The African Contract (15 page)

“No.” Stone frowned. “Let's skip the technical stuff.”

“No matter. It's the old-fashioned method of making a bomb. The first US bombs were made on that principle.”

“So they were bulky?”

“Yeah. About two feet by five and weighing close to a ton. That's going to be of interest to you later.”

“So the eight bombs were dismantled after South Africa signed some treaty,” Sandra said.

“Well, no. We know there were supposed to be eight bombs, because the Israelis were providing eight Jericho missiles for them. The South Africans were afraid that the Cuban antiaircraft batteries would bring down their Canberra or Buccaneer bombers, so they had asked for Israeli long-range missiles. Now here comes the numbers game. In nineteen eighty-seven we had a report that eight bombs had been produced. Then in nineteen ninety-four, six fully completed bombs and one partial were dismantled.”

“But it's believed they tested one near Antarctica,” Sandra added.

“Back in September nineteen seventy-nine.”

Stone sat back. “Okay. There are your eight bombs.”

Charles Fleming slid an eight-by-eleven photograph across the table to Stone and Sandra. “Take a look and count the bombs. This picture was taken up there at the Vastrap facility up in the Kalahari Desert around ten years ago.”

Stone looked at the photo showing fat bullet-shaped, brass-colored bombs, two to a rack, except in the back row. A single ninth, fully completed bomb sat on a cradle. “Looks like someone lost count.”

“We think we located the unaccounted-for bomb. Also, we're certain someone wants to hand it over to Abdul Wahab.”

Stone let the last statement sink in. Abdul Wahab, a man in league with al Qaeda, in possession of an atomic bomb. “Shit! There's no telling what Wahab wants to do with an atomic bomb. No wonder Jacob looked worried when I saw him this morning.”

“What exactly did he tell you?”

“He said that Nabeel Asuty is heading here from Freetown. Some big shot here in Cape Town, Dawid van Wartt, wants to sell them something. This guy is well connected. When I asked if it was an arms deal he was talking about, Jacob said he didn't know. He did emphasize that this Van Wartt is big trouble.”

“We know Dawid van Wartt is vocal in his hatred of the Western countries and especially America. We believe he's the one who wants to sell Wahab the bomb.”

Stone looked around the table. “Thank God it's not a suitcase nuclear weapon. You know where this thing is?”

“Another agency that does a lot of satellite recon advised they've picked up a possible nuclear glow in Namibia.”

Sandra huffed. “They must pick up hot spots every day.”

“Namibia is located north of South Africa in the Kalahari Desert.” Fleming took back the photograph. “We had a report that Mr. Van Wartt had a meeting this morning with an old army colleague who had just driven down from the area where the hot spot was seen.”

“I'll get a hold of Jacob again and question him about this,” Stone said. “I also have to find Dirk Lange, who I'm certain is with the South African Security Service, but Sandra and I have built a working relationship with him.”

“Don't ask Jacob any direct questions about the bomb.” Fleming tensed. “He was bouncing around this country during the seventies. He knows more about this than he's letting on.”

“Maybe that's why he's so worried.”

“Can you trust those two—Jacob and this SASS guy Lange?” Fleming asked.

“As much as they trust me,” Stone said. “Are we checking out that area up there in Namibia? Why not drop in one of those DOE response teams or maybe a SEAL team?”

“We're working on options. You and Sandra may come into play on that angle.”

A little after midnight, Sandra knocked gently on Stone's door. She whispered to meet her in the kitchen. He put his clothes back on and quietly went down the hallway. She sat on a stool sipping a glass of wine.

“Want some?” she asked and motioned for him to sit. “I didn't want to go into your room. These people have big ears and big mouths, if you know what I mean.”

Stone knew that as gossip went, the sexual kind was the juiciest. It wouldn't be the first time men and women on a mission got involved in a little side action.

“Frederick put his neck out and saved my ass from going to a bureaucratic Siberia,” she said. “There were two catches. One, I work with you on this mission, which is turning out to be bigger than I thought.”

“Bigger than I expected,” Stone said. “We're not letting Wahab get ahold of this nuclear device. What's the second catch?”

“It has to do with that prick Farley Durrell.” She leaned closer. “Farley's position with Nabeel Asuty and his gang is not going well. Some of them are suspicious of him. Evidently, he's not as valuable to them as he was. You know what that means with those shits.” She took a deep breath. “You know how much I hate Farley, still … Anyway, Frederick told me one of our jobs might be to extract him from their clutches.”

“Nothing I like better than a good shoot-up.”

“Hayden! Be careful what you say around here! That's why they call you a damn cowboy.”

“Tomorrow I head back to my hotel. Hope Dirk Lange contacts us. We're going to need him.”

She poured more wine. “I'll check in at the same hotel. That'll double the odds of Dirk finding us.”

“There's one more source for me to contact,” Stone said. “Few people know this town better than Patience.”

“And how well do you
know
her, Hayden?”

“Well enough, toots,” he said. “Don't stay up too late. You need your beauty sleep.”

Cape Town—August 17, 2002

Hayden Stone phoned his old acquaintance Patience St. John Smythe. After four rings, she answered. He identified himself and following a pause, she asked where he was. She always held conversations on the phone to the minimum. Stone attributed this quirk to the fact that she had been raised in a country that made it a practice to listen to their citizens' telephone conversations. However, when he had gotten to know her, he found she was smart and kept a tight schedule, only allowing herself to slide into niceties when her calendar permitted.

“Hayden. My, we haven't talked in ages.”

“Let's get together.”

Silence, then, “Do you have transportation?”

When he said he didn't, she told him she'd pick him up in a dark blue Honda in an hour at the corner of Wale and Adderley Streets. In front of the St. George's Cathedral. End of conversation. Still the professional. Even if the conversation had been overheard, the secret service would have a difficult time setting up surveillance in one hour in the middle of downtown business traffic.

Stone holstered his new Sig Sauer, left his hotel room, and took the stairs up to Sandra's floor. She waved him in and went back to unpacking her suitcase, laying the clothes on the couch. He told her about the phone call. She showed interest in the details.

“The woman seems pretty savvy. Who does she work for?”

“I've always thought the Brits, but I'd noticed in the past a lot of inconsistencies in her stories.”

“What information does the station or Charles Fleming have on her?” Sandra asked. “And how long have you known her?”

Stone looked at his watch. “Look. I have to go. Only have a little more than half an hour before I meet her.”

When he reached for the doorknob, she said, “Fleming doesn't know about this? You're playing the lone ranger. This isn't how we do things. You know that.”

“I'm meeting someone that in the FBI parlance is a hip pocket source.” He detected no reaction from Sandra, so continued, “Basically there's nothing about her recorded on paper or in a file. I just collect information from her and attribute it to another source.”

“Sounds fishy and not according to the rules. You're not in the bureau anymore, and if you keep up this shit, you're not going to be with the CIA either.”

Stone had learned the hard way he shouldn't argue with a person giving him good advice. As he was about to fall back on old habits and say something dumb, Sandra saved him.

“What's your relationship with this
Patience
?”

“I hope we're still good friends, but the last time we were together …”

Sandra sighed and held up her hand. She reminded him of one of his grammar school teachers having lost patience with him. The “patience” crack made him smile.

“Don't smile, smart-ass. Give me that gun.” Taking it, she asked, “Are you familiar with this?”

He told her no, that for some reason they hadn't given him the Colt .45 that he'd asked for. “At least it's a forty caliber S&W,” he said. “It looks like a pistol, not some high-tech toy.” She took the gun and gave him a thorough rundown on the Sig Sauer. Had she been a firearms instructor at one time?

A taxicab dropped him off at the House of Parliament, and then on foot he took Government Avenue through the extensive gardens to the cathedral. He took in the crisp morning air and walked briskly, glad that he had his leather jacket. He mused about his first meeting with Patience. Two years ago, in June or July, he had visited Salzburg, Austria. The weather was invigorating. Tourists strolled the streets from one music performance to another, and the river Salzach ran fast and cold from the melting snows in the Alps.

As he had sat in an ornate music room waiting for an afternoon string quintet to begin, she slipped in the seat next to him. Rows of empty chairs surrounded the two of them, so it was evident that she wanted to meet him. The encounter was pleasant; the quintet's set was dreadful.

Their relationship had been semi-intense, platonic. She said she couldn't help falling in love with a married man, but she didn't have to bed him. Her words.

Stone made sure that he came to the street corner at the precise time Patience had given. A dark blue sedan approached the curb and the headlights flashed. He went up to the passenger door, looked in, and climbed inside. Patience leaned over halfway to give him a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and sped off. He had forgotten she had a heavy foot on the accelerator. He'd let her get her bearings before making conversation, but a minute later she started in.

“You haven't changed much.” She glanced over, then up to the rearview mirror. “Put on a little weight around the middle.”

“You, my dear, on the other hand, simply glow.”

She did. Her features had softened. She was on the way to becoming one of those women other women secretly hated—one who improved with age. He expected her to be in a business suit, but instead she wore taupe twill slacks and a cashmere sweater over a turtleneck. Gold flats matched an expensive watch, bracelet on left wrist, and rings on both hands. Causal chic. However, her perfume signaled business office, not boudoir.

“Are you here on holiday?” She looked over. “Of course not. Spying on my country?”

“No. As a matter of fact, I'm working with elements from your local government.”

Stone, at times like this, got a kick out of semantics. He and Dirk Lange did have something of a working relationship. Also, he had to clarify which country he was referring to. She held a British passport as well as a South African one.

“I almost left you hanging there on the corner. You deserve to be stood up.”

“We didn't part on the best of terms, did we?” Stone knew diplomacy was in order. “The whole thing bothered me. A lot.”

“Let's get this over with, so we can move on.”

She looked for agreement on his part, so he nodded.

“You are insensitive and in the realm of personal relationships, wholly unreliable.” Once again, she glanced in the rearview mirror. “Now let's get to whatever you called me about. Shall we?”

Stone felt relieved they had gotten past that hurdle. The car headed out of the city. He needed a safe place where he could question her about Van Wartt. If he was lucky, she might even know something about Abdul Wahab. He suggested lunch.

“We are going to a cheetah sanctuary about forty-five minutes from here. It is located on a wine estate. They have a restaurant.”

“Is it a game park?” Stone enjoyed safaris, but this was not the time to go touring.

“It's part of the Cheetah Outreach Programme. I'm going to let you pet a real live cheetah. Sometimes they bite.”

They drove through the famed Stellenbosch wine country. Except for the backdrop of jagged mountains, one would believe they had been transported to Napa Valley in California. Hilly, with neat divisions of vineyards interspersed with tidy homes favoring Cape Dutch architecture. This was not the raw Africa of legend. Patience was true to her word, and they arrived at the sanctuary in forty-five minutes.

A regal, lean animal, stretching six feet from head to tip of tail, the young cheetah reclined on top of a three-foot high metal cage. The face with big amber eyes resembled any placid household cat. No sign of an efficient killer, the fastest mammal on earth. So calm and friendly now, but when, like so many of Stone's quarry in the past, would they turn on you?

Under an open wooden pergola within a high-fenced compound, other cheetahs that had been taken in by the sanctuary for rehabilitation lounged and made soft guttural sounds. A staff person in khaki shorts and long-sleeved shirt stood close to Patience and Stone as she stroked the animal's back. The cat acted as if it was normal to be in close contact with two-legged animals.

Stone had seen a change in Patience the minute they entered the gate. She showed affection for the animal, and the cat displayed easiness with her. Africans, he knew, had a strong attachment to the animals of their continent. Moving closer to Stone, she took his hand.

“Just stroke its back like this,” she said softly. “I think it's a female.”

“It is, miss,” the uniformed attendant said. “She has been here for close to one year now.”

The vision of a full-grown cheetah taking down a gazelle flashed in Stone's mind. “What do you feed her?” Stone asked, running his hand along the soft, tawny, black-spotted fur.

Patience moved close and whispered, “American bastards.” She returned her attention to the cat.

Inside a rustic wooden building, not unlike one would find in the American West, the sanctuary's restaurant served basic South African fare along with wines from the vineyard located on the property. Stone ordered a Cape-style smoor with spinach and jus. She had a salad. They sat outdoors, where the sunlight brought out the sheen in Patience's hair. Her almost mauve eyes studied Stone and he knew she wanted to talk business.

“Before we start on your inquiries … that is why we're here, correct?” she said. “You want some sort of information from me, unless you are in Cape Town to resume our relationship, and if you are, you're too late.”

“That's getting to the point,” Stone said. “Yes. I hope you can help me, but first, what's this ‘too late'?”

“I met a man who is, well, special.” Patience looked off. “However, in the beginning stages, you know? Now, what do you want to know? Wait, what are you doing here? The FBI has no jurisdiction here.”

The last time they'd been together, he was in the FBI, working cases in New York City. The two had attended a diplomatic function on the East Side. Her “people”—Stone assumed British MI6, though he could never confirm it—and the FBI were interested in a particular Russian intelligence officer. They had orchestrated a pitch to the Russian to defect, with no success.

“I retired early from the FBI and now I'm sort of doing freelance work.”

“For the right side, I assume.” Her eyebrows had lifted just enough to show she had shifted to professional mode. Well, almost. “Are you and your wife still separated? It's been a while now since the two of you have gone your own ways.”

“Along with my retirement, we made the separation official.”

She tapped the table with her fingers. “Too late for us.” She said it with finality. “Now, what is it you want?”

As he began, her eyes darkened. “I'm interested in a South African by the name of Dawid van Wartt. We have reason to believe he is in league with Middle East terrorists who want to target the US. Do you know anything about him?”

“Seems all you Yanks are interested in is dear Dawie.” She glared. “Stone. You realize you are asking me to give you information on a fellow South African. There are legal issues here.”

“You're a lawyer. That shouldn't bother you, but to reassure you, I'm working with a South African intelligence officer on this.”

“He knows about me?” She looked alarmed.

“No one is aware I'm talking with you. This is between you and me.” He decided to chance it. “You might know him.”

Before he could give her Dirk Lange's name, she slumped back in the chair and looked skyward. “There goes a Wahlberg's eagle. Beautiful birds, aren't they?” She reached for her glasses. When had she started wearing them?

The graceful bird soared then dropped fast behind a tall tree. Mealtime for him.

She saw that Stone picked at his meal. “If that dish is too spicy, you could tame it with a beer.”

Stone indicated his water was fine.

“I remember from New York you'd never drink while on duty like the other agents we worked with. Bureau regulations, you would say. Are you on duty now?”

“Just trying to keep my wits about me.”

“You're a bit of a stuffed shirt. Won't change with the times. At least you don't double knot your shoe laces.” She hesitated, then almost whispered, “I don't bed married men, like you were back then, but you could have done me the favor of trying harder.”

A family passed by their table; having finished lunch, they headed for the cheetah enclosure. The parents wore short shorts and heavy sweaters favored by Africans . The father had the distinctive Boer moustache. The boy and girl went barefoot like many of the white farmer children in South Africa.

He caught Patience watching him. “Tough lot, aren't they?”

“I like them.”

“They don't like you, Yank,” she said. “They blame your kind for the end of apartheid and their way of life.”

They watched the family head for the entrance to the sanctuary.

Patience changed her tone of voice and spoke softly. “Hayden, you must realize you caught me by surprise. I had no idea you were onto Van Wartt. All this is becoming awkward for me. Let me explain.” She moved her chair next to him and whispered, “The love of my life is your ambassador to South Africa. He is also interested in Van Wartt. My people are interested in Van Wartt. One person in the local secret service who I know is interested in him is … Dirk Lange.”

Stone attempted a nonchalant smile. She knew Dirk. Small world. However, he let sink in the fact that her lover was none other than Marshall Bunting, the American ambassador.

“Dirk Lange is a sweet man. Also, very
reliable
.” She looked him over. “However, dear Dawie on the other hand is a bloody rockspider. You know, not quite what we call a hairyback Afrikaner, but still one of those thickheaded Boers.” She put her glasses away. “No. I'm not generalizing. I have many Afrikaners for friends, but most are quite impossible. And,” she said with emphasis, “it's not an English–Boer thing.” She smiled. “Perhaps it is.”

“How well do you know him?”

“Attended some mutual functions. Met his wife at the Museum of Art a few times. She's as bad as he is.” She clicked her tongue twice. “Met him numerous times at the yacht club. Oh, Hayden, do you still sail? No matter. Back to sweet Dawie. He occasionally has hit on me without success, and that sums up the personal contacts. Now for what you Americans say, the nitty-gritty.”