Tony Park - Silent Predator

‘I do.’

‘Then go. Hurry. Get help.’

Reluctantly, Bernard replaced the duct tape and hood, and closed and locked the door. If they didn’t know he had been in Robert’s room, perhaps they would go easier on the minister. He paused in the hallway near the covered window and unpicked some tape holding plastic sheeting over the glass. He peered outside and saw the terrorist had nearly extinguished the blazing thatch. He was continually glancing back towards the main building, no doubt worried about what Bernard was getting up to. If he could find a weapon, he thought again, he could kill the bastard, get his gun, and free Robert. The idea of abandoning him cut him to the core. Bernard heard the sound of a motor vehicle’s engine, and the courtyard and garden outside were suddenly bathed in white light from the headlamps.

‘Shit.’ The pick-up had returned. Bernard ran down the hall and tried the door at the far end. It was open. He looked in and saw what must have once been the villa’s lounge room, with a kitchen off to one side. Instead of furniture, though, was the equipment needed for making a video — a camera on a tripod, lights on a frame, a white sheet with green Arabic writing stuck to one wall as a backdrop. There was also a laptop computer on a desk and a satellite phone, with a separate antenna plugged into it.

Bastards. If nothing else, he’d slow down their propaganda effort and cut their communications. He looked around for something heavy and found a stout metal carry case. He put the laptop on the floor and pounded it with a corner of the heavy box. After doing so twice more, the thing looked wrecked. He unplugged the satellite phone and heard raised voices outside. He would have smashed the camera as well but he had to move. The men were arguing, accusations flying.

Clutching the phone, Bernard let himself out the kitchen door, into the warm, black tropical night, taking deep, greedy breaths of sea air as he ran down a sandy track.

There was no moon, which was good for him. Around him was only blackness — no other lights except the glare from the truck’s headlights and the sparks from the nearly extinguished fire being sucked high into the sky. He kept moving away from the house, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the night. He paused and sniffed again, his nose and the wind guiding him to the sea. He turned and ran for it, like a turtle scurrying across the sands to find refuge from its predators. His feet squeaked on fine sand that glowed white despite the absence of natural or artificial light. Bernard’s progress slowed as he climbed a tall dune, his aching feet slipping in the soft sand.

When he reached the summit, which was thickly vegetated on either side of the pathway, he saw the Indian Ocean. The water was calm, telling him that there was a reef out there somewhere, protecting the beach from waves. The tide was high and the waters lapped to within ten metres of the base of the dune he was standing on. He ploughed down the hill, slipping and rolling the last few metres before dragging his aching body upright again. His tracks would easily be visible in the soft sand near the high-water mark, so he sprinted straight to the water. The warm salt water stung the raw wounds on his feet, but he knew it was doing him good. The terrorists would find his tracks to the water, but would not know whether he had turned left to the north, or right to the south. If nothing else this small ruse would split their forces. Water splashed up to his chest as he ran, knees high, legs pistoning as he drew on hidden reserves of strength, fuelled by pure adrenaline. If it came to it, he would swim out to sea, though he didn’t want to lose the satellite phone if he could help it. As he jogged he fiddled with it, eventually finding an on switch.

His mind raced as he tried to remember a phone number — any one — to call. He didn’t know what the local number for emergency services was, or how to dial it from a satellite phone. Although he had an IQ bordering on genius level, Bernard now could not for the life of him recall the switchboard number of Greeves’s office, or of the Houses of Parliament. ‘Bloody stupid,’ he panted. Then he thought of Helen. How could he forget her extension — 6969. It was a running joke throughout Westminster, but one the New Zealander took in good humour. At least he knew how to dial out of a foreign country, remembering the code for England — 44 — and the first few digits of their work telephone number. Would Helen be there at this time of night? He bloody well hoped their predicament was keeping the poor girl at work all hours.

He pushed send and, after some strange pips and beeps, was rewarded with a ring tone.

‘Helen MacDonald.’ She sounded weary.

‘It’s Bernard!’

‘Bernard? My god! Where are you — where’s Robert? Is he…’

Quickly he stilled her questions and explained, still moving through the shallow water at a trot. He could give her no information about his whereabouts other than that he was on a beach and guessed he was in Mozambique. ‘What’s your number?’

‘I have no bloody idea. Give me someone else to call…’

‘Who?’

He tried to focus. He would need someone local, who could relay messages to whomever was coordinating any search and rescue operation. ‘Tom Furey. Give me his cell phone number now and I’ll key it in while we talk. I’ve got no idea how long the battery will last on this thing. Stay at your desk, Helen, and I’ll call you as soon as I find someone to tell me where the hell I am.’

‘I’m going nowhere.’

He told her to get a pen and paper, then gave her a quick briefing about the number of men who had kidnapped them, their weaponry and a rough layout of the house where Greeves was still held prisoner.

‘Okay, got all that,’ she said when he paused for breath again. ‘There’s an SAS team in South Africa waiting to move as soon as they get the word. Blast, but I don’t have their numbers. Furey ended up in Mozambique somewhere — and caused a hell of a fuss in the process. By the time you call back after phoning him, I’ll have all the contact details you need. Are you all right, Bernard?’

His feet felt like raw meat and his whole body throbbed in pain, but he was alive and doing something. ‘I’m fine. It’s Robert we have to worry about.’

Tom sat at the tiny dining table in the camp-ground chalet and pored over their simplistic tourist map of Mozambique. He slapped at a mosquito that had landed on his neck.

Sannie saw the stress in Tom’s knotted shoulders. Despite the killer insects, he was shirtless in the evening heat. She set a can of cold Coke down on the table beside him and he opened it without taking his eyes off the map.

‘That was nice of you before,’ he said, sipping the drink.

‘What was?’

‘When you prayed with the old couple.’

‘I’m not overly religious, but my mom takes the kids to church and Sunday school. I go when I’m not working.’

She thought he was probably referring to the way in which she had taken his hand, but there was nothing intimate or sexual in the gesture. It was the way her mother prayed when they ate their meals together as an extended family, though, with her dad and her husband gone, it never really felt as though the circle of hands was fully joined. It had been nice, though, to hold Tom’s hand, if only for a minute. It was as if she was sharing some of his burden, letting some of his pain and angst flow into her. From the look of him she thought he could do with a neck and shoulder massage as well, but she didn’t want to risk touching him. ‘At least we know whose side Carla was on now,’ she said, changing the subject.

In Xai Xai both of their cell phones could get reception and Tom had spoken to the commander of the hostage recovery force, an SAS major, and his superior, Shuttleworth, a short time ago. Although for security reasons they were careful about how they described the rescue force in their telephone conversation, he had told her after he got off the phone that the special forces team was at Hoedspruit in case the terrorists’ location was pinpointed. Shuttleworth had also relayed from Isaac Tshabalala, for both their benefits, that Carla Sykes had boarded a flight to Maputo, Mozambique after leaving Tinga.