Tony Park - Silent Predator

Tom felt sorry for Bernard. He knew the ex-submariner wanted to get into the fight, but Tom had to agree with Fraser’s assessment that with his injuries he would be more of a liability than an asset. Bernard had pleaded with Fraser over the sat phone that he alone knew the layout of the farmhouse, but Fraser had shot that argument down in flames by pointing to the extremely detailed floor plan Bernard had already provided. Tom, too, had seen the house for himself, so Bernard could not even claim to be the only one who knew its exact location. Sarel had sealed Bernard’s fate by mentioning that he even had a GPS setting for the house as he had once led a four-wheel-drive rally through the dunes for a bunch of South African off-road enthusiasts. To make him feel better, Sarel had given Bernard his nine-millimetre pistol and would drive Bernard to the house once it was secured. There was merit, Tom supposed, in as many of them as possible being armed, just in case there was a terrorist sentry they hadn’t accounted for who might spring out of the bush.

Tom shifted his pistol from his right hand to his left and wiped his palm on his shirt. Once again, he felt Sannie’s touch on his arm. He wondered if she was just a touchy-feely sort of a person, or if she felt something of the attraction for him that he couldn’t deny feeling for her. ‘It’ll be fine, man. Stay cool. Listen, I think I hear the boats.’

Chief Inspector Shuttleworth hung up on the Prime Minister of Great Britain and started to pace the concrete floor of the aircraft hangar, behind the SAS communications sergeant seated at a folding table littered with phones, laptops and radios.

He wiped his brow. How the hell could it be hot enough for him to be sweating at four in the morning anywhere in the world? He knew, though, that the heat was not the only cause of his perspiration. He had just had to reassure the Prime Minister that an operation he had no part in planning or executing was going according to plan.

The policy advisor from Number 10 was not going to be fobbed off to a signals corps sergeant when the Prime Minister wanted a first-hand update. She demanded to be put through to the senior man on the ground and the sergeant had gladly beckoned the police officer over. ‘PM’s office,’ he said, but Shuttleworth wasn’t to know that the policy advisor had already switched the phone through to the nation’s leader. Shuttleworth had recognised the voice immediately and cobbled together an account of the operation’s progress so far.

It was unfair, he thought, that he was now established in the PM’s mind as responsible for this affair, when it was clearly a military operation. Surely the Prime Minister must understand the chain of command? He, after all, had authorised this action on foreign soil. Shuttleworth thought about Tom Furey. God help him. If Greeves was killed in the assault, the Hereford boys would break speed records in pointing the finger at the Met.

Shuttleworth stood by his earlier defence of Furey to Fraser. What worried him now was that his two best men — Tom and Nick Roberts — were both out of the game. According to Bernard, poor Nick was dead, and Shuttleworth wondered if he had been caught in the sort of honey trap that had clearly taken Tom’s eye off the ball the night before Greeves was abducted. They were his best, but there was no doubt they had been found wanting. If it went well, if Greeves was brought out alive, then Tom might have a shot at keeping his job if not his rank.

There were lessons for all of them in this fiasco, but they were also lessons taught in basic training.

The SAS signalman raised a hand in the air, his other pressed to his headset. ‘They’re feet dry,’ he said, indicating the assault force had landed on the beach, ‘in case you want to ring the PM back.’

Shuttleworth grimaced. Perhaps he should call the sergeant’s bluff and call Number 10 back. What harm would there be in the Prime Minister’s office thinking he had a key role in the rescue? In for a penny, in for a pound. He picked up the laminated sheet of paper with all the key phone numbers on it, snatched up the satellite phone he had just been using and rang the number.

‘Downing Street situation room,’ a woman said.

‘Get me the Prime Minister. It’s Chief Inspector Shuttleworth, Metropolitan Police.’

Jonathan Fraser was in the lead boat and the first of the raiders to touch the sands of Mozambique as the Zodiac shushed its way up the sandy shore. It was a small detail, but one he hoped might be remembered.

He had his MP-5 out and pointed ahead of him as he ran, bent double, towards the dune line. Off to his right the South African had extinguished the lights of his four-wheel drive. There was not another soul to be seen on the beach.

Ahead of him he saw a small light. Furey was using his cigarette lighter. It was like something out of a World War Two movie, but the prearranged signal was effective enough. With Chalky behind him and the rest of the assault force now dragging their boats into the moon shadows in the lee of the dunes, he strode towards the two police officers.

‘Jonathan Fraser. Nice to meet you in person,’ he said, shaking Tom’s hand, though the greeting was hollow. Something else for the record. He smiled at van Rensburg as he shook her hand and she introduced herself. Very nice to put a face to that voice, which sounded sexy even over the sat phone. Fraser hoped she would be around for a debriefing in South Africa. ‘Any noise from the house?’

‘No, we’re too bloody far away,’ Furey pointed out. If he was one of his men, Fraser would have dressed him down for his insubordinate tone. The copper had made it plain that he wanted to keep his eyes on the target house. Fuck him, Fraser thought. This was his show and the plods were baggage now that they’d pointed to a pathway through the dunes.

Fraser keyed his personal radio. He had already made contact with Forsythe, the captain heading the blocking force. ‘Dagger one, this is Dagger niner.’

‘Dagger one.’ Forsythe sounded calm in his earpiece.

‘We’re at the base of the dunes. Moving to the FUP now.’

‘Roger,’ Forsythe said. ‘We’re in position, boss.’ Fraser knew Forsythe would be passing the information on to the sniper teams now, letting them know that their own men would be moving into the hollow in the dunes to the south of the farmhouse — the forming-up point — in the next few minutes.

Fraser turned to Tom. ‘You two stay here and watch our backs. We shan’t be long and I’ll call you up once it’s done. All right?’

‘No, it bloody well isn’t all right,’ Tom whispered. Van Rensburg shook her head in support of him.

‘We’ve got more than enough firepower to do the job,’ Fraser persisted. This wasn’t about politics. He simply didn’t want two extra bodies wandering about the dunes while he had men in motion and sniper teams in overwatch.

‘No deal, Fraser. I told you on the phone that Sannie and I are in on this thing until the end. Greeves’s safety is my responsibility until I’m relieved.’

Sooner rather than later, Fraser thought. Still, he had neither the time nor the inclination to dally on this beach when there was a job to be done. ‘Very well. S’arnt Major?’

White moved to Fraser’s side. ‘Sir?’

Fraser knew that his use of White’s formal rank would alert his friend and chief head-kicker to the fact he was not happy about the orders he was about to issue, but he also knew Chalky would jump off a cliff if he told him to. ‘As well as your other duties in this op, I’d like you to escort Detective Sergeant Furey and Inspector Van Rensburg.’

‘Pleasure, sir,’ White said, and there was no mistaking how he felt about his new job. ‘Stay close to me and we’ll all be going home with ten fingers, ten toes and two eyes.’