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?’
‘I used to try to get him to let me tell the media, but it’s a firm rule of his never to publicise his personal donations.’
‘I suppose he doesn’t want to be hit up by every other charity in the country,’ Tom speculated.
Helen shook her head. ‘No. You know, I think he does it in private because it’s the right thing to do. He’s not like any other politician I’ve ever come across, in that respect. Not cynical — at least, not in that way.’
Tom told Helen about the questioning from the journalist, Fisher. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ she said. ‘They’re flogging a dead horse, but do try to keep him out the way of photographers in South Africa. The World ’s gunning for him for some reason.’
There was nothing Tom could do to stop anyone taking a picture of Robert Greeves in a public place, especially in another country, other than try to alter their routes to avoid the paparazzi. To try to outrun them could be fatal — as had been the case with Princess Diana — and to manhandle reporters and photographers who weren’t actually physically threatening someone was considered to be assault. Still, Tom held his tongue and simply nodded to Helen. He was sure she knew the limitations he worked under.
Tom travelled armed with his Glock, Asp, knife and ammunition as they passed through Heath-row escorted by two uniformed police — one with a Heckler amp; Koch — and a security officer from British Airways special services. Once through immigration he, Greeves and the minister’s policy advisor, Bernard Joyce, parked themselves in the first-class lounge for the hour before departure.
The flight was uneventful and Tom slept well in the first-class seat behind Greeves, though he couldn’t drink alcohol.
At Johannesburg they were first off the aircraft, and the British Ambassador to South Africa was waiting on the air bridge, along with the South African Minister for Defence, Patrick Dule. Sannie was there, protecting the minister, and she nodded a curt hello to Tom. They were led by airport staff and security to a VIP lounge, where their passports were stamped by immigration officers and the two ministers had coffee with the British ambassador, who would not be accompanying them to Kruger.