Tony Park - Silent Predator

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.

He smelled someone else in the room. A hand moved to his throat and he recoiled in terror, but a voice said, ‘Still.’ He forced himself to relax — he would show no more fear in front of these men — and felt the fingers untying the knotted string which held the hessian sack secure.

Bernard snorted warm, sticky, salty night air, which was still deliciously cooler and fresher than his own breath in the hood. He blinked, for even though the room was dim, lit only by a light somewhere out in the hallway, the door to the cell was open and he could smell the outdoors. The man had the black hands of an African and wore a ski mask. Bernard was sure he was one of the two who had come for him to take him to his meeting with the Arab. But this time the man was alone. Before he had dozed off, though he had no idea how long he had been asleep, he remembered hearing a car’s engine starting. Had the others gone on some errand? His mind raced. There had been little time to establish a routine, and no doubt they wanted to keep him off balance. His captor’s weapon was slung, pointing down as he removed Bernard’s hood.

The little luxuries continued as the man ripped off the fresh duct tape that had been applied to Bernard’s mouth after his earlier interview. Bernard didn’t begrudge the pain of the tape being removed, as it allowed him to suck in more air. He felt some calm return to him now that he didn’t have to rely on his feeble nasal passages muffled inside a hood in order to stay alive, and could almost feel his brain starting to function better.

The man pulled a knife from a leather scabbard at his belt. Bernard tried to control his fear and the man bent forward. Again, ‘Still,’ was all he said. He reached behind Bernard and slid the cold, narrow blade between Bernard’s bound wrists. He didn’t flinch, though he was terrified the man might cut him by mistake. With barely a flick of the wrist Bernard felt the thick cable ties snap. His gratitude at being able to feel his hands again was swamped by the immediate rush of pain that flowed with the returning blood to his fingers.

‘Rub them.’

Bernard did as he was told, massaging his wrists, seeing and feeling the raw skin where the plastic had drawn blood because of its tightness. Still holding the knife, the man reached behind his back and pulled a pair of metal police handcuffs from his belt. He held them in front of Bernard. ‘Put these on — hands in front.’

Bernard was disappointed, but anything would be better than the plastic ties, and to have his hands in front would at least relieve the ceaseless pain in his shoulders from having his wrists bound behind his back. He reluctantly locked the open cuffs on each wrist, but kept them loose enough so that they weren’t contacting his skin. The man reached down and checked them, closing each manacle another notch for good measure, though Bernard still had full circulation to his fingers and his hands were already feeling better. The man dropped to one knee and slashed the tie binding Bernard’s ankles. As with his wrists, the relief was mixed with fresh pain and the blood flow seemed to reignite the aches in the tortured soles of his feet.

‘Stand.’

More pain, but again it was good to get his circulation moving. The man returned his knife to its pouch and unslung his shortened AK 47. He pointed it at Bernard’s belly and inclined his head towards the open door. ‘Move.’ Bernard hobbled, the pain in his feet increasing with each step. The man prodded the stubby barrel hard into his spine and he shuffled into the corridor. ‘Right.’

Bernard looked around him, risking what punishment might come. He was in a hallway. He had been hooded the last time he was taken from his room. He noticed cream-painted wooden doors on either side of the one he had just come from. Looking up he saw a high cathedral-like thatched roof. The floor was concrete and, like the one in his room, polished to a dull sheen with some kind of wax that made it quite slippery. A hallway window was covered in black plastic and sticky tape, just like the one in his room. At the end of the corridor, in front of him, was another cream-coloured door, with a key in the lock. Glancing back, until another shove made him face forward again, he saw a wooden door at the other end of the corridor. The walls were plastered and whitewashed.

The man in the mask motioned him to the door at the end of the hallway, then reached around him and turned the key in the lock. The door opened on to a bathroom, with a combination bath and shower, and a toilet. The enamel on the bath was chipped and stained and the place smelled of mould and old urine, but Bernard had forgotten just how wonderful such simple facilities could be. He had pissed himself, but so far managed to avoid voiding his bowels. He stank and he ached and he almost thanked his captor when he said, ‘Wash.’ Bernard noticed there was water in the bottom of the tub and, looking at the floor, he saw a pile of grey-black hair sitting on three spread sheets of newsprint. On a shelf off to one side was a set of hair clippers, plugged into a power point on the wall. As a weapon, they would be useless. He wondered if the hair on the floor was Robert’s and if his would be added to the pile next. Presumably the hair was on the newspaper so it could be bundled and disposed of. The thought chilled him.