Authors: Tony Park
Tshabalala put a hand on his pistol. ‘Your gun and handcuffs. Now. You’re going to be charged with possession of an illegal narcotic, Furey. The suspected drugs Inspector Van Rensburg discovered in your bathroom go part of the way to explaining why you were late reporting for duty this morning, and how you managed to let the man you were supposedly guarding get taken from under your nose.’
‘Carla,’ he said, looking straight at Sannie. She felt uncomfortable and couldn’t meet his gaze. ‘It’s hers. She was acting wild last night. Ask her.’
The same thought had crossed her mind as soon as she’d entered the room. However, she’d immediately remembered that it had been Carla herself who had suggested setting up the command post in Tom’s room. She explained this to Tom, and the rationale that the woman would not be stupid enough to set herself up for arrest.
‘No, she’s only bloody set me up, is all,’ Tom said. ‘This’d be funny if it weren’t so daft. Where is she?’
‘Gone to Tinga’s other lodge, Narina. She’ll be back in an hour or so,’ Sannie said.
‘I’ve been taking complaints all morning about your little escapade through the park,’ Tshabalala said. ‘Menacing people with a firearm, breaking every national park rule.’ Spittle flew from Isaac’s mouth as his anger mounted. ‘You have no jurisdiction in this country and you cannot commandeer vehicles and men to do the job you should have done in the first place. This is not your little colonial fiefdom! Arrest him!’
Sannie felt as though an injustice was being done, but the evidence all pointed to Tom and, no matter how much she sympathised with the Englishman, everything Isaac Tshabalala had just said was correct. She heard a voice on her mobile phone.
‘
Ja
,’ she said, listening to the air force captain on the other end.
Tom was staring angrily at Isaac as the uniformed officer retrieved Tom’s pistol, magazines and Asp collapsible baton.
Sannie ended the call. ‘That was Hoedspruit. They say they can’t send a helicopter into Mozambican airspace until they get permission from the defence minister’s office or higher. I spoke to Indira ten minutes ago and she said Dule was waiting for a call back from his counterpart over the border.’
‘Christ, you people couldn’t organise sex in a brothel,’ Tom said.
‘Who do you mean by
you people
?’ Tshabalala said.
Sannie shared Isaac’s sense of offence. Tom was in no position to be criticising the South African authorities. After all,
he
was the one who had lost Robert Greeves.
‘Cuff him,’ Isaac said to the policeman. ‘Sannie, keep an eye on the prisoner. I’m going to speak to Minister Dule, and then Ndlovu and I,’ he gestured to the uniformed officer, ‘are going to Skukuza to wait for the Nelspruit detectives to arrive and brief them. Call me if there are any new developments at this end.’
‘Yes, sir.’
*
‘Unlock these things, Sannie.’ He sat on the bed and held his hands out to her.
‘You know I can’t, Tom.’
‘Carla’s not coming back. You know that, don’t you?’ He brushed the hair back from his face with his manacled hands.
She felt a cold tingle of dread creeping up her spine. When Carla had come to the room and said she had to go to Narina to deal with a guest’s complaint, Sannie had been on two telephones. She had simply nodded.
‘She’s part of this. Can’t you see it? She set me up to take the fall and slow down the pursuit. It’s why she came on to me so strong, probably why she was sleeping with Nick Roberts. She used him to get information about this visit and took me out of the game last night. I haven’t been late for a job in my life and I didn’t drink enough to wake up feeling as bad as I did this morning. She must have slipped something in my beer last night. I bloody passed out after one drink. Either the alarm covering the entryways to Greeves’s room went off and I slept through it, or she nobbled it. For whatever motive, Carla’s part of this set-up. Give her a tug.’
‘What?’
‘Run a criminal check on her – see what comes up. Talk to her family and friends, maybe she’s found Allah late in life. She wouldn’t be the first European woman to get sucked into a foreign terrorist network. Maybe it’s all about money. I don’t bloody know.’
Sannie realised that she and Isaac had been blinded by the drugs and Carla’s deception, which now seemed heavy-handed. She believed Tom: he wasn’t the sort
of man who would take drugs – and if he was, he wouldn’t have been stupid enough to leave them lying about. And Sannie wouldn’t put anything past Carla.
‘She suggested you use my room for the command post in order to lead you to the drugs. And how stupid would I be to leave a line of coke unused in the bathroom? You’ve got to help me, Sannie.’
She turned her back on him and paced across the thick Persian rug on the floor of the suite and stood, arms folded, staring out over the Sabie River. An elephant sucked up a trunkful of muddy water and showered itself with black goo. She, like Tom, knew that minutes counted at this point in a pursuit, and that valuable time was being sacrificed to the dictates of petty bureaucracy. Men’s lives were at risk while they waited for diplomats to get out of bed and return phone calls.
‘I’ve got to get to Mozambique, Sannie.’
‘Isaac’s just arrested you, man. If I set you free now I’m breaking the law. I’ll be branded a racist for going against a black superior and siding with you – whether you’re right or wrong. That’ll be it for me and the police service. I’ll end up working security at a Pick ’n’ Pay.’
‘Two men will die if we don’t move now.’
She shook her head. Damn him. He was right, and probably right about Carla Sykes as well. Tom had made a mistake by falling for the woman’s advances and Sannie had been almost as guilty in falling for her set-up.
Sannie strode across to the writing desk and took out a Tinga pen and some stationery. She sat down
and started writing. ‘Go to the mini-bar, get a bottle of soft drink, empty it out, rinse it and piss in it,’ she said, not looking back at him.
‘What?’
‘I’m writing a note for Tshabalala. I don’t want to explain this over the phone. I’m telling him I watched you give a urine sample and that he should get it analysed and get Carla Sykes thoroughly checked at the same time. If the urine sample comes up negative for drugs you’ll be partly vindicated. If it comes out positive, I’ll bring you back to Skukuza and he can lock you up. In the meantime, I’m taking custody of you and doing what he told me to do – keeping an eye on you. I’ll be sidelined off this investigation as soon as the detectives from Nelspruit get here, so I won’t be missed.’
Tom opened the mini-bar and tipped the contents of a bottle of soda water down the bathroom sink. As he unzipped his shorts, his hands still cuffed, he called out to her from the toilet. ‘You said you won’t be missed. Where are you going?’
‘Mozambique.’
Helen MacDonald sat at her desk in her office in Westminster and tried again to get the words right for the holding statement. She wiped away a tear with the back of her hand.
The phone rang.
‘Hello, I’m calling from South Africa. My name is Pauline le Roux, from Radio 702. I’m glad to get through to you at last, Helen. Look, we’ve had a call from a reporter in the east of the country near our Kruger Park and she says that Robert Greeves has gone missing. I need you to confirm that, please, and tell me all the details you have so far.’
‘Have you gone to air with this yet?’
‘No, and no one else has either. So it’s true?’
‘I don’t suppose there’s anything I can say to you that will stop you from running this story for twenty-four hours, is there?’ It was worth a try, Helen thought morosely.
‘I’ll take that as a yes, then. And no, you’re right, there’s nothing you can say that would stop me
running this story. If you want to go on air, I’ll take you now.’
‘I’ll send you a statement in half an hour.’ Helen hung up. She had neither confirmed nor denied that Robert was missing. She’d bought herself enough time to finish her statement, but the news was out now. She called the Prime Minister’s office.
Forty-five minutes later, at midday South African time, Eugene Coetzee, freelance photographer, tuned the radio in his Corolla sedan to 702 to listen to the news. There had been some funny goings-on around Tinga that morning.
Eugene guessed his quarry, the English politician Robert Greeves, would be going on an early morning game drive from Tinga. Having missed getting the shot the previous afternoon, he was determined to ambush the minister this time.
Eugene had booked himself into a rondavel at Skukuza camp the night before – he was sure the British newspaper he was stringing for would cover the expense of a self-contained hut – and set the alarm on his cell phone to wake him at five. He’d recovered quickly from the several Klipdrift and Cokes he’d had the night before and been in the head of the queue of cars waiting at the camp gates when they had opened at five-thirty.
He knew Tinga’s schedules. It had only taken a phone call a few days ago, with him pretending to be interested in staying at the lodge, to find out how many drives they offered per day and their departure times.
He knew the official guests wouldn’t leave the lodge before six-fifteen, and they first had to drive along the private road that linked Tinga Legends Lodge with the main sealed road. Eugene was waiting on the corner, parked on the dirt verge, at six-fifteen sharp. But no game vehicles had come.
He had wondered if they had deliberately changed the schedule after his bid to get a picture of Greeves yesterday. In all his twenty years as a member of the paparazzi, Eugene had never encountered a politician so shy – mostly they lived for getting their pictures in the newspaper. He had no idea why the
World
was so interested in this guy, and didn’t particularly care. But Eugene loved a challenge, and this was shaping up to be a battle of wills.
Not long after six-thirty, he heard the growl of a Land Cruiser and started his own engine as the Tinga game-viewing vehicle came into sight. Oddly, there were only two people in it – an African guide driving and a white man sitting next to him, the one who had been sitting in the rear of the vehicle that had cut him off and prevented him from getting his shot yesterday. The pair accelerated rapidly, quickly reaching a speed that looked dangerously close to illegal, and they pulled away from Eugene’s Corolla.
He smiled. Such an obvious decoy. Did they expect him to follow them? Perhaps he was supposed to think that Greeves’s game viewer, with Minister Dule on board, had left earlier and they were speeding out now to catch up with them. Eugene switched off his engine and waited. And waited.
He listened to the radio news at seven – nothing
of much interest on the bulletin – and then decided to turn on his radio scanner, which was tuned to the police and national parks frequencies. Immediately he picked up some agitated chatter. A Tinga game viewer had been reported speeding. Isaac Tshabalala, the old man in charge of the cops in Kruger, was heading from Orpen down to somewhere in the south of the park. Something funny was going on.
Throughout the rest of the morning he had watched an odd assortment of vehicles coming and going from Tinga. Cop cars, an unmarked detective vehicle – at least, a detective was what the beefy white man behind the wheel had looked like. Then, a short while ago, the pair from the Tinga vehicle – the guide and the man he assumed was Greeves’s bodyguard – had returned, but in a different game viewer. They were hunched over something or someone in one of the back seats.
The midday news brought some clarity and sent a jolt of adrenaline coursing through his veins. Robert Greeves was missing from the luxury game lodge, presumed kidnapped. Dule was unharmed. And he, Eugene Coetzee, was the only photographer on the scene – for now, anyway.
An ambulance screamed past him and Eugene started his engine again. He accelerated into the vehicle’s dust cloud as it raced down the private access road to Tinga. Eugene was a member of the press following a story – the gloves were off now. He stayed close to the ambulance and tailgated it through the unmanned electric gates that led to the luxury lodge.
*
Major Jonathan Fraser stood on the Tarmac at RAF Lyneham in Wiltshire. The busy military air transport hub was based in the otherwise peaceful green chequerboard of West Country farmland, a short drive at high speed from the Special Air Service’s home at Hereford, near the Welsh border. He watched as the last of six black Land Rover Discovery vehicles rolled up the rear cargo ramp into the waiting C-17.
The big fat grey aircraft’s jet engines whined at an idling speed. The members of Fraser’s SAS troop filed across the apron to the ramp to await their turn to walk on board. The noon day sun was barely making its presence felt through the whited-out autumn sky.
Fraser wore civilian clothes – blue blazer, tan trousers, oxford button-down collar – they didn’t move about in uniform when on counter-terrorist operations lest they draw any more attention to themselves than a convoy of black four-wheel drives would otherwise have done. The Director of Special Forces, a major general, had been driven straight to Wiltshire from a meeting with the Prime Minister.
‘You know the odds aren’t good, Johnno?’ The major general had been commanding officer of the regiment when Jonathan had been one of his young troop leaders. No one else would get away with calling him that.
It had been Jonathan’s feeling for many years that while the SAS were highly trained in hostage rescue, they were making a mistake common to most fighting forces throughout history – they were training to fight their last big battle. The DSF was right. There was little chance that they would find Greeves alive
and, if they did, the terrorists would be well prepared to execute both of their hostages and a good number of the assault force as soon as the direct assault began. The hostage situation at Beslan, in Russia, where Chechens had held a whole school captive, was, in Jonathan’s view, solely an exercise in targeting Russia’s special forces troops. He believed it had never been the intention of the captors to release any of the children under any circumstances, and that the whole operation was geared towards generating terror – in its purest form – and wiping out a good number of trained counter-terrorist soldiers in the process. Britain was still fighting the war on terror with the gloves on. The Yanks were marginally better at it. If they identified three or four al-Qaeda types driving through the desert in someone else’s country they wiped them off the face of the earth with a hellfire missile fired from an unmanned drone. Pre-emptive strikes – that was the way to go, in Jonathan’s view. Get the bastards before they did their dirty deeds, not afterwards. Sadly, Greeves’s execution may have already been filmed for release to the satellite television networks. ‘Yes, sir. Even if we find Greeves and his man they’ll probably kill them before we get near them.’