Silent Predator

by Tony Park

  Sannie had only come close to sleeping with one man since Christo’s death, and that had been one time only. It was a disaster. She had been drinking at the squad’s Christmas party – in fact, she had been so drunk that she had decided not to drive home. She was about to call her mother when her boss, Captain Henk Wessels, had offered to give her a lift. He lived not far from her home in suburban Kempton Park – only a couple of streets away.

  At the time it had been a little more than a year since Christo had been shot and she had been so preoccupied with the kids – helping them to stay focused at school and to deal with their grief – that she hadn’t even thought about having another relationship. When Wessels stopped outside her home he had leaned over from the driver’s seat to give her a goodnight kiss.

  It was not entirely appropriate for a senior officer to do something like that to a subordinate but, what the hell, she had thought, it was Christmas and it had been a damned good party, and he had taken her home. As she leaned over to offer her cheek he struck, fast and predatory, like a mamba, and planted a kiss on her lips. She leaned back, surprised, and not sure if it had been a mistake of timing or positioning. Henk was not an unattractive man. He had left his wife and four children for a girl of twenty-five, who was only a little more than half his age. It had been a bad situation, made worse for the captain when the younger girl ditched him after seven months. Sannie thought he was seeing a nurse these days, though the two were not living together. He smiled at her. He was a bad man.

  And that, she had realised, was exactly what she needed right then. The thought came to her with the clarity that only seven brandy and Cokes could bring. They kissed and clawed at each other like a pair of teenagers after the matric dance. ‘Not here,’ she whispered.

  ‘My place,’ Wessels panted.

  Sannie felt lascivious, wanton, desperate for the feel of a man again. She had her hand in the captain’s pants as he drove, dangerously fast, back to his empty house.

  The drive there should have been enough to warn her that the night was not going to improve. Henk had been unable to rise to the occasion, and no amount of her ministrations had helped, not in the car, or in his shabbily furnished, untidy house. He had eventually admitted defeat and dropped her home. Exhausted, drunk, frustrated, embarrassed and dreadfully sad, she had cried herself to sleep. Mixed with her hangover the next morning was a crushing feeling that she had been unfaithful to Christo. She tried, in vain, to tell herself she should get on with her life, perhaps even go looking for another husband, but her feelings of guilt won out. She wondered later if she would have felt differently if they’d had sex.

  ‘Is that the welcoming committee?’ Tom Furey asked.

  ‘What? Oh, sorry. I was just thinking of something I need to tell my mom about the kids. Yes, that’s Captain Tshabalala from Skukuza. That’s the park’s main camp and there’s a police post there. He’ll escort us in so we don’t need to worry about entrance fees and park permits and whatnot.’

  The captain was a rotund, smiling man in his midforties with whom Sannie had worked often over the years. She liked him, even though he was exactly the sort of person she would have been trying to arrest pre-1994 when Nelson Mandela had led the country to majority rule. Isaac Tshabalala had trained in the former Soviet Union as a member of Umkhonto we Sizwe – the spear of the nation – the military arm of the African National Congress. Thankfully, South Africa had made the transition to true democracy without Isaac’s training in explosives and sabotage needing to be put to the test.

  ‘Welcome to the Kruger National Park,’ Isaac said to Tom as he shook hands. ‘Kunjani, Sannie. How are you?’

  ‘Fine, sir, and you?’

  Isaac ushered them into the gate office and spoke rapidly, in the language of the Shangaan people, to the young woman behind the desk. Sannie understood every word. She had learned it from her nanny as a child and practised with the children of the farm labourers. Her mother had not approved and had smacked her bottom on more than one occasion for talking in the language of the majority of inhabitants of their part of the old Eastern Transvaal. Her father had winked at her whenever the punishment was delivered, which took some sting out of the blows. Isaac was now telling the woman they were all police officers, even the pretty but too skinny blonde one. The receptionist put a hand to her mouth to cover her laugh. Sannie had never let on to the captain that she spoke his language and she kept a straight face, knowing an African language was a handy card to have up one’s sleeve and one to be played judiciously.

  Captain Tshabalala drove ahead in his ageing Toyota Venture people-mover. ‘Look, on the right . . . some giraffe,’ Sannie said to Tom matter-of-factly.

  ‘Where? Boy, you’ve got good eyesight. Blimey, that’s incredible. Look at them just wandering around without a care. That’s just . . .’

  He was lost for words, literally, and she smiled as she noticed him craning his head back to continue staring at the animals as she drove on behind their escort. She wished she could remember the first time she had seen a giraffe. The awesome, addictive terror of her first close-up sighting of a lion, when she was five, was something which would stay with her forever. It was one of her earliest childhood memories. The Africa bug had just bitten Tom Furey for the first time. The more incredible things one saw – lion kills, a leopard stalking an impala, bull elephants fighting – the more one needed to keep coming back. Tom’s new principal, Robert Greeves, was clearly a hopeless addict. She remembered him saying once that he had been to Africa, either on business or pleasure or both, annually for the past fifteen years.

  ‘Damn, my camera’s in my bag.’ Tom sounded disappointed.

  ‘Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty more giraffe for you to see later – and everything else.’

  Tshabalala led them to the Skukuza police post where, over coffee, he explained for Tom’s benefit the local chain of command and areas of responsibility. Basically he and his officers, who were limited in numbers and resources, would be available to provide initial uniformed back-up if any incident during the visit required it. Political relations between South Africa and the UK were good, so there was no threat of any demonstration or protest – not that such actions would even be feasible within the confines of a national park where, for the most part, animals rather than people held sway. Isaac explained that should Greeves be taken ill, or injured in any way, there was a doctor on call twenty-four hours a day at Skukuza, and Nelspruit hospital was forty-five minutes away.

  ‘Really, I can’t think of anything that could go wrong, other than the minister falling ill, or being eaten by a lion on a game drive.’ The burly captain’s whole body shook and Sannie swore she felt the floor vibrating under her high heels as he laughed at his own joke.

  Tom, she saw, smiled politely, then asked questions about police radio communications, emergency frequencies, phone numbers, and crime figures for the national park and its surrounds. He was very professional, but Sannie expected nothing less of the Englishman. As she had reflected earlier, even that sleaze Nick Roberts was good at his job. Being a protection officer – dropping in and out of other people’s turf – required diplomacy, and Tom had it.

  Their briefing session over, Sannie and Tom left the captain and went back to her car. ‘The lodge is only about ten minutes from here.’

  ‘Do you share his confidence about the risk assessment here in the park?’ Tom asked as she unlocked the Mercedes by remote. The horn gave a little beep and the hazard lights flashed as the alarm was disabled.

  ‘I lock my car, even when I know there’s about a one in a million chance of it being broken into or stolen outside a police post in the middle of a national park.’

  Tom opened the car door. ‘That’s why we’re here.’

  4

  ‘Mr Speaker, will the Minister for Defence Procurement elaborate on remarks he made to defence contractors recently in which he indicated the government in fact has no real intention to further scale back troop numb
ers in Iraq? Further, will the minister come clean on the government’s timetable for withdrawal?’ The opposition backbencher grinned, and sat as the guffaws rose from his side of the House of Commons in the Palace of Westminster just as the groans and jeers from the government benches mocked him.

  Robert Greeves buttoned his suit jacket as he stood and approached the despatch box and coldly eyed the members of Her Majesty’s loyal opposition, though how loyal this cretinous mob of political featherweights were was debatable. ‘Mr Speaker, once more for the slow learners . . .’

  He paused as the peals of forced laughter erupted from the government benches. When the theatrics had subsided, he continued. ‘Mr Speaker, this would be a laughably dim question if the subject were not so desperately serious. We sit here in parliament today, safely surrounded by armed police, security staff, metal detectors, cameras and an array of protective systems. Out in the deserts of Southern Iraq, and on the streets of Basra and Baghdad and many other towns and villages of that poor benighted country, there are British men and women in harm’s way. Men and women who face the dangers of improvised explosive devices – bombs to you and me – rocket-propelled grenades and bullets.’

  ‘So why don’t you bring them home?’ an opposition member jeered.

  Greeves knew better than to take the bait and get into a slanging match. He paused and stared at the member of parliament opposite who had asked the question. His silence was effective and infectious. The whole house was quiet, waiting for his deep, measured voice to continue.

  Although a relatively young fifty-two, he was one of the longest serving members of parliament, having been elected at the age of just twenty-six. He had never aspired to the prime ministership, though countless hacks and plenty amid his own Party had speculated or urged that he should. He had been a member of parliament longer than the current prime ministerial incumbent, and he had helped put the man there. Robert Greeves was not a king but a king-maker. His satisfaction was in steering his Party towards government – and that goal had been achieved after years in the wilderness of opposition – and helping to place a succession of talented, driven, intelligent people in the top job, for as long as his Party held power. For himself, all he wanted was a challenging cabinet position where he could make a difference. Leaders came and went, and when they left the highest elected office in the land, that was generally the end of their political career. Greeves wanted to be in politics until he died. It was his life. It was his calling. And he was very, very good at it.

  ‘However, Mr Speaker, I address the house today not on the subject of the fine men and women of our own army and Royal Air Force who serve in Iraq, nor our equally upstanding seamen in the still troubled waters of the north Arabian Gulf. I speak of the men of the fledgling Iraqi defence force and the Iraqi police force.

  ‘It is these men who risk assassination, hatred and intimidation not only of themselves on a daily basis but also of their families, by daring to do the right thing and don the uniform of their newly independent, newly democratic country.

  ‘How can we say, “We, like you, don’t believe that foreign insurgents should be allowed to kill your women and children indiscriminately with car bombs, but we’ve had enough now and it’s all over to you”?’

  ‘It’s not our war!’ called another opposition member.

  ‘Tell that to victims of the seven-seven London bombings!’ Greeves shot back at the interjector. Damn, he said to himself. He had risen to the challenge and this prompted a fusillade of catcalls from both sides. He did get emotional, however, when discussing terrorism and the global fight against it. Skilled politician and orator though he was, he was only human. When relative calm followed the banging of the speaker’s order, he continued.

  ‘Mr Speaker, we cannot leave the Iraqi recruits to their own devices just yet. I cannot say whether they will be ready to do the job next week, next month or next year. The war they fight is the same one Britain fights against the rise of cruel Islamic fundamentalists who bring shame on their people and their faith. I would like to use this opportunity to bring members up to date on the events of two days ago at Enfield.’

  Greeves gave a rundown on the explosion at the house in Enfield, without going into detail about the operation to hack into the occupants’ computer. His praise of the young man killed in the blast was heartfelt, though he released neither the name nor the occupation of ‘one of the security service’s best and brightest young people’. He silently also congratulated himself on turning a question about the government’s frankly nonexistent exit strategy in Iraq into a reminder of the threat of terror attacks on the homeland.

  ‘Mr Speaker, the two suspects killed at the scene of this bombing were, it would appear, slain by one of their own. It can only be surmised that these two men, of Pakistani origin, carried information about a terrorist network or an impending attack that was so vital their co-conspirator could not risk them being arrested and questioned. This, too, explains why the terrorists blew up their own lair, thereby denying our security services access to whatever materials or information may have been stored there.

  ‘This is a reminder to us all that the foes our young Iraqi friends face – side by side with their comrades from the British armed forces – are the same as those at work in our own backyard. It is a reminder to us all to be vigilant, determined, strong and courageous in the face of adversity. It is a reminder, Mr Speaker, to be British, and proud of it!’

  The roars of support from the government benches drowned out the opposition and Greeves turned to his colleagues, many of whom nodded genuine wishes of congratulations.

  His press secretary intercepted him as he left the chamber. ‘Choice,’ said Helen MacDonald, using a favourite adjective from her New Zealand upbringing. A year earlier Greeves had poached her from a tabloid, where she had put in ten years’ service as a political reporter since leaving the New Zealand Herald. Helen had often been stinging in her criticisms of the Party and its governance of the country, and that had been one of the reasons he had hired her. In part, taking her on board was removing a thorn in their side. However, he also wanted to ensure there was at least one member of his staff who was not a self-serving political apparatchik, merely biding their time until a safe seat could be found for them. A press secretary needed to be independent – ideally, apolitical – honest, and not afraid to deliver criticism. ‘You overdid it a bit at the end. I could almost hear Land of Hope and Glory coming out your bum.’

  He laughed. He’d chosen Helen well. ‘As ever, you flatter me too much, Helen. What’s up?’ He knew she would not have come looking for him simply to give her critique of his performance in question time.

  ‘What is it with you and Africa?’ she asked as they walked together along a corridor.

  ‘You might be from New Zealand but that doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re smart. You know very well I’m going to South Africa to push the sale of some jet training aircraft to their defence force.’

  ‘No, that’s not what I mean. A couple of the journos have asked me from time to time why you spend your holidays there as well as jumping on any junket heading for the dark continent. The people that make those planes don’t need you to help peddle their wares.’

  ‘It was forthrightness I wanted when I hired you, Helen, not impertinence.’

  She let the jibe wash over her. Their feisty banter was no greater than usual. ‘I’ve got one who wants to do a profile piece on you – the real Robert Greeves and all that crap. He’s particularly interested in your apparent love affair with Africa – how it started.’

  ‘Not interested,’ he said, opening a leather-bound folder and checking his next appointments as they continued to walk. ‘Give him the usual line from my bio that I first went to Zambia as a young geologist and developed a great affinity for Africa, its people and its amazing wildlife – you know the drill.’

  ‘It’s a shame, though. A nice warm and fuzzy profile with you establishing some strong green credent
ials could help you in the future.’

  ‘I’m quite happy as Minister for Defence Procurement, thank you, Helen. In case you didn’t catch all of my reply to that question, there is a war on, you know. It’s my duty to concentrate on this portfolio. Where are you lunching?’

  ‘Sorry, I’m meeting a contact.’

  ‘Always working, eh, Helen? It’s not good for you.’

  Helen MacDonald left the Houses of Parliament via St Stephen’s gate, grateful as ever for a breath of fresh air and a cigarette. As she smoked she weaved to avoid a throng of Spanish tourists armed with digital cameras.

  It was grey – as it was most days in London. It was all very well for Robert to tell her all work and no play made Helen a dull girl. He’d be swanning off to Africa soon enough. He was taking Bernard, his defence industries policy advisor, with him. It was obvious there would be no photo opportunities on this trip. A break from Robert would be good for her, in any case, and she might use it to sound out her old contacts in newspapers about a return to journalism.

  Unlike many of her former colleagues she didn’t see taking a job as a press secretary as selling out. True, the money was better than she’d earned as a reporter, but that wasn’t her main motivation for crossing over. She’d always been interested in politics and politicians – what made them tick – and if she returned to newspapers she’d be a better journalist for her time in Westminster. She knew all the tricks of political spin-doctoring now – she’d put them into practice at some time or another. No flak would pull the wool over her eyes ever again.

  Arriving from New Zealand as a twenty-five-year-old reporter she had been surprised at first at the minute scrutiny in the UK press of politicians’ private lives, particularly in the tabloids. In her country, and in Australia where she had worked for a year on an extended holiday, rumours abounded about the sexual proclivities of members of parliament, and about affairs within the corridors of power, but these rarely made it into the public domain. If they did, the story usually involved a political leader rather than a mere minister or member of paliament, and it was generally revealed by a fellow parliamentarian as part of a wider smear campaign. In England, however, it seemed that who a politician slept with – and how he or she did it – was equally important as their policies or views on world affairs.