Silent Predator

by Tony Park

  She had also wondered why such a high proportion of senior politicians seemed to be committing adultery. That was, at least, until she fell for Robert Greeves. He was a handsome man undoubtedly, and witty and smart and driven, and still idealistic after all this time in politics. But more than that, he was a powerful man. On his word men and women went to war, alliances with other nations were forged and broken, multibillion-pound contracts signed, the fate of a nation decided. And his grey eyes were gorgeous.

  ‘Stop it,’ she said out loud, flicking her cigarette butt onto the pavement in front of her and grinding it out without breaking step.

  Helen had accompanied him on a trip, not to Africa, but to Germany, for a conference of NATO defence ministers. She had felt her feelings for him grow over the three months leading up to the meeting. She had felt infatuation, followed by denial as she told herself it was morally wrong to be attracted to a married man. There were no signs that he was unhappy at home. Still, despite her attempts to subdue her feelings, she wanted him.

  A suited businessman walking towards her smiled and tried to make eye contact. Damn him, she said to herself. Not the suit, whom she ignored, but her boss. At thirty-seven she could still turn heads – and get the eye from strangers on the street. She worked out six days a week, and watched what she ate – not easy in the confines of parliament where booze and food and lack of opportunity for exercise were daily threats to one’s shape. Narrow waist, good legs, pretty face, pert bum.

  In Berlin Robert had called Helen to his hotel suite late in the evening. It was eleven o’ clock, after the official dinner, and he wanted help reworking his speech. She had been seated with a group of journalists at a back table and, thinking her work was done for the day, had demolished the better part of two bottles of wine by herself.

  When she knocked and he opened the door he was in his black dinner suit trousers and white shirt, the sleeves rolled up and top two buttons undone. She caught a glimpse of a thicket of grey chest hair and wanted to put her hand inside to stroke it. ‘Thanks awfully, Helen. I’m sorry to call you up so late, but I want to get this right. I’ve got a bottle on the go if you’d like a glass.’ He had nodded to the white wine in a dewy silver ice bucket. His bed looked enormous.

  They had sat side by side on the sofa and gone through the speech. At the end he had been particularly effusive in his thanks for her help. They verbally sparred so often that words of praise had seemed out of place. She knew that he appreciated her work and her counsel, and that had always been enough for her.

  ‘I really mean it, Helen. Sometimes I don’t know how I’d get on without you,’ he’d said.

  She’d looked deep into his steel grey eyes. What was going on? Could it be that he felt the same way about her as she did about him? Before she knew what she was doing she had laid her hand on his thigh. ‘My pleasure,’ she’d said, in a voice lower than usual, as if the words were being spoken by another – someone out of her body. Later she would blame it all on the wine. She had leaned closer to him, eyes half closed, waiting for him to make the next move. For the kiss which would surely come.

  He had recoiled, like she was a bloody snake or something. He’d been polite about it, with his smooth words, but she had clearly misread all the signals. Perhaps, she wondered for the thousandth time as she approached St Stephen’s pub, opposite the Palace of Westminster, he really had been tempted and had simply had a last-minute attack of guilt. Perhaps, of course, she was a complete fool ever to have thought he would cheat on his wife.

  ‘Helen, I meant what I said,’ he had explained as he stood and moved away from the sofa, ‘but I love my wife and children. It wouldn’t be right for anything to happen between us – in this way.’

  Damn him, she thought as she felt the pub’s warm fug engulf her and saw the reporter sitting in the corner, waving to her. The only thing wrong with her bloody boss was that he was too good for politics.

  5

  Tom found the idea of driving in an African game reserve and passing families in cars towing caravans quite odd. It didn’t gel with what he’d seen in wildlife documentaries on satellite television. Sannie turned off the tar road – which in itself had been another surprise – onto a dirt track.

  The African bush was a mix of drab grey-green stunted trees interspersed with bright new shoots of grass. The seasons were on the turn, and the sky was clouding again. It was hot – like being in the Far East, almost. The foliage was thicker than he had expected, and so far he hadn’t seen a single grassy savannah. As well as not meeting his preconceptions, South Africa was throwing plenty of challenges at him from a protection officer’s point of view. If the bush was this thick around the lodge it would be easy for someone with the right skills to get in close. It was the same as telling people back in England to keep their trees and hedges trimmed in their yards, so as not to provide too much cover for burglars. The difference here, of course, was that the villains would have to get past two-hundred-kilogram cats out patrolling the garden.

  After leaving the police post at Skukuza they had crossed on low-level bridges the Sabie and Sand rivers. Sannie had slowed the Mercedes and he’d had close-up sightings of the huge bewhiskered snouts, piggy eyes and swivelling ears of hippos. A big-horned, scarred buffalo had watched them as it chewed a mouthful of grass. Tom tried to keep his cool, but it was undeniably exciting being this close to wildlife. He found himself wishing that Alex was with him to share the experience and this realisation dampened his excitement.

  They followed the signs to Tinga Legends Lodge and at the end of the dirt track came to a rather ornate-looking dark wooden gate topped with curled wrought iron and set between two white posts. Without the press of an intercom or a buzzer, the gate opened automatically. Cameras or sensors, Tom thought.

  The Merc’s tyres crunched along a gravelled driveway which took them around a landscaped circle to an imposing thatch-roofed building as tall as a two-storey house. A woman in a loose-fitting white blouse and tight khaki pants and boots stepped off the wide porch. Her face was framed by long, straight jet black hair and she wore a necklace of what looked like small gold nuggets. She appeared to be about thirty. Attractive. A pretty young African girl with her hair twisted into tiny spikes stood behind the white woman, holding a silver platter.

  ‘Beware of Carla,’ Sannie said. ‘She’s the closest you’ll get to a man-eater on this trip.’ They walked towards her.

  ‘Hello, welcome to Tinga, I’m Carla Sykes. You must be Tom?’

  Tom shook her hand and then accepted a cold towel from the platter borne by the African girl, who Carla introduced as Given.

  ‘Sannie, how lovely to see you once again,’ Carla said. Tom thought her smile looked a little less sincere this time.

  Sannie just nodded. ‘You too, Carla.’

  ‘Precious will organise one of the guys to bring your bags and move your car. Same drill as usual, Sannie. What can I get you to drink?’

  Tom was dying for a beer, but said, ‘Ginger ale would be fine, please.’ Sannie ordered a mineral water and Carla relayed the orders to an African man standing behind an enormous dark wood bar off to their right.

  Carla led them through the airy reception area. Sannie’s heels clicked pleasingly on the polished caramel-coloured floor, whose hard surface was softened here and there by Turkish rugs. Overstuffed leather lounges and chairs faced a huge fireplace, the mantel of which was topped with a black-and-white photo of a reclining leopard. In contrast to the outside, the lodge’s reception was cool and shaded, the light coming from soft bulbs set in antique wall fittings and an overhead chandelier. The barman emerged from behind his fortress-like bar and brought their drinks on a platter. Tom glanced at the cream-coloured walls. As well as more monochrome photos there were antique prints of animals. The place was a mix of colonial indulgence and modern ethnic African chic. Elsewhere this might not have worked – been too over the top – but the place felt smooth and sophisticated and welcoming all at once.


  If the reception area was grand, it was understated compared with the spectacular natural view at the other end of the open hall. Carla stopped onto the patio overlooking a wide river studded with pinkish-coloured boulders and stands of lush green reeds. Something which sounded like a five-hundred kilogram goose on steroids honked from out there.

  ‘Hippo. You’ll have to get used to them, I’m afraid, Tom. This way.’ She touched his arm to steer him down a set of wide stairs to an octagonal-shaped stained timber deck with a giant tree in the centre. Off to the right was a grassy terrace set with a swimming pool, and below the deck was another open area with a smaller platform, jutting out over the river itself.

  Carla motioned them to take wooden seats around a table in the shade of the tree, again touching Tom. She gestured to the branches above them. ‘This is a jackalberry tree. Tinga is set on the site of an old National Parks Board camp called Jakkalsbessie, which is Afrikaans for jackalberry. It was a very exclusive place – a favourite of the ruling elite during the apartheid years. Because it’s so close to the Kruger air strip, which is just up the road, the bigwigs could fly in from Pretoria and Jo’burg and have their meetings and a little fun in seclusion.’

  ‘Where does the current name come from?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Tinga is an abbreviation of a Shangaan word, Tingala, which means “many lions”. The “Legends” part is based on the camp’s history. There are plenty of stories about secret meetings that used to go on here. It’s said that some of the African national parks staff here were actually undercover ANC operatives, who used to eavesdrop on the government’s dastardly business. Not that Mr Greeves will need to fear spies these days!’

  ‘I know you’ve been through all this before, Carla, and it must seem like a bit of a chore, but . . .’ Tom began.

  ‘It’s perfectly fine, Tom. I understand how things need to be done, and the value of an advance visit. We get plenty of overseas dignitaries staying here – and a few of our own, including our president – so I’m used to dealing with people such as yourself. Besides, I can’t think of a better way to spend an afternoon than in the company of a handsome policeman. You must tell me later about all the people you’ve been a bodyguard for.’

  Tom smiled politely and noticed Sannie rolling her eyes.

  ‘By the way,’ Carla asked, ‘how is Nick? Is he ill? I got your email saying you’d be carrying out the advance and assumed he wasn’t well.’

  ‘Actually, he didn’t report for work the other day. We’re trying to locate him.’

  ‘Oh, shame,’ Carla said. ‘That doesn’t sound good. He always struck me as particularly . . . conscientious.’

  Tom glanced at Sannie and saw she was making a show of looking away out over the Sabie River.

  ‘Were you in contact with Nick at all in the last week or so, in the lead-up to this visit?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Err, well . . . I mean, there was the official notification of the meeting between the two ministers, which came through two weeks ago from the British Embassy, and the bookings for the rooms and conference room . . .’

  Tom said nothing. Something about Carla’s tone of voice and Sannie’s attitude and earlier remark told him Carla had had more than official contact with Nick. He knew that the best way to get someone talking was to keep quiet and let the other person fill the void.

  ‘Perhaps one or two other follow-up messages,’ Carla said, looking down and brushing the front of her pale linen pants with her palms. ‘There was nothing odd, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Odd?’ Tom said.

  ‘Well, Nick sounded fine in his emails. He liked Africa and working with Robert, and was looking forward to coming back again and seeing . . .’

  ‘Seeing?’ Sannie prompted.

  Tom smiled inwardly. He didn’t mind that she had interrupted his questioning; he would have said exactly the same thing. Carla couldn’t stop talking once she started. Her accent was softer than Sannie’s and Tom guessed from her name being Sykes, which he assumed was her maiden name as she wore no wedding ring, she was a South African of British descent, as opposed to an Afrikaner.

  ‘Seeing all the fabulous game we have here on the concession,’ Carla said to Sannie, punctuating the sentence with pursed lips.

  ‘Thank you, Carla, I’m sorry to put you on the spot like that, but we’re trying to put together a picture of Nick’s movements and contacts over the days leading up to his not reporting for work. Any bit of information might help.’

  ‘Well, if I think of anything, I’ll pop by later,’ she said, smiling again at Tom. ‘Now, if there’s nothing else you need to discuss, I’ll show you to your rooms. Your afternoon game drive is at four, in just over an hour. I presume you want to go on it?’

  ‘The minister’s itinerary includes an afternoon drive, so I’d like to see the route we’ll be taking,’ Tom said.

  ‘Don’t forget your camera – for research purposes only, of course,’ Carla laughed. She appeared to be grateful the talk had switched from the topic of her and Nick back to preparations for the visit.

  Their suites were separate dwellings, strung out along the Sabie River. The rooms were linked by a walkway made of timber logs, set about a metre above the ground. While the bush had been cleared in front of each suite to allow uninterrupted views of the river, the trees and other vegetation between and behind the individual units appeared to be natural.

  ‘What about wild animals coming into the grounds?’ Tom asked Carla on the way to his room.

  ‘We’ve got low-level electric fences around the accommodation which deter rather than prevent the game moving to and from the river. Our guests like the feeling of being in the wild and everyone is escorted to and from their suite after dark by a security guard.’

  ‘So animals such as lions could feasibly jump over the fences?’ Tom asked, doing his best to sound unperturbed.

  ‘We’ve got a resident leopard that manages to wander around at will. I think he walks under the fence. You might get to see him if you’re lucky,’ Carla said brightly.

  ‘Right.’

  Inside the suite he could see why Tinga charged what it did. This was as luxurious as he imagined an African safari lodge could be. The room was arranged in a linear layout with the separate lounge, bedroom and bathroom all facing the river through large plate-glass windows. Sliding doors opened from the lounge onto a private deck with table, chairs, sun beds and a personal plunge pool. Tom knelt and dipped a finger in. It was heated. Of course.

  Back inside there was airconditioning, a sound system, widescreen television and a DVD player, and a phone and computer connection. The bathroom boasted a deep tub on a raised platform, for game viewing while washing, and a shower big enough for two.

  ‘I’ll leave you to settle in,’ Carla said.

  She was a beautiful, sexy, apparently single woman. Why wouldn’t she and Nick have become involved? Tom wondered. It wasn’t a particularly professional thing to do, although Nick wouldn’t have been the first protection officer to get lucky on an away trip. Tom thought that he’d have to report back to Shuttleworth and maybe get Carla to print out hard copies of Nick’s emails. If Nick had been telling her he was looking forward to getting back to South Africa to see her, that was a good indicator he had no plans to skive off from a free trip here.

  Tom dumped his bags and then, using the key Carla had given him, went next door to the room which would be used by Greeves. This part of the recce was second nature to him.

  He walked through the room first, making sure the layout and orientation were the same as his. He checked the locks on the entry door and the sliding door out onto the private deck, testing them, making sure they could be secured from inside. He’d get a list from Carla later of how many duplicate keys and master keys the lodge held, and who had access to them. Walking out onto the deck he looked to see if any of the other suites overlooked this one. As he had expected, privacy was part of the package at Tinga, which was good, but it also m
eant Tom couldn’t keep an eye on the exterior of Greeves’s suite. The bush was as thick around this room as it was around all the others – and that was a minus.

  The lack of other team members continued to niggle at Tom. There were ways around this, though. The police at Skukuza didn’t have the manpower to provide night duty uniform cover, so Tom intended bringing a passive alarm system back with him from the UK. He would set up infra-red sensors on the deck and outside Greeves’s door, so that if the beams were broken Tom would get a warning signal in his room. The risk wouldn’t normally warrant the extra security, but in this case technology could help make up for the lack of round-the-clock coverage.

  Tom checked the room’s landline was working, and noted the internet connection as well. He would check out the private dining room in which Greeves and his South African counterpart would take their meals when he went up for his own, after the game drive. He’d also put Carla on notice that he’d need a list of restaurant staff, cleaners and other people who had access to the areas the officials would visit. He wanted dates of birth and other details of new employees. He’d give the list to Sannie to run through the South African criminal records system.

  Satisfied for the time being, Tom locked the door to Greeves’s room and went back to his own. He changed out of his business shirt, jacket and chinos into a pair of dark blue shorts and a white T-shirt, and swapped his brogues for a pair of trainers and white socks. Feeling himself starting to tire after the flight and long drive, he grabbed a can of Coke out of the well-stocked mini-bar. There was a knock at the door.