by Tony Park
‘Listen to me. This is an order, Bernard. You know you can’t get me out of here and you probably only have a few minutes before the guard comes back. You must get away and find help. If he’s alone he won’t be able to move me until the others come back. Did you hear the vehicle leave earlier?’
Bernard nodded. ‘But, Robert –’
‘Shut up, man. The quicker you go, the better chance I’ve got.’
‘I’ll overpower him, get his gun and shoot the chain off your cuffs.’ Bernard turned to move.
‘No! Stay here and listen to me, damn it. He’s got an assault rifle. If you botch it, then we’re both dead. The best chance you have is to get away and get help, Bernard. I’m more valuable to them alive than dead. Go now, before it’s too late. With luck you can organise a rescue while this chap’s still on his own.’
Bernard looked back at the door, expecting the guard to return any second. He smelled the smoke, which was stronger now, though he heard the spray of the hose. He took Greeves’s chained right hand in his and squeezed tight. ‘You’re right, damn it. God be with you, Robert.’
‘I’ve got you, haven’t I? That’s all I need.’ He forced a smile, then it vanished from his face. ‘If, well . . . just tell Janet and the kids I love them. And tell the PM these bastards can go fuck themselves.’ Bernard smiled down at him, feeling the first tears prick the corners of his eyes. ‘I’m sure Helen will massage that into something more palatable and patriotic for the media, but you get the general idea.’
‘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.
‘I know the police here have been alerted, but she was probably a long way from Maputo by the time they got the word. You know, Sannie, it was all a bit hazy for me the other night, but nothing –’
‘Tom, this isn’t the time or the place. I can accept that Carla probably drugged you, but the fact is that you let her come to your room voluntarily and, whether anything happened or not, there was intent. As I told you after the first time, what you do in your own time doesn’t concern me. The fact that it looks like Carla was working for the terrorists changes nothing.’
He started to say something else, but she knew the look on her face was enough to silence him. It worked on her kids and it used to work on Christo as well. He had laughed about it often enough. Besides, she didn’t want to go over old ground with Tom now. Part of what she said was true – what concerned her was that, drugged or not, he had not resisted Carla. However, she realised that what he did on his own time actually did concern her. Her feelings for him were growing stronger – she couldn’t deny it. She admired his doggedness, and whether it was the tension, the excitement, the adrenaline of the pursuit or just his physical presence, right now she felt more alive by his side than she had since Christo’s death. Her husband would have liked Tom, she decided, and was pleased she could think of the two men without feeling that she was betraying her husband.
Her heart went out to Tom, too, seeing him sitting there, staring at the map as though it would suddenly yield some previously unthought-of solution. As with any police investigation, what they needed was a break – some vital clue to fall into their laps – and there was little use driving endlessly up and down the Mozambican coastline while they waited for it, even though that would give them something to do in the morning.
Sannie rested her chin in the palm of her hand as she sat at the table, looking at Tom. She was angry at herself, but there was nothing she could do to stifle the realisation that she hadn’t only crossed the border with him because she empathised with his living through the worst scenario a protection officer could face. She was also there because she cared about and wanted to be with him.
When Sannie had checked her messages she found she had two missed calls from Isaac Tshabalala. She had taken a call from her boss. Wessels had told her that she was officially reprimanded for ignoring the Skukuza police commander’s orders and she could expect a slap on the wrist from him for crossing the border with a foreigner suspected of drug possession on an unofficial investigation. Unofficially, he wished her luck, told her to come home as soon as she could, and to make sure she kept herself safe. ‘Think of your kids, Sannie. Don’t let that Englishman put you in danger.’
His warning was and wasn’t fair. She did owe it to her children not to take unnecessary risks – and this assignment certainly fell into that category – but she resented the fact that Wessels had all but accused her of being a bad mother. He was kind, and a good boss, but, as far as romance went, there would never be anything again between her and Henk.
Tom’s phone rang again. He answered it, listened for a few seconds, and when he jumped up knocked over both of their drinks, spilling them all over the maps.
18
Tom swore again as the Volkswagen’s front wheels clanged in and out of a pothole as wide as the car’s axle.
‘Careful!’ Sannie reached out and braced herself on the dashboard with one hand.
He barely checked his speed, keeping the needle close to the one hundred and twenty mark. They raced along the darkened EN1 north of Xai Xai and Tom kept a close eye on the odometer, counting off the kilometres as they neared the thirty-five mark.
When he’d gotten off the phone with Bernard he’d taken down precise directions from the Afrikaner owner about how to get to the beach resort. He’d told Bernard to wait there – once he’d ascertained the man’s injuries weren’t life-threatening – rather than try calling a Mozambican ambulance or the local police. He wanted Bernard Joyce back under his protection as soon as possible and Sannie was a hundred per cent in agreement.
Tom braked hard as a truck loomed large in his windscreen. The vehicle was travelling with no lights. He cursed and swerved around it, his foot flat to the floor.
Tom recapped his brief conversation with Bernard as he shifted back down to fourth and revved the underpowered engine into the red before ramming the gearstick viciously into fifth. Bernard had already spoken to Greeves’s office – to Helen, the press secretary – and she had passed on Tom’s mobile phone number to him. Bernard’s next call, when Helen found the number, was to the SAS commander in South Africa. Tom hadn’t wasted time, or Bernard’s satellite phone battery, when they spoke. Bernard had been jogging along the coastline somewhere in Mozambique, his breath heavy from the exertion, and Tom had listened in silence as he explained that Greeves was alive, and the circumstances of his lucky escape.
‘I couldn’t overpower them, Tom. There were too many of them in the end and Robert told me to go . . . It wasn’t my choice . . .’
Tom cut him off, seeing where Bernard was heading. ‘You did the right thing, and Greeves was right sending you to get help, and we’re on our way but you have to give us an indication of where you are. I’ll stay online with you or you can call me back.’
At that point Bernard had reported that he could see lights in the sand dunes ahead and to the left of him. Tom waited breathlessly as Bernard laboured up a path through the dunes. ‘It’s a bloody pub!’
Dressed only in stained boxer shorts, his feet caked in sand and blood, and his eyes wild with relief and lingering terror, he’d stumbled into a beachside bar attached to a small coastal resort. Tom heard the amazed response – loud talking in Afrikaans – as Bernard burst in on the owner, who was tending bar, and a half-dozen fishermen on holiday. There had been a pause as explanations were given and Tom heard one of the men saying they had just been watching a news item on CNN about the abductions.
Bernard had passed the phone to the bartender, whose English was passable but halting, so Tom had transferred the phone to Sannie, who spoke rapidly in Afrikaans as Tom bundled their gear into the back of the Chico. It turned out the resort was less than forty kilometres from Xai Xai and while the owner had been about to close the bar – in order to send the drunken fishermen to bed – he would certainly wait for their arrival. Not only that, but he would have to meet them on the road into his encampment as the last kilometre was through deep sand.
‘This is it,’ Sannie said, spotting a property development sign and another marking the end of the
Distrito do Xai Xai, which the resort owner had described. Tom swung hard and skidded into a right turn onto the unmarked sandy track. It seemed the lodge’s owner was happy to promote himself by word of mouth only as there was no sign to his property, which was called Paradise Cove.
‘The police would never have come down here looking for them,’ Tom said.
Sannie nodded in agreement. Their luck had been in, though neither of them dared predict what the kidnappers would do with Greeves now that they knew their hideout had been compromised. Tom’s very real fear was that even though Bernard had escaped less than an hour ago, his abductors might have already shut up shop and be on their way to a new location.
They had called in at Xai Xai police station, but the female officer on the night shift, who had been dozing at the front desk, spoke no English or Tsonga Shangaan. Sannie and Tom had said Capitao Alfredo’s name over and over again and pantomimed using the telephone, but the female officer had steadfastly refused even to try to understand them. ‘Fuck it,’ Tom had said at last, unwilling to waste a second more. They were on their own again.
The first six kilometres from the main road were on a sandy but firm track through gently undulating dunes which were well stabilised with grass and small trees. With his window down, Tom caught the sound of cattle lowing in the distance. They passed a coastal lake, the light from the now risen moon reflecting off its mirrored surface and illuminating a raft of waterlilies. At another time he might have slowed to admire the countryside.
‘Right fork here,’ Sannie ordered, but Tom had already seen the sign to Paradise Cove. ‘Another kilometre and then he should be there waiting to meet us.’
Lights flashed ahead of them and Tom slowed. There was a cluster of three mud huts with thatched-reed roofs, a sleepy-looking African man and a white man. The white man stood next to a rusting red Nissan Safari four-wheel drive, whose headlights were turned on. Squinting, Tom could make out another figure in the front of the vehicle. The passenger door opened and Tom saw Bernard Joyce step out, holding a hand up to his eyes. Tom switched off his own lights and coasted to a stop.
