Tony Park - Silent Predator

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 amp; 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 Aerospatiale 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.’