Silent Predator (8 page)

He paused as the peals of forced laughter erupted from the government benches. When the theatrics had subsided, he continued. ‘Mr Speaker, this would
be a laughably dim question if the subject were not so desperately serious. We sit here in parliament today, safely surrounded by armed police, security staff, metal detectors, cameras and an array of protective systems. Out in the deserts of Southern Iraq, and on the streets of Basra and Baghdad and many other towns and villages of that poor benighted country, there are British men and women in harm’s way. Men and women who face the dangers of improvised explosive devices – bombs to you and me – rocket-propelled grenades and bullets.’

‘So why don’t you bring them home?’ an opposition member jeered.

Greeves knew better than to take the bait and get into a slanging match. He paused and stared at the member of parliament opposite who had asked the question. His silence was effective and infectious. The whole house was quiet, waiting for his deep, measured voice to continue.

Although a relatively young fifty-two, he was one of the longest serving members of parliament, having been elected at the age of just twenty-six. He had never aspired to the prime ministership, though countless hacks and plenty amid his own Party had speculated or urged that he should. He had been a member of parliament longer than the current prime ministerial incumbent, and he had helped put the man there. Robert Greeves was not a king but a king-maker. His satisfaction was in steering his Party towards government – and that goal had been achieved after years in the wilderness of opposition – and helping to place a succession of talented, driven, intelligent people in the
top job, for as long as his Party held power. For himself, all he wanted was a challenging cabinet position where he could make a difference. Leaders came and went, and when they left the highest elected office in the land, that was generally the end of their political career. Greeves wanted to be in politics until he died. It was his life. It was his calling. And he was very, very good at it.

‘However, Mr Speaker, I address the house today not on the subject of the fine men and women of our own army and Royal Air Force who serve in Iraq, nor our equally upstanding seamen in the still troubled waters of the north Arabian Gulf. I speak of the men of the fledgling Iraqi defence force and the Iraqi police force.

‘It is these men who risk assassination, hatred and intimidation not only of themselves on a daily basis but also of their families, by daring to do the right thing and don the uniform of their newly independent, newly democratic country.

‘How can we say, “We, like you, don’t believe that foreign insurgents should be allowed to kill your women and children indiscriminately with car bombs, but we’ve had enough now and it’s all over to you”?’

‘It’s not our war!’ called another opposition member.

‘Tell that to victims of the seven-seven London bombings!’ Greeves shot back at the interjector. Damn, he said to himself. He had risen to the challenge and this prompted a fusillade of catcalls from both sides. He did get emotional, however, when discussing terrorism and the global fight against it.
Skilled politician and orator though he was, he was only human. When relative calm followed the banging of the speaker’s order, he continued.

‘Mr Speaker, we cannot leave the Iraqi recruits to their own devices just yet. I cannot say whether they will be ready to do the job next week, next month or next year. The war they fight is the same one Britain fights against the rise of cruel Islamic fundamentalists who bring shame on their people and their faith. I would like to use this opportunity to bring members up to date on the events of two days ago at Enfield.’

Greeves gave a rundown on the explosion at the house in Enfield, without going into detail about the operation to hack into the occupants’ computer. His praise of the young man killed in the blast was heartfelt, though he released neither the name nor the occupation of ‘one of the security service’s best and brightest young people’. He silently also congratulated himself on turning a question about the government’s frankly nonexistent exit strategy in Iraq into a reminder of the threat of terror attacks on the homeland.

‘Mr Speaker, the two suspects killed at the scene of this bombing were, it would appear, slain by one of their own. It can only be surmised that these two men, of Pakistani origin, carried information about a terrorist network or an impending attack that was so vital their co-conspirator could not risk them being arrested and questioned. This, too, explains why the terrorists blew up their own lair, thereby denying our security services access to whatever materials or information may have been stored there.

‘This is a reminder to us all that the foes our young
Iraqi friends face – side by side with their comrades from the British armed forces – are the same as those at work in our own backyard. It is a reminder to us all to be vigilant, determined, strong and courageous in the face of adversity. It is a reminder, Mr Speaker, to be British, and proud of it!’

The roars of support from the government benches drowned out the opposition and Greeves turned to his colleagues, many of whom nodded genuine wishes of congratulations.

His press secretary intercepted him as he left the chamber. ‘Choice,’ said Helen MacDonald, using a favourite adjective from her New Zealand upbringing. A year earlier Greeves had poached her from a tabloid, where she had put in ten years’ service as a political reporter since leaving the
New Zealand Herald
. Helen had often been stinging in her criticisms of the Party and its governance of the country, and that had been one of the reasons he had hired her. In part, taking her on board was removing a thorn in their side. However, he also wanted to ensure there was at least one member of his staff who was not a self-serving political apparatchik, merely biding their time until a safe seat could be found for them. A press secretary needed to be independent – ideally, apolitical – honest, and not afraid to deliver criticism. ‘You overdid it a bit at the end. I could almost hear “Land of Hope and Glory” coming out your bum.’

He laughed. He’d chosen Helen well. ‘As ever, you flatter me too much, Helen. What’s up?’ He knew she would not have come looking for him simply to give her critique of his performance in question time.

‘What is it with you and Africa?’ she asked as they walked together along a corridor.

‘You might be from New Zealand but that doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re smart. You know very well I’m going to South Africa to push the sale of some jet training aircraft to their defence force.’

‘No, that’s not what I mean. A couple of the journos have asked me from time to time why you spend your holidays there as well as jumping on any junket heading for the dark continent. The people that make those planes don’t need you to help peddle their wares.’

‘It was forthrightness I wanted when I hired you, Helen, not impertinence.’

She let the jibe wash over her. Their feisty banter was no greater than usual. ‘I’ve got one who wants to do a profile piece on you – the real Robert Greeves and all that crap. He’s particularly interested in your apparent love affair with Africa – how it started.’

‘Not interested,’ he said, opening a leather-bound folder and checking his next appointments as they continued to walk. ‘Give him the usual line from my bio that I first went to Zambia as a young geologist and developed a great affinity for Africa, its people and its amazing wildlife – you know the drill.’

‘It’s a shame, though. A nice warm and fuzzy profile with you establishing some strong green credentials could help you in the future.’

‘I’m quite happy as Minister for Defence Procurement, thank you, Helen. In case you didn’t catch all of my reply to that question, there is a war on, you know. It’s my duty to concentrate on this portfolio. Where are you lunching?’

‘Sorry, I’m meeting a contact.’

‘Always working, eh, Helen? It’s not good for you.’

Helen MacDonald left the Houses of Parliament via St Stephen’s gate, grateful as ever for a breath of fresh air and a cigarette. As she smoked she weaved to avoid a throng of Spanish tourists armed with digital cameras.

It was grey – as it was most days in London. It was all very well for Robert to tell her all work and no play made Helen a dull girl. He’d be swanning off to Africa soon enough. He was taking Bernard, his defence industries policy advisor, with him. It was obvious there would be no photo opportunities on this trip. A break from Robert would be good for her, in any case, and she might use it to sound out her old contacts in newspapers about a return to journalism.

Unlike many of her former colleagues she didn’t see taking a job as a press secretary as selling out. True, the money was better than she’d earned as a reporter, but that wasn’t her main motivation for crossing over. She’d always been interested in politics and politicians – what made them tick – and if she returned to newspapers she’d be a better journalist for her time in Westminster. She knew all the tricks of political spin-doctoring now – she’d put them into practice at some time or another. No flak would pull the wool over her eyes ever again.

Arriving from New Zealand as a twenty-five-year-old reporter she had been surprised at first at the minute scrutiny in the UK press of politicians’ private lives,
particularly in the tabloids. In her country, and in Australia where she had worked for a year on an extended holiday, rumours abounded about the sexual proclivities of members of parliament, and about affairs within the corridors of power, but these rarely made it into the public domain. If they did, the story usually involved a political leader rather than a mere minister or member of paliament, and it was generally revealed by a fellow parliamentarian as part of a wider smear campaign. In England, however, it seemed that who a politician slept with – and how he or she did it – was equally important as their policies or views on world affairs.

She had also wondered why such a high proportion of senior politicians seemed to be committing adultery. That was, at least, until she fell for Robert Greeves. He was a handsome man undoubtedly, and witty and smart and driven, and still idealistic after all this time in politics. But more than that, he was a powerful man. On his word men and women went to war, alliances with other nations were forged and broken, multibillion-pound contracts signed, the fate of a nation decided. And his grey eyes were gorgeous.

‘Stop it,’ she said out loud, flicking her cigarette butt onto the pavement in front of her and grinding it out without breaking step.

Helen had accompanied him on a trip, not to Africa, but to Germany, for a conference of NATO defence ministers. She had felt her feelings for him grow over the three months leading up to the meeting. She had felt infatuation, followed by denial as she told herself it was morally wrong to be attracted to a married man. There were no signs that he was unhappy at home.
Still, despite her attempts to subdue her feelings, she wanted him.

A suited businessman walking towards her smiled and tried to make eye contact. Damn him, she said to herself. Not the suit, whom she ignored, but her boss. At thirty-seven she could still turn heads – and get the eye from strangers on the street. She worked out six days a week, and watched what she ate – not easy in the confines of parliament where booze and food and lack of opportunity for exercise were daily threats to one’s shape. Narrow waist, good legs, pretty face, pert bum.

In Berlin Robert had called Helen to his hotel suite late in the evening. It was eleven o’ clock, after the official dinner, and he wanted help reworking his speech. She had been seated with a group of journalists at a back table and, thinking her work was done for the day, had demolished the better part of two bottles of wine by herself.

When she knocked and he opened the door he was in his black dinner suit trousers and white shirt, the sleeves rolled up and top two buttons undone. She caught a glimpse of a thicket of grey chest hair and wanted to put her hand inside to stroke it. ‘Thanks awfully, Helen. I’m sorry to call you up so late, but I want to get this right. I’ve got a bottle on the go if you’d like a glass.’ He had nodded to the white wine in a dewy silver ice bucket. His bed looked enormous.

They had sat side by side on the sofa and gone through the speech. At the end he had been particularly effusive in his thanks for her help. They verbally sparred so often that words of praise had seemed out
of place. She knew that he appreciated her work and her counsel, and that had always been enough for her.

‘I really mean it, Helen. Sometimes I don’t know how I’d get on without you,’ he’d said.

She’d looked deep into his steel grey eyes. What was going on? Could it be that he felt the same way about her as she did about him? Before she knew what she was doing she had laid her hand on his thigh. ‘My pleasure,’ she’d said, in a voice lower than usual, as if the words were being spoken by another – someone out of her body. Later she would blame it all on the wine. She had leaned closer to him, eyes half closed, waiting for him to make the next move. For the kiss which would surely come.

He had recoiled, like she was a bloody snake or something. He’d been polite about it, with his smooth words, but she had clearly misread all the signals. Perhaps, she wondered for the thousandth time as she approached St Stephen’s pub, opposite the Palace of Westminster, he really had been tempted and had simply had a last-minute attack of guilt. Perhaps, of course, she was a complete fool ever to have thought he would cheat on his wife.

‘Helen, I meant what I said,’ he had explained as he stood and moved away from the sofa, ‘but I love my wife and children. It wouldn’t be right for anything to happen between us – in this way.’

Damn him, she thought as she felt the pub’s warm fug engulf her and saw the reporter sitting in the corner, waving to her. The only thing wrong with her bloody boss was that he was too good for politics.

Tom found the idea of driving in an African game reserve and passing families in cars towing caravans quite odd. It didn’t gel with what he’d seen in wildlife documentaries on satellite television. Sannie turned off the tar road – which in itself had been another surprise – onto a dirt track.