Tony Park - Silent Predator

‘I’m sorry, Robert, if that upstart caused you any concern,’ the company chairman said as Tom followed them. It seemed the RAF man knew Greeves personally.

‘No problem at all, Hugh. The opposition ran a line a few months ago about “taxpayer-funded safaris”. The World bit and even had a cartoon of me in a pith helmet,’ Greeves laughed. ‘I do love Africa, but that’s not why I travel there for business, and I’m keen to shut those sorts of questions down as quickly as possible. I do not want the people of Britain thinking I’m using my position to get free air miles.’

‘Of course not,’ the chairman said. ‘I’ll put out a statement today, if you like, saying that you refused to allow us to pick up the bill for your accommodation at the safari lodge.’

‘Thanks, but I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ Greeves said.

‘Why not, it’s true. I can also mention the company — at your suggestion — sponsoring an AIDS education program and providing funding for a work-place clinic for the workers we will employ in South Africa if we get the deal.’

‘All good stuff,’ Greeves agreed, ‘but I want to downplay this visit. When you win the contract, go large with it in the north — that’s where it’s the most important. I want to see your factory expanding, Hugh. I’m not the story here, your men and women on the factory floor are.’

Tom thought he sounded like he actually meant it.

The visit to the HIV-AIDS clinic in Islington was a low-key affair. The job was over in half an hour and consisted of Greeves meeting the director, his staff and a couple of outpatients.

Tom had expected there to be media present, perhaps even one of those naff big cheques for Greeves to hand over as part of a naff photo opportunity. There was neither. Tom had thought it odd, in any case, that a defence minister would be handing over funding for something which was clearly a health ministry responsibility.

As they drove through London to Westminster, Greeves finished annotating the last of a stack of briefing notes he had pulled from his briefcase. Tom saw his chance to raise the concerns he had about the lack of protection officers. ‘Sir, I’d like to bring some additional security equipment with us to South Africa — a passive alarm system which I’d set up on the door and balcony of your suite at Tinga.’

‘Are you asking me or telling me, Tom?’

‘It’s not intrusive, sir, and I wouldn’t be monitoring you, only the access to your room. It’s my recommendation, sir, given that we’re one man down on the team.’

‘Very well.’ Greeves signed another file and closed his bag.

Their car pulled into the security parking area beneath Portcullis House, the multistorey labyrinth of parliamentary offices opposite the Palace of Westminster but joined to it by underground passageways.

During the afternoon tea in the anteroom of Greeves’s offices, Tom introduced himself to Helen MacDonald, the press secretary. Tom was curious about why the minister was presenting a cheque to a healthcare organisation which was clearly outside his portfolio.

‘It’s his own money,’ Helen said, sipping a cup of tea while Greeves entertained some housewives, local businessmen and a gaggle of grey-haired grannies.

‘Really?’ Tom was surprised. ‘How much?’

‘He wouldn’t want me to say, even if I knew — but you can bet it’d be at least five figures, from what I know of his past donations to charity. He’s a true philanthropist, is our Robert.’

Tom nodded, impressed. He knew Greeves was rich, but he didn’t know that he was generous as well. ‘Why didn’t he get some publicity for it? Help raise awareness of AIDS and all that?’

‘I used to try to get him to let me tell the media, but it’s a firm rule of his never to publicise his personal donations.’

‘I suppose he doesn’t want to be hit up by every other charity in the country,’ Tom speculated.

Helen shook her head. ‘No. You know, I think he does it in private because it’s the right thing to do. He’s not like any other politician I’ve ever come across, in that respect. Not cynical — at least, not in that way.’

Tom told Helen about the questioning from the journalist, Fisher. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ she said. ‘They’re flogging a dead horse, but do try to keep him out the way of photographers in South Africa. The World ’s gunning for him for some reason.’

There was nothing Tom could do to stop anyone taking a picture of Robert Greeves in a public place, especially in another country, other than try to alter their routes to avoid the paparazzi. To try to outrun them could be fatal — as had been the case with Princess Diana — and to manhandle reporters and photographers who weren’t actually physically threatening someone was considered to be assault. Still, Tom held his tongue and simply nodded to Helen. He was sure she knew the limitations he worked under.

Tom travelled armed with his Glock, Asp, knife and ammunition as they passed through Heath-row escorted by two uniformed police — one with a Heckler amp; Koch — and a security officer from British Airways special services. Once through immigration he, Greeves and the minister’s policy advisor, Bernard Joyce, parked themselves in the first-class lounge for the hour before departure.

The flight was uneventful and Tom slept well in the first-class seat behind Greeves, though he couldn’t drink alcohol.

At Johannesburg they were first off the aircraft, and the British Ambassador to South Africa was waiting on the air bridge, along with the South African Minister for Defence, Patrick Dule. Sannie was there, protecting the minister, and she nodded a curt hello to Tom. They were led by airport staff and security to a VIP lounge, where their passports were stamped by immigration officers and the two ministers had coffee with the British ambassador, who would not be accompanying them to Kruger.

South African soldiers in dress uniform, incongruously armed with umbrellas, were waiting downstairs outside the terminal to cover the official party for the couple of metres to two cars parked waiting in the torrential rain. They were driven across the taxiways to a South African Air Force Boeing business jet VIP transport aircraft, which was waiting on the Tarmac with its engines already turning. This time they would be flying to the Kruger National Park. Tom sat at the back of the aircraft, but was still three seats away from Sannie, so he couldn’t converse with her.

There was no one from the company which manufactured the jet trainers travelling with Greeves; this was ostensibly a political visit and, while Greeves would talk up the merits of the UK bid and its benefits to the British economy, he would also be discussing other defence issues with Dule.

Dule was an affable, urbane, rotund man in a tailored designer suit with a crisp white shirt, burgundy silk tie and matching handkerchief in his pocket. Tom remembered Sannie’s bitterness about the poverty in which so many South Africans still lived. Majority rule hadn’t brought fresh water and decent housing to all, but it had made some well fed and well off, Tom reflected.

Tom had been unable to put Sannie out of his mind completely these past couple of days. He’d also been unable to shake the feeling that something good had passed him by, and he wanted at least to make amends with her, if not pick up where he thought they had left off. She looked cool and sexy in her lightweight cream business suit. He had tried a smile on her as she took her seat on the aircraft, but she ignored him. It was annoying. For some reason he felt compelled to tell her that he had not slept with Carla Sykes. It was none of Sannie’s business, but he sensed she thought less of him because of what Carla had said.