The African Contract (14 page)

“I don't believe it is God's will that we kill innocents.” Rhyton stood. “These are evil people we are dealing with.” Now, he spoke softly, “Dawie, my friend, are we sure we are in control of this? I think not. Those devils may turn this thing against us.”

Cape Town—August 16, 2002

Following the waiter wearing a short white jacket, Abdul Wahab passed the bar toward the far end of the room. At a window table sat Dawid van Wartt, who had a view of the bay and at the same time could watch the patrons entering the grill. He noted that Van Wartt's right leg twitched. No doubt, Wahab thought, this was his usual table here at the Bay Yacht Club.

Wahab had intended to be late for their luncheon appointment, just to keep the South African off balance, but as he drove to the club, he wondered if that was wise inasmuch as he wanted Van Wartt to sponsor him for club membership. No matter. Today they had important business to conduct, and the matter of his joining this pretentious establishment could come later.

“Sorry for making you wait, Dawid,” Wahab said. “Traffic and my driving.”

Van Wartt rose. “Ah no, Abdul. I lost track of time looking out at the bay. See. The wind has died and the white caps have disappeared. Just a lovely view.”

Wahab took a seat, told the waiter he wanted some sparkling water, and while looking out at the moored yachts, asked, “One of those is yours?”

“Yes.”

“Which one?”

“The big one.” Van Wartt leaned forward. “Abdul. We have urgent business to conduct. Before this place begins to fill up, let's settle a few matters.”

Wahab took offense at Van Wartt's rudeness. Afrikaner or not, he expected to be treated with deference, and why do all these Boers wear the same absurd mustache? “Please, begin,” he said.

“The packet we have talked about is ready for pickup.” Van Wartt spoke softly. “Because of circumstances, the timing of the delivery has become critical. First, have we reached an agreement on price? Second, are your people prepared to take possession?”

Wahab watched him sit back and play with his napkin. His eyes focused on the embroidered anchor emblem on Van Wartt's blazer. No doubt he would have one of those when he became a member of the club. He detected some sense of urgency on Van Wartt's part. Why? Did the man suddenly need the money?

He said in a low voice matching Van Wartt's, “About the price of the merchandise. We talked about ten million dollars—”

“Euros. Ten million euros,” Van Wartt corrected.

This interested Wahab. The man across from him was concerned about the amount of money. Euros were worth more than dollars. He might have some fun. “Dawid. My people tell me that such a sum is not available at this time. They are thinking half that amount. Perhaps at a later time something more would be added.”

For the moment this was true. Since his misadventure on the Riviera, al Qaeda considered him a risk and had placed middlemen between them. He was forced to work with the weasel Nabeel Asuty, who only had his Egyptian contacts, but they knew how to bargain. Not like his Saudi brothers flush with their dollar stockpiles.

Van Wartt's cold eyes fixed on him and appeared to move off to empty space beyond Wahab. At last, he said, without looking directly at him, “Five million will do. Can you take delivery within a week?”

“A week?”

“Yes. This is the bank number where you forward the funds.” Van Wartt wrote on the cocktail napkin. “I'll arrange transportation for your pickup of the device. You will need five … no, six men. I suppose one of them will be versed in nuclear technology. We'll provide the necessary test instruments and equipment.”

“I'll let you know by tomorrow morning.” Wahab coughed. “Where will my men go?”

“There's an airfield up north. Driving distance from here. They'll be flown to the site, and when they take possession we'll take them to some reasonable destination of your choice.” Van Wartt made to rise from his seat. “You do have a place to take it? Don't you?”

“We'll have one.”

“I'll expect your call. Meanwhile, I have an appointment.” Van Wartt got out of his chair and turned to the waiter who had hastened to his side. “Mr. Wahab will stay and have lunch. Put it on my tab.” Leaning down, he said, “Abdul. Time is of the essence. Oh, the crab salad is especially good.”

In time, the waiter brought the crab salad. Wahab found himself picking through lettuce for the crab morsels. He swallowed the chunks but didn't enjoy the succulent meat. For what it was worth, he could have been eating the bland African corn porridge,
putu
, as his mind raced from one perceived obstacle to another. Van Wartt had surprised him with the deadline. It would be difficult to keep.

Wahab laid down his fork. Perhaps it was, as they say, a blessing in disguise. Nabeel was on his way here to Cape Town, and when he arrived he would be told to get six men together. Meantime, to cover his bets he would get in touch with his al Qaeda contact in South Africa. This development would be of interest to them. All this could work.

As for Dawid van Wartt, Wahab must be careful. This man had a bad reputation. Men like him were doubly dangerous if they were under pressure, which he seemed to be.

Noisy gulls outside the window attracted his attention. The wind had picked up again, bringing in a gray cloudbank. Wahab dropped his fork. Nabeel had called and told him he was hurrying here from Freetown.

In addition, Hayden Stone had arrived in Cape Town. This time Wahab would make sure that the man who had caused him so much trouble in the past would be eliminated.

At a little before eight that evening, Hayden Stone approached the front desk of the Mount Nelson Hotel and as the man in the Land Rover had instructed that afternoon, inquired if “Finbarr Costanza” had any messages. After searching through the message folder, the desk clerk handed Stone an envelope.

He waited to open it until he found a quiet place and took the hallway off the main lounge. When he entered a side room he discovered a wedding party in progress. He stopped in the middle of the room next to a round table holding an arrangement of white flowers that towered over his head. The Mount Nelson oozed chic and always seemed a bit over the top, but their martinis were the coldest in town. The barman stored the vodka in a small freezer. He read the message, smiled graciously to the bride and groom, and headed for the bar.

The message inside the envelope had come as a pleasant surprise. MEET ME IN THE PLANET BAR. It was signed “Harrington” in Sandra's elegant script. He carefully folded the message and slipped it into his inside jacket pocket, smiling. Colonel Frederick had somehow managed to get Sandra off the agency's bad girl list.
Wonder what her old boyfriend Farley Durrell is up to? Would he accompany Nabeel Asuty here to Cape Town?

In the bar he moved toward two empty seats next to the fireplace and saw a blonde seated with her back to him. She stood, retrieved her evening bag from the cocktail table, turned, and walked by him, giving him a slight bump. He caught a whiff of Sandra's perfume as she passed. In a navy blue pantsuit, she obviously had been watching for him in the wall-to-wall mirror behind the bar.

Acting as if he couldn't decide whether to stay, he turned and followed her. With a determined stride, she went out a side door, took a path through the lighted gardens, and approached a black sedan waiting in the darkened parking lot. The back door opened and she slipped in. A few seconds later he was sitting next to her in the backseat. Discreetly, she reached over and squeezed his hand and held on for a moment. In the front seat one of the two men said, “We're on our way,” to a hidden microphone, and the car sped from the hotel grounds and drove south on the M3. Stone knew the road as the Simon van der Stel Freeway or known locally as the Blue Route. They were headed toward the coastal town of Fish Hoek.

The city lights faded behind them. They rode in silence as the CIA officers in the front seat constantly checked each passing car. When the lights of a car shone in the face of the driver—an African-American in Rastafarian attire and dreadlocks—Stone caught his eyes studying him. Evidently, Stone's reputation had been broadcasted on the agency pipeline.
The cowboy was in town.

The driver tilted his head back and asked Sandra, “Is our guest staying overnight?” Rasta man had a distinct Philadelphia Main Line accent. Probably a Bucknell or Penn graduate.

“Yes. We have a lot to talk about.”

Therefore, Stone would be staying in a safe house tonight. He hoped the accommodations weren't too bad, what with the budget crunch. Who else would be there besides these three in the car? The base chief, no doubt.

Sandra touched his hand again. “Someone will make sure your room back in the hotel looks like it's been used.” She kept her hand on his. “Like I said, we have a lot to discuss.”

The safe house was a five-room villa facing south overlooking False Bay. A soft breeze brought in the smell of sea foam. The furnishings were basic, but clean. Rasta man, whose name was Owen, had prepared two platters of
bobojtie
, the Cape Malay dish of lamb, nuts, raisins, and chutney, with a baked egg topping. Its rich aroma filled the dining room as they waited for the arrival of the CIA base chief. The chief of station would also be there, Sandra told him. He had flown in from the embassy in Pretoria for the meeting.

An hour passed and M. R. D. Houston came in with the COS, who to Stone's surprise and relief, turned out to be Charles Fleming, wearing as usual a bespoke gray suit.

“You left Paris for South Africa?” Stone asked, exchanging warm handshakes. Fleming had been assigned to the Paris station. It had only been months before in the South of France when he, Colonel Gustave Frederick, and Fleming had been involved in a counterterrorist operation.

“My family hasn't gotten here yet, but, yes, it's a good move and a very good slot.” Fleming looked over the remnants of the meal on the table. “Looks like you're all finished eating. Let's get to work.”

He ushered Stone, Sandra, and Houston into a bedroom at the end of the hallway. Again, sparsely furnished, with only a long table and eight metal fold-up chairs. Cold water bottles stood upright in the center of the table on an old serving plate.

“I just visited Paris,” Stone said. “Didn't have time to look you up.”

“I knew you were in town. Colonel Frederick told me.” Fleming glanced over to Sandra. “He was busy with a lot of things.”

Sandra coughed. “Yeah. He can work miracles sometimes. That's why I'm still here.”

“And that's why I'm still here.” Stone tapped the table. “Now, I suppose you want to know what Jacob had to say.” Stone related the details of his morning meeting, including what appeared to be Jacob's ill health. “He's concerned with Abdul Wahab as he should be, but he's got this South African, Van Wartt, under his claw. Believes he's the real problem.”

Fleming rubbed his hands together, looked over again at Sandra, and said to her, “Might as well get right down to it.”

She nodded and sipped water from a bottle. She'd lost weight and had circles under her eyes.

Fleming started. “Hayden, this is all supersensitive, but things are moving so fast that … I can't tell you everything. You know, compartmentalization.”

“You mean I won't hand over the whole story before the jihadists chop my head off.” Stone pulled out a cigar and asked if anyone objected. Houston, his arms bulging from his dark blue polo shirt, surprised him by also pulling out a cigar. Sandra said she didn't mind if she could have a drag or two.

“If we all have burnished our macho credentials, can we move on?” Fleming said, his handsome black face creased in a frown. “Stone, let me give you a little history in the South African nuclear weapons program.”

“The what?” Stone handed Sandra his cigar and reached over to the sideboard and got two ashtrays. After taking a long puff, she handed it back.

What Fleming related didn't surprise him. Years ago Stone had heard South Africa had a nuclear bomb, but it was never really much interest to him. He wondered what this had to do with the operation.

“Back in the late sixties, early seventies, the white government here had a viable nuclear weapons program. You have to remember the country was ostracized for the most part by the world for its apartheid policy. Trade embargoes, the whole package of sanctions by the world to force them to change and become more democratic. One of the results was that South Africa decided to become self-sufficient economically and militarily. Ironically, because of that they're now the most viable economy on the continent.

“And back then one of the ways to stay in power was to build the bomb,” Stone said.

“Yes. They had legitimate worries. Angola had become independent from Portugal, and a communist insurgency arose with Cuban support. In fact, the Cubans had quite a military presence and they had their eyes on the South West Africa territory that South Africa controlled. A nuke or two would be quite a deterrent against the spread of communism.”

“South Africa developed the bomb themselves?”

“They had help. Their chief partner was Israel.”

Stone leaned forward and tapped his cigar in the ashtray. “I see a story developing here.”

“I'll spare you the complete info dump just to say the two countries had a lot in common. Both felt like outcasts, both had this God's Covenant thing going, and both needed a solid military stance. South Africa needed the experience—they had the expertise in nuclear development but not weaponry. Israel needed a place to test their device.”

Stone had lost interest in his cigar and let it lay in the ashtray. Houston did the same.

Sandra put her elbows on the table. “My understanding is the apartheid government destroyed their bombs just before relinquishing control.”

“Ah. Now here we come to the interesting part. A little numbers game. One report says that they developed eight nuclear bombs based on the gun-type principle—that is, creating an explosion by shooting one piece of subcritical material into another.” Fleming paused. “Follow me, Stone?”