the African bush. That afternoon, while Fraser and his men had been flying to South Africa from England, the recce commandos had crossed the border and found the spot where the fugitives had picked up their second getaway vehicle. The recces were able to identify the likely make of the vehicle – another four-wheel drive pick-up – from its tyre treads. The bad news was that, as with the first truck the gang had used, it was an all too common model. On his arrival the team had briefed him and Fraser passed the information on to Shuttleworth.

‘This man Furey, bit of a maverick, is he? Likes taking off on his own?’

Shuttleworth looked Fraser in the eye. ‘He’s one of the best protection officers I have. Taking off across the border was, of course, completely unauthorised, but he’s been on the heels of these terrorists ever since the abductions occurred.’

‘Hmm.’ Fraser was yet to be impressed by the man’s capabilities. Protection officers, to his mind, should take a bullet protecting their man, not chase him across international borders.

‘Aye, and he was taking down IRA bombing cells with the Branch when you were in short pants, Jonathan. Don’t forget that if you have to face these buggers down there’ll be two less of them because of Tom Furey’s work this morning.’

And they wouldn’t be here at all if it weren’t for one of the Met’s best men, Fraser said to himself as he returned to the computer and his detailed maps of the Mozambican coast.

Bernard Joyce awoke to the sound of the door opening. Outside he could hear frogs croaking. Night-time; though it was perpetually dark under the stifling hood.