Gray Redemption (Tom Gray #3) (12 page)

Levine went to sit next to
Campbell.  “It’s been a while since we heard from anyone,” he said
quietly.  “What if we’re the only ones left?”

“I was thinking the same thing,”
Campbell agreed, “but there’s no way of knowing.  I also don’t like the
idea of being in the same place for so long.”

“Me neither.  The longer we
stay in the same place, the easier it will be to track us down.”

Both men thought about their
predicament, with their focus being on the other family members.

“We could send the girls away
and wait it out,” Campbell suggested, and Levine liked the idea, though he had
concerns as to where they would be safe.  Hotels and guest houses were out
of the question, and there was no way to get them out of the country.

“We could get them a tent and
they could stay in a field close by,” Campbell offered, and Levine
concurred. 

“I think that might be the best
option.  I also think that any threat will come at night, so the girls can
stay here during the day and slip out when it gets dark.”

“Sounds good to me,” Campbell
said.  “I’ll send the missus into town to buy a tent and they can start
using it tonight.”

While the men broke the news to
their wives, Alana resumed her ritual of staring out of the window.  For
the first time, she noticed movement in the next caravan and saw that a family
estate car was parked next to it.  A young boy, no older than seven, was
helping his parents unload bags and boxes and take them inside, but it was the
sight of the girl that caught her attention.  She was roughly the same age
as Alana, and rather than helping her family she was leaning against the car,
her attention focused solely on her mobile phone.

*
* *

Andrew Harvey sipped his mineral
water in the hotel bar and looked at the photo in his hand.

He’d arrived in Durban after a
six and a half hour drive and gone straight to the address of the first person
on his list.  Gerry
Ainsworth,
forty six years of
age, served in Northern Ireland as an eighteen-year-old Green Jacket, left the
Army five years later and had various jobs since, mostly in sales.  Currently
running
his own
business which purported to sell
diving equipment.

After grabbing a sandwich Harvey
had parked himself in the bar while he waited for Ainsworth to return from a
day of canvassing potential clients, and it was just after six in the evening
when his target finally walked through the lobby.

Harvey was disappointed to see
that the man had gained at least forty pounds since his passport photograph had
been taken, and he wheezed under the weight of the sample bags he was
carrying.  There was simply no way Ainsworth could be the hit man he was
looking for.

With one name eliminated he
asked the receptionist to call him a taxi to take him to a local bar, and while
he waited he called Owen to see how he was getting on with his suspects.

“Nothing from the first one,”
Owen told him.  “I asked his hotel receptionist where he might be and she
said he’d taken a taxi to the International Convention Centre.  I checked
that he’d signed in and watched him come out about an hour ago. 
Looks like he’s really here for the gardening exhibition.”

Harvey agreed to meet up with
Owen for dinner at the hotel of suspect number three and hung up.  His
taxi arrived a few minutes later and he told the driver to forget about the bar
and just to take him to the Fairview hotel.  When he arrived at his
destination he found Owen waiting for him in the bar, with two cold beers
sitting in front of him.  He took a seat that gave him a good view of the
entrance.

“It’s not going to be easy to
check the others out now that the weekend has arrived,” Owen noted. 

Harvey had been thinking the
same.  If their suspects were here to ply their trades, they would be
unlikely to do so over the weekend, and Harvey explained that probably meant
him and Owen spending the next two days shadowing each one in the hope of
finding something out of the ordinary.

“Are you ready to tell me who’s
arriving on Monday?”  Owen asked.

It was a question which had come
up during their drive from Johannesburg earlier that day, but Harvey had simply
explained that some British subjects were arriving on the seventh and that
persons unknown were waiting to intercept them.  He hadn’t said who was on
the ship for fear of opening a can of worms: if word spread that he was looking
for Baines and Smart it could eventually reach the wrong ears, and the fewer
people who knew he was about to crash a government-sanctioned party, the longer
his career was likely to last.

However, he had been so
pre-occupied with keeping them from Farrar’s clutches that he hadn’t considered
how he was going to get them back to the UK, and for that he knew he was going
to need Owen’s help.

“Does the name Tom Gray ring any
bells?”

“Are you kidding?”  Owen
laughed.  “I’m hardly likely to forget him.”  He looked Harvey in the
eye, his tone more serious.  “You’re not going to tell me he’s on the
ship, are you?”

It was Harvey’s turn to offer a
smile.  “No, but he did have some help, remember?”

“Yeah, a few of his Army buddies
were involved, weren’t they?”

“That’s right,” Harvey said,
“and two of them are on their way here.”

He gave Owen a rundown of events
over the last two weeks, starting with the request for help in finding Levine
and Campbell and all the way up to the discovery that James Farrar was looking
for two of the men on the ship, too.

“This Farrar, is he looking for
the rest of Gray’s team?”

“These
are
the rest of
the team,” Harvey explained.  “Two were killed in the attack last year,
and two have died since.”

Owen thought about this for a
moment. 
“Sounds like this Farrar is looking to
eliminate the whole team.”

“That’s the conclusion we came
to.”

“Do you know why?”  Owen
asked.

“That’s what I plan to ask
Baines and Smart.”

Owen tapped him on the arm and
nodded towards the door.  “How do you want to do this?”

Harvey watched Alan Skinner
enter the bar and
order
a Southern Comfort, then
browse a menu as he waited for the barman to pour the drink.

“You keep him occupied,” Harvey
whispered as he stood, “and I’ll check his room.”

He left the bar as Owen took a
seat next to their target and struck up a conversation.  Harvey knew
Skinner’s room was on the second floor and he was glad to see that the hotel
hadn’t upgraded to key cards.  He had the lock open in seconds and slipped
into the room, searching for anything out of the ordinary.  He found a
diary and flicked through it, only to find appointments with various companies
around the world.  The suitcase, cupboards and drawers offered nothing to
contradict the suggestion that Skinner was anything other than a travelling
salesman, and he headed back downstairs a frustrated figure.

As he walked past the entrance
to the bar he paused and waited for Owen to notice him, and when he did so
Harvey offered a quick shake of the head and disappeared towards the
entrance.  His companion followed a minute later.

“It’s not our guy,” Owen said,
pre-empting Harvey, who concurred.

“Let’s call it a day and pick
them up first thing,” Harvey suggested.  “If we get to their hotels early
enough we can catch them before they go out.”

“You don’t sound convinced,”
Owen said, detecting a note of dejection in Harvey’s voice.

“I’m not.  These are the
best leads we have, but what if the one waiting for the ship to arrive isn’t
using the same passport for the hotel as they did for the flight?  What if
they have more than one identity?”

“That’s what I’d be inclined to
do.”

Harvey knew there was no point
trying to investigate the other sixty-something people on his list.  There
simply wasn’t time, and besides, none of them had been flagged on the system as
being of any interest.

“Want me to drop you at your
hotel?”  Owen asked as they climbed into his BMW.

“Later.  First I want to
take a look at Wenban Freight Management.”

Chapter
8

Saturday
May 5th 2012

Ben Palmer steered the rented Mercedes Sprinter van down the
dusty trail towards the remote building, his back taking a pounding from the
rough ride over potholes and ruts.

Sean Littlefield’s place was a
farm in name only.  It had been years since any animal or crop had been
within a few miles as Littlefield made his living from a completely different
source.  He was standing at the door when Palmer’s van pulled up to the
house, a pair of tongs in his hand.

“
How’s
you?”  He smiled.

“I’m good, Sean.  Jeez,
can’t you get yourself a place near a decent road?”

Littlefield slapped him on the
back and led him through the entrance.  “This place is perfect, man. 
I can see people coming from miles around in any direction.”

Having once been a prominent
member of the Afrikaner Weerstandsbeweging under the leadership of
Eugène Terre'Blanche was reason enough to
be prudent when it came to unannounced visitors.  His
activities
during the apartheid years — being suspected of attacks and murders against
non-whites — was
another. 

Inside, the house looked just
like Palmer remembered it, except that the antique furniture had gathered an
extra layer of dust.

“Still no woman in your
life?”  He asked, but Littlefield waved him away.  At close to sixty,
he had long since abandoned the idea of sharing his remaining days with anyone
but himself.    

The barbeque was already going
and a couple of huge steaks were sizzling away nicely.  Palmer took a seat
and accepted a cold beer while Littlefield prepared a salad.

“So what brings you here?” 
The host asked, and Palmer explained the need for a few sensitive items. 
Littlefield rubbed the stubble on his chin as he went through the list.

“Sounds like you’re planning a
party,” he smiled.  “The gun is no problem, but I’ll need to visit a
friend for the rest.”

“Can you get them by tomorrow
night?”  Palmer asked, and Littlefield assured him he could. 

With business out of the way
Palmer was able to relax.  He polished off his beer and accepted another,
and they spent the next two hours swapping stories of their exploits since
they’d last met.  More accurately, Palmer told the stories while his
friend listened intently, his days of action far behind, though the desire
still burned inside.

“So what’s the latest
job?”  Littlefield asked as he tidied up the dinner plates.

“More of the
same, really.
  Just gotta get some information from a couple of
ex-soldiers and their two friends, then dispose of them.”

It didn’t sound all that
exciting, but it was more action than the old man had seen in a few years.

“Need a hand?”  He
asked.  “I mean, it’s not going to be straightforward with four people to
control.”

Palmer smiled.  “
You pining
for the old days, Sean?” 

“You know it.”

The old man had a point, Palmer
thought.  He may not be able to out-sprint a fleeing fugitive as he used
to during his days in the South African Police, but the years hadn’t robbed him
of his mean streak.  Palmer preferred to work alone, but he knew it would
be handy to have someone on
lookout,
or a second gun
should it come to that.  Help with carrying four lifeless bodies wouldn’t
go amiss, either.

“I can’t promise you any
fireworks, Sean, but you’re welcome to tag along.”

*
* *

Abdul Mansour had done nothing
but think in the two days since his meeting with Azhar Al-Asiri.  This very
evening his new position would be announced to the whole of the organisation,
and coupled with the mission he had been given, he had seen the opportunity to
elevate himself to greatness beyond his wildest expectations.

Once, he would have been satisfied
to have his loyalty and dedication recognised by his elders, but as his
reputation grew, so did his aspirations.  Becoming a general had been a
magnificent honour, but it was just another step on his path to ultimate
glory.  His sights had then been set on the rank of regional commander,
which also meant a place on the council, allowing him the chance to share in
the highest level of decision making. 

However, one goal reached simply
meant a new one to strive for, and following his promotion that meant only one
thing.

Azhar Al-Asiri, still in his
early fifties, was not an old man by any means.  He could carry on as
their glorious leader for another thirty years if Allah wished it, but Abdul
Mansour wasn’t prepared to wait that long. He’d asked to meet the scientist to
gather more information, such as a suitable alternative method of delivery and
any conditions which would lessen the effect of the virus.  This
meticulous attention to detail had pleased Al-Asiri and he’d readily agreed,
unaware of Mansour’s true motive.

As the building drew near it
looked just like the grain wholesaler the sign above the entrance proclaimed it
to be.  Sacks of maize were piled up beside the main door, and local
vendors were busy bartering for their stock for the coming week.

Mansour was driven round the
back of the large building — more a warehouse than a shop — and found the rear
entrance open, a man waiting for him.  Mansour climbed from the vehicle
and when the driver made to follow him, he signalled that he would go in alone.

Inside, all he could see was the
silhouette of the man leading him down the narrow corridor.  His guide
suddenly stopped and fumbled against the wall, and Mansour heard a faint
click
as a chink of light appeared through a door off to his left.