Silent Predator (13 page)

‘Yes, sir,’ Tom said dutifully. It was the sort of
welcome he’d expected. Robert Greeves might be well known, rich and powerful, but he was just a man to Tom, flesh and blood who could fall to a bullet or a bomb or any number of other threats as easily as anyone else in the street. It was simply Tom’s job to see that it didn’t happen on his shift.

‘What did you think of Africa?’

That took Tom by surprise. ‘Very nice, sir.’

‘A man of few words, I see, but well chosen. Are you hooked by her?’

‘Her, sir?’

‘Africa.’

Tom thought of the drinks under a setting red sun, hearing the lion calling in the distance, seeing the leopard and its prey. He thought of Sannie van Rensburg, even though they’d parted on frosty terms. ‘Could be, sir,’ he said.

‘Well, if poor old Nick doesn’t show himself soon this won’t be the last time you get to go to the dark continent.’

Tom pulled the printout of the day’s schedule from the inside pocket of his suit coat and glanced down at it. As Greeves said, it was a typically busy day for a minister, even though parliament had risen the previous day. Their first appointment, where they were headed now, was a fundraising breakfast in the city, aimed at garnering and shoring up donations for the coming election campaign. After that was a last-minute briefing from the defence company vying to sell aircraft to the South Africans, followed by a media conference at the company’s offices with its chairman; a visit to an HIV-AIDS clinic in Islington – a cheque presentation
of some sort; afternoon tea with selected constituents in the Westminster office at Portcullis House; and then, finally, off to Heathrow for the evening flight to Johannesburg. Tom’s bag was in the boot of the police car. He wouldn’t see home again for another five days. He’d call Charlie Sheather in Cape Town to make sure things were ready there. It was another reminder that this was a shoestring operation. Sally couldn’t come to Africa because she was due leave and had a daughter about to go into hospital to have her tonsils out.

The breakfast function was Tom’s first opportunity to see Greeves address an audience in the flesh. Tom had sat through hundreds, maybe thousands of these types of speeches while protecting various politicians over the years. He considered himself a cynic when it came to politics, believing there was little to differentiate either of the main parties. He would have classed himself a left-leaning conservative, and that meant he might as well close his eyes and use a pin to pick the people he voted for. It was rare that someone could hold his attention in a speech, especially as part of Tom’s job was to keep a weather eye on the audience, catering staff and anyone else in the room
other
than the person doing the talking. This crowd were invitees who had paid five hundred quid a head to listen to Robert Greeves. They were blue pinstripe to the core. While Tom didn’t drop his guard he did keep an ear open to the words coming from the man behind the lectern. He wanted to learn as much about Greeves as he could during the day.

‘Does it really matter,’ Greeves was saying, leaning forward, elbows on the lectern in a bid to get closer
to his suited audience, ‘if there were weapons of mass destruction in Iraq – chemicals, poison gas bombs, Scuds full of nerve agents, et cetera, et cetera?’

Greeves waited during the seconds of hushed silence. Tom half felt like chirping up and saying, ‘Yes, it bloody well does matter, since the government sent us into a war based on a dossier of fiction and half-truths.’

Greeves seemed almost to be looking right at Tom when he said, ‘There
was,
in fact, one WMD in that country that we know of for sure. Saddam Hussein. Is it right for Britain or the United States to sit back and do nothing while a man gases his own people, assassinates dissidents by the score; while his sons torture, rape and massacre at their whim? No, ladies and gentlemen, it was not right to deal with Iraq in the way we did. It was not right to stop at the gates of Baghdad in 1991; it was not right to abandon the marsh Arabs when they rose against Saddam after that war; and it was not right to say, “Leave him to his own devices, eventually one day his people will wake up and get rid of him. It’s not our fight.”’

Tom had heard the argument before – and it continued to smack of bandaid policy to him. This government was still trying to convince the people that it had been right to get involved in Iraq, even if it wasn’t for the reasons originally put forward. Tom hadn’t become a convert, but he was impressed by the way Greeves was putting his case forward. He went on, as he had done in parliament the day before, to personalise the conflict, to make it about standing up for the people of Iraq – presumably the
majority – who were sick of the bombings, the fighting, the executions.

Metropolitan police protection officers had been to Iraq and Afghanistan, accompanying the Prime Minister, Defence Secretary and the Foreign Secretary. Tom hadn’t been picked for these teams as he had yet to renew his qualification on the Heckler & Koch sub machinegun – the weapon he would have carried on such an assignment. He’d go if he was told to but, unlike some of the younger officers, he wasn’t volunteering.

Greeves alluded again to the bomb blast in Enfield and Tom couldn’t help but listen in now; he had felt the heat of the blast, seen the charred remains of the computer expert wheeled out.

‘We’ll probably never know what the terrorists were planning when that brave member of the security services lost his life in that house, but what we
do
know, ladies and gentlemen, is that Britain remains at war with the forces of evil. All of us, not just our tireless security services, need to remain vigilant, committed and resolute in our determination that Britain
will not
yield to terror; that we
will
support and agitate for democracy in places around the world where decent people can only dream of such a concept, and that we
will
remember all those who put their lives on the line every day for people like you and people like me.’

The applause was as close as Tom had seen to thunderous in many years. He, too, found himself on his feet, not wanting to be seen as the only person sitting, but also oddly moved by the speech, especially the last line. A young banker at his table, his face still
spotty, who had introduced himself to Tom and therefore knew that he was Greeves’s protection officer, nodded to him and mouthed, ‘Well done.’ Tom felt embarrassed.

‘He’s good,’ Sally said. ‘Too bad he can’t get his bleedin’ children to behave as well as this mob,’ she added as an aside.

Sally left first, as Greeves moved from table to table, shaking hands with the Party faithful. Tom stayed just behind him, at his shoulder.

‘Vehicles ready. All clear outside.’

‘Thanks, Sal,’ he replied into his radio. ‘Moving now.’

Greeves read
The Times
in the backseat on the drive to the aircraft manufacturer’s headquarters in a business park in Ealing. Tom and Sally repeated their routine on arrival. They waited in an anteroom in the office tower while Greeves had his meeting with the company’s executives. Tom knew the contract was important, not only for local jobs, but for Britain’s standing in the international defence and aviation industry – hence the minister’s personal lobbying in South Africa.

The press conference was held in a purpose-built room on the ground floor. Tom moved in with Greeves and positioned himself off to one side of the podium, where the minister sat with the chief executive officer and chairman of the board. The company’s PR people said all of the reporters in the conference were known to the firm and their identities had been double-checked. From what Tom knew of the media and its workings, this conference was poorly attended – only
half-a-dozen reporters and he recognised none of them. No one from TV or radio, and none of the usual Westminster gallery hacks were present. These were defence correspondents, most of them from industry magazines.

The company’s chairman, an ex-Royal Air Force air commodore, gave a long-winded introduction about the merits of the jet trainer on offer to South Africa and Greeves followed with a succinct spiel about the importance of creating British jobs and maintaining good relations with Africa’s most stable democracy.

The questions were a mix of technical probing about the jet’s reported avionics flaws and points of clarification regarding revenues, jobs and the possibility of more sales on the African continent if the South Africans came on board. When the conference was nearly over, one reporter, a young man with red hair and glasses, said, ‘Mr Greeves, why is it that you’ve made fourteen visits to southern Africa in the last four years?’

Greeves looked slightly off balance as he reached for the glass of water on the table in front of him. Tom noted that two of the other reporters looked askance at their colleague, as if they, too, were surprised he had asked something out of the ordinary. Clearly these defence journalists were a different breed.

‘Africa’s important to Britain,’ Greeves began, quickly regaining his composure. ‘We have, of course, strong historical links to many of the countries on the continent and, if you read the papers,’ this brought a chuckle from a few of the other members of the press, ‘there are also many serious, pressing issues which
require the attention and input of this government.’

‘Why so often for pleasure, as well as business?’ the young man persisted.

‘Who is he?’ Tom whispered to the company’s media relations director, who was hovering off to the side of the podium.

‘Michael Fisher, the
World
.’

If the media was an ‘estate’, as the Americans put it, then the
World
was the gardener’s snot rag. It was tits and arse and barely legal page-three girls. What, Tom wondered, were they doing here?

‘Where I spend my holidays is my business. Now, as I was saying before, the important points to remember about this contract are that it’s good for Britain – four hundred jobs in the factory in the north; good for South Africa – they get a modern, safe, state-of-the-art aircraft at a very good price; and it’s good for British industry and technology. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you.’

Greeves had shut down the media conference expertly. Tom was impressed. Tom spotted the reporter, Michael Fisher, springing from his chair as Greeves left the conference room. Tom slid in behind the man he was protecting. He didn’t say a word or lay a finger on Fisher, but the man quickly got the message that he would get no closer to the minister. The PR woman moved in to corral the journalists as the officials walked through a security door back into the bowels of the building.

‘I’m sorry, Robert, if that upstart caused you any concern,’ the company chairman said as Tom followed them. It seemed the RAF man knew Greeves personally.

‘No problem at all, Hugh. The opposition ran a line a few months ago about “taxpayer-funded safaris”. The
World
bit and even had a cartoon of me in a pith helmet,’ Greeves laughed. ‘I do love Africa, but that’s not why I travel there for business, and I’m keen to shut those sorts of questions down as quickly as possible. I do not want the people of Britain thinking I’m using my position to get free air miles.’

‘Of course not,’ the chairman said. ‘I’ll put out a statement today, if you like, saying that you refused to allow us to pick up the bill for your accommodation at the safari lodge.’

‘Thanks, but I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ Greeves said.

‘Why not, it’s true. I can also mention the company – at your suggestion – sponsoring an AIDS education program and providing funding for a work-place clinic for the workers we will employ in South Africa if we get the deal.’

‘All good stuff,’ Greeves agreed, ‘but I want to downplay this visit. When you win the contract, go large with it in the north – that’s where it’s the most important. I want to see your factory expanding, Hugh. I’m not the story here, your men and women on the factory floor are.’

Tom thought he sounded like he actually meant it.

The visit to the HIV-AIDS clinic in Islington was a low-key affair. The job was over in half an hour and consisted of Greeves meeting the director, his staff and a couple of outpatients.

Tom had expected there to be media present, perhaps even one of those naff big cheques for Greeves to hand over as part of a naff photo opportunity. There was neither. Tom had thought it odd, in any case, that a defence minister would be handing over funding for something which was clearly a health ministry responsibility.

As they drove through London to Westminster, Greeves finished annotating the last of a stack of briefing notes he had pulled from his briefcase. Tom saw his chance to raise the concerns he had about the lack of protection officers. ‘Sir, I’d like to bring some additional security equipment with us to South Africa – a passive alarm system which I’d set up on the door and balcony of your suite at Tinga.’

‘Are you asking me or telling me, Tom?’

‘It’s not intrusive, sir, and I wouldn’t be monitoring you, only the access to your room. It’s my recommendation, sir, given that we’re one man down on the team.’

‘Very well.’ Greeves signed another file and closed his bag.

Their car pulled into the security parking area beneath Portcullis House, the multistorey labyrinth of parliamentary offices opposite the Palace of Westminster but joined to it by underground passageways.

During the afternoon tea in the anteroom of Greeves’s offices, Tom introduced himself to Helen MacDonald, the press secretary. Tom was curious about why the minister was presenting a cheque to a healthcare organisation which was clearly outside his portfolio.

‘It’s his own money,’ Helen said, sipping a cup of tea while Greeves entertained some housewives, local businessmen and a gaggle of grey-haired grannies.

‘Really?’ Tom was surprised. ‘How much?’

‘He wouldn’t want me to say, even if I knew – but you can bet it’d be at least five figures, from what I know of his past donations to charity. He’s a true philanthropist, is our Robert.’

Tom nodded, impressed. He knew Greeves was rich, but he didn’t know that he was generous as well. ‘Why didn’t he get some publicity for it? Help raise awareness of AIDS and all that?’