‘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.’
16
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.’
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.
17
