‘Well, okay. This is too weird. Goodbye and — ’
‘Wait. Sorry, Sannie. I’m not drunk. Tell me what time your flight arrives. I’ll come get you from the airport.’
‘You don’t have to do that. They’ve booked a hire car for me.’
‘I could come out on the tube and help you navigate your way to Victoria. On your own, and without a GPS, it could be more dangerous than the African bush.’
She laughed, and he flashed back to how pretty she looked when she smiled. He wouldn’t find salvation with Sannie van Rensburg — her visit was merely confirmation that he would be dragged through everything once again in a few days’ time — but it would be good to see her, whatever the circumstances. He didn’t want her to hang up. He’d thought about her a lot lately, even through the bouts of drunkenness and sleepless hours. If… if he hadn’t let Carla drug him. If he had caught up with the abductors sooner. If Willie hadn’t been wounded. If it had all turned out differently, he might have retired with his dignity intact and maybe pursued Sannie. There’d been a connection between them that transcended the professional on that wild drive through Mozambique. When he closed his eyes, he saw hers.
‘Okay then. Thanks. If it’s not too much trouble, that would be lekker.’
‘So, if you’re calling from work, you obviously didn’t get suspended?’
‘I did,’ she said, and he could hear her relief that the conversation was starting to move beyond one-sided-ness. ‘But it was just for a week. My captain gave me an official reprimand for taking off with you across the border, but privately commended you for having the guts to do what you did. Hey, last night I left you a message on your phone. Didn’t you get it?’
‘Um, no, I got in pretty late.’ He’d been at his local pub until closing time. ‘Sorry. How are your kids?’
‘They’re fine, and thanks for asking. Christo asked me the other day if you and I would be working together again.’
He didn’t know what to say.
‘What do you think?’ she asked.
‘About what?’
‘Are we still working together, Tom? I’ve been running some leads at this end. I’m on a small task force that is working with your people to try to pick up the trail of the terrorists. I’ve been checking national park entry permits from five days before the abductions happened. It’s tedious work, but so far I haven’t found a registration number that matches the Isuzu they used.’
He thought he knew what she meant. She wanted to know if he was working on anything privately, from his end, even though he’d been suspended. He felt almost ashamed that he hadn’t been, that he’d followed Shuttleworth’s orders and kept his head down. What had happened to that determination he’d had in Mozambique, when his blood had still been up? It had disappeared; ironically, by doing what Bernard would have termed ‘the right thing’.
‘I’ve been told to stay away.’ This sounded even lamer than he thought it would.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Anyway, perhaps I can run some ideas past you when I see you.’
‘Sure.’
‘Do you think you’ll keep your job?’
‘No chance. Besides, who’d have me as a protection officer, even if I did survive?’
‘Someone with brains, Tom. Someone who’d look at the lengths you went to, the risks you took to try to get Greeves back. A good person, which I know is rare in our line of work. But we don’t get to choose who we take care of, do we?’
He sat there, in his bed, and again looked down at the empty bottle on the floor, the dirty clothes strewn about the room.
‘You remember what I said to you? When we crossed back into Kruger after it was all over?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Then don’t forget it, Tom. I’ll see you in a few days.’
Fraser and the SAS men had taken Bernard’s body with them and departed in the Oryx helicopters. Tom was offered a ride but begged off, saying he had to stay with Sannie and wait for the Mozambican police to arrive.
The special forces guys had no wish to stay and share with a foreign police force their part in the disaster. ‘Suit yourself,’ Fraser said dismissively, then he ran for the helicopter.
Shuttleworth was furious with Tom when he called in. Tom reckoned his boss needed him by his side to act as a lightning rod when he returned to the UK. Tom liked the guy, but could see no point in hurrying back to England to meet his fate.
Bernard’s death had sapped his will. He was like a man in limbo, merely existing in the hours following the failed rescue mission. Sannie had done her best to keep his spirits up during the drive back to South Africa through the bush, retracing their earlier route.
After they crossed the border, back into the park, Sannie slowed as they approached a trio of bull elephants. Tom had lost his taste for game viewing and was mildly annoyed when she stopped.
‘Look at them, Tom. What do you see?’
‘Apart from the obvious?’ He’d had virtually no sleep in the previous forty-eight hours.
‘Bodyguards. Protection officers.’
He was confused, his mind dulled. She pointed out the two smaller bulls flanking the largest one, whose long, curved tusks reached almost to the ground. ‘Those two, the younger ones, are askaris.’
‘What does that mean?’
It was a Swahili word, she explained, for sentry or guard, which had come into common use throughout the rest of Africa during colonial times. It had often been applied to native African troops employed by white armies and, in South Africa, to black agents working undercover for the white government in the days of apartheid.
‘If you take the word’s original meaning, the askaris look after the old one, the important one. They are his eyes and his ears as he gets older. Their job, like ours, is to protect.’
‘So? What are you trying to say, Sannie?’
‘I’m not a hundred per cent sure, but it works two ways for the elephants. The younger ones look out for the older one, but at the same time they learn from him, and they benefit from his patronage. They become a formidable team. When the old one eventually dies, the younger ones are stronger, wiser because of their time with him.’
‘You’re saying I’m a better person because Robert Greeves is dead?’ He laughed out loud.
‘Not better, but wiser. Tougher. Tom, everyone needs an askari watching out for them.’
Tom hung up the phone and rested his head against the bedroom wall. He wondered who his askari was, and who was looking after Sannie these days.
He got out of bed and went to the bathroom. As he rinsed his face and brushed the taste of Scotch and cigarettes from his mouth, he remembered what she’d said about leaving a message on his answering machine. He’d ignored the blinking red light as he’d stumbled through the door last night, thinking it was yet another reporter trying to get him to tell his side of the whole sorry story. That was journalist speak for giving him enough rope to hang himself.
In lieu of a comb he ran a hand through his hair and walked downstairs to the kitchen. Checking his messages was the closest thing he had to a chore today.
He delayed the inevitable by taking a half-empty carton of orange juice from the fridge and draining it. It was days old and bitter. He coughed as he pushed the play button.
‘Tom, it’s Sannie. I’m calling from South Africa — well, I guess you know that — but I’m coming to England for…’ Tom let the message play, simply because he liked hearing the sound of her voice again.
The next message started. ‘Hello, Detective Sergeant Furey, it’s Mary Whitbread from Channel Four again and I’d just like to — ’
‘Sod off,’ Tom said to the machine and stabbed the erase button.
The next message was from another woman and Tom was about to get rid of it before realising the person’s accent was so thick it was doubtful she was a British reporter. ‘Mr Furey, if that’s what I call policeman in this country, it is Olga Kamorov here.’
Olga? Russian, maybe? He didn’t know an Olga, but her voice did sound familiar.