The African Contract (16 page)

“I wish I'd brought my notepad.”

“None of this is to be written down. Understand?”

“You know how I operate.”

“Checking.” She placed her hands over her mouth. “He's a member of the
Broederbonders
. That's a secret society of apartheid zealots. Under the old regime any senior member of government had to be a member. They also controlled the police, education, broadcasting, and the censor board, everything important.

“Van Wartt's money and power comes from an engineering firm, some mining, and real estate investments. He holds a general's commission, but that's inactive.” She paused to sip her soda. “This is interesting. His status with those
Broederbonders
is shaky. Reports are his fellow loonies consider him too extreme. Some are beginning to maintain a distance, not completely, mind you. After all, that crowd isn't on everyone's dance card and their social circle is thinning.”

“Extreme in what way?”

“Rants in public, especially when he's in his cups—about settling the score with those who caused the downfall of apartheid. He tried to enlist others in some wild schemes, like computer hack attacks against Wall Street. That didn't go over big with that crowd, most of whom have their money parked there. Lately, he's tamed down.” She waited a moment. “One incident that I'm certain has hardened him. Just as the new government took over, a massacre occurred up north. During Sunday service, in one of those Dutch Reformed churches in the farm area, a group of blacks, rebel types, entered and machine-gunned everyone. No one survived.”

“So Van Wartt's religious?”

“I'm not certain. All I know is his parents and sisters were in the congregation.”

“Damn,” he said. “An incident like that would make anyone seek retribution.” He thought a moment. “Were the killers brought to justice?”

“Of course not. Reconciliation for past crimes and all that nonsense the new government is pushing. You must realize that for Van Wartt this is home. There's a strong connection with his ancestors, blood, and history.” She met his eyes. “Not unlike your feelings for the United States.”

Stone mulled over what she said about Van Wartt. The thought occurred: How much of an attachment did Patience have with this country after living here since she was twelve years old? “I heard he has something going with a Saudi named Abdul Wahab. That he wants to sell Wahab something very big and dangerous.”

“Yes.” She gave him an admiring glance to say he was on the top of his game. “My people picked up on Abdul Wahab when he fled France a few months ago. One of his two wives is Lady Beatrice. Quite an extraordinary woman, even though her taste in men is questionable.” Pause. “Wahab is knee-deep in the terrorist trade.” She stopped, her eyes left him, returned, and narrowed. “You visited the Riviera recently, didn't you?”

It was Stone's turn to churn the information he'd learned. Patience was not just a South African lawyer who happened to work occasionally for MI6. She was a full-blown case officer. Granted, she might not have known why he had come to Cape Town, but she knew a lot about Abdul Wahab and Van Wartt's activities. Were MI6 and the CIA exchanging information? Finally, he said, “Yes. I did.”

“You're here to kill Wahab for murdering those CIA officers in the South of France, aren't you? You work for the CIA. You were involved in that big shoot-out in Villefranche.”

“Get this straight. I'm not an assassin. You know me better than that.”

“I don't know you at all.” She seemed to fret. “Well, not all, all.”

Stone grinned. She was quite dramatic at times. “Patience, dear.” This time he moved closer. “What I do, I do in the service of my country. Always have. I'm a minor player. Just a contractor on a job to obtain information to prevent another 9/11 in the US, London, Paris, or Israel.”

“Were you truthful about no one else knowing about us?”

“Neither the station here nor the man I work for at Langley knows about you and me.”

She put her face close to his. “How about that blonde I saw you scoot out with last night at the Mount Nelson Hotel?”

“Your eagle is back. Finished lunch, I suppose.”

“Surprised?” She smiled. “I was in the bar with a friend. You didn't see me. Maybe you are slipping. I notice a gray hair here and there.” She leaned against him and with that mischievous look he recalled from the past, whispered, “You have another surprise flying into town.”

After Hayden Stone left the hotel to meet with his contact, Sandra Harrington took a stroll along the waterfront. It was time that she establish contact with Dirk Lange. Walking through the Victoria Wharf complex might provide an opportunity for a casual encounter. A bright sun warmed her face even though the air chilled her legs. Aside from cries of sea birds flying overhead, quiet settled on the area. The seaside smelled of fresh fish that drifted up from open tanks in trawlers tied along the quay.

Noisy tourists boarded a double-deck sightseeing boat at the end of the pier. The sign at the gate announced two-hour tours of the bay, and Sandra considered spending her afternoon on one of the boats. Then she remembered the meeting the night before with CIA station chief Fleming. When he had told them about the nuclear weapon that could end up in the hands of Abdul Wahab's terrorists, even Hayden Stone's
sangfroid
had slipped a little. Was considering a little sightseeing at this time a way to shove such a horror out of her mind?

She loosened her scarf, shook her hair, and leisurely continued along the dockside, inspecting the various boats, curious at the many configurations and conditions of the craft moored along the way. Just as she was about to take a break from her trolling for Dirk Lange and find someplace to get a cappuccino, that
feeling
came. In the back of the head, down the neck, and along her spine came the sensation, not a chill nor shiver, but something almost akin to a touch of a warm finger. She was being watched.

Don't alter your pace nor movements. Just walk a minute, stop, adjust your scarf, and gaze out at the boats.
She cursed herself for leaving her sunglasses in the hotel room.
Squint. Now look around for the person or persons who are following you.
She stopped and went through her routine. Then reversed course, heading back toward the end of the pier. No sign of Lange. She strolled, placing one foot in front of another as if she was walking a line. One would suppose her in deep thought.

Still no sign of him. Suddenly came a shiver. What if it wasn't Lange who was watching her? Nabeel Asuty and his cohorts were in Cape Town. Nabeel saw her in the café in Freetown, where Stone and Lange had killed two of his men. Her pace quickened and she headed for the hotel.

Instead of waiting for the elevator, she raced up the stairs and hurried to her room. The hotel maid stood at the door, pulling her cart out of Sandra's room, about to start cleaning the one next door. Sandra tipped her, looked up and down the hallway, closed the door behind her, and leaned back on the wall. Sweat dripped down her back. Why had she lost her composure? Don't worry. The instructor at the Farm, the CIA training facility, had advised her class years ago that it happened now and then. Rarely did it happen to her.

Light knock on the door. She tensed. She reached for her Glock and carefully slid back the cover to the door's peephole. Dirk Lange's handsome face appeared through the smudged circular glass. She quickly let him in.

“Did you just check in? I see that you haven't fully unpacked,” Lange asked.

She eyed his black turtleneck shirt under a brown leather jacket. With his sandy blond hair and close-cropped beard, it all came together. Quite attractive.

“Don't know how long I'll be here. Besides, I get tired packing and unpacking.” She pointed to one of the armchairs for him to sit. “I thought I sensed you following me.” She sat on the edge of the bed. “How long have you been in town?”

“Two days. Did you see our friends from Freetown?”

“Nabeel Asuty?”

“Nabeel and some of his
chinas
,” Lange said.

“His what?”

“A South African term for one's buddies.”

“Should I have seen Asuty?”

Lange stood and stepped to the window. Keeping to the side, he carefully tilted one of the blinds. “I spotted them just after I got a glimpse of you. You were wandering around Victoria Wharf for me to make contact. Yes?”

She mumbled a yes, went over to the other side of the window, and looked down from the second floor onto the walkway bordering the moored boats. Her instincts had proved right. Lange had spotted her and had waited to make contact. Whether Nabeel was looking for her or not, more importantly, he was in the area.

“Where did you see them last?” she asked.

“Two blocks from here.” He pulled out a phone. “Pardon, while I make a call to my partner.” He talked with a fellow operative and flipped the phone closed. “Nabeel and his boys will pass by in a jiff.”

Down below, only a few people sauntered by, most holding something to eat or drink. Directly across from the window, not twenty yards away, two bearded men stood in the stern of a motorboat that needed a fresh coat of paint. They were watching the passersby intently.

“There they are,” Lange said. “Uh. Oh. What's that all about?” He took his phone from his pocket and spoke to his contact.

Sandra saw five men coming from the left, appearing to head for the boat where the two bearded men waited. One of the five men was Farley Durrell. Something was wrong—Asuty held Farley's right arm, a large thuggish-looking man with a prominent bald spot grasped the other. He was being taken for a reluctant boat ride.

She heard Lange's phone click shut. “That fellow down there is in a bit of a bind. Doesn't look Middle Eastern.”

“He's Polish-American. One of ours. He's in deep shit.”

Now Lange yanked the blinds apart. “I have only one chap to assist. Don't know if the three of us have the time. Could call the Harbor Police—”

“Forget it. Help me open the window.” She pulled out her gun. “Just a few inches.”

“What?”

“No time. He must have blown his cover. He's a dead man if we don't do something now.” She watched the group below prepare to board. One of the two waiting men went forward in the boat and started the engines. White diesel smoke rose from the stern.

“We can't start a firefight with all these tourists here!” Lange clutched her arm. She pulled free.

“Only one shot is necessary,” Sandra said, amazed at what she was about to do. “I'm shooting Farley.”

“Good God! You people will take out one of your own?”

Sandra knelt, rested the Glock on the windowsill to steady her aim, judged the distance, held her breath, and fired. She watched the bullet tear a chunk of cloth from Farley Durrell's right pant leg. “Not kill him. Just shoot him in the leg.”

“Good shot! Can't believe my bloody eyes.”

Down along the walkway, people scattered at the sound of the shot. Asuty's men drew their weapons and looked in all directions except up at them. Farley Durrell had fallen, but rose and hobbled away from the group. Two of Asuty's men jumped into the boat. Police whistles sounded from both directions. A siren wailed.

“We best be out of here,” Lange urged. “Good thing you didn't unpack.” He hurried over to the couch and threw her clothes into the open suitcase. “I'll check the bath for any of your belongings.”

Sandra watched Farley, who had distanced himself from Asuty's thugs, stumble into the arms of a large redheaded policewoman, who held him upright. She grimaced. “Typical Farley.”

“Where to,
maat
?” Lange called.

“Stone's room. Downstairs at the other end of the hotel.” Sandra shut the window and closed her suitcase. Where was Stone when she needed him? With some old squeeze?

At the seaside villa of Abdul Wahab, the butler, Dingane, observed the girl dust Lady Beatrice's grand piano with haphazard flips of her wrist. She stared off to some distant place. Dreaming into the eyes of her new boyfriend, Dingane surmised.

He startled her, speaking in Fanagalo, the half Zulu, half pidgin English spoken in the mines where her parents lived. “If the mistress of the house, Lady Beatrice, catches you slacking, lazy girl, it's the end. Hand me that.” He took the feather duster from her and demonstrated how she should use it. He thrust it back. “Now do it correctly.”

The girl returned to her task, now chastened. Dingane continued on his rounds of the villa, assuring that the staff was not shirking its duties. His wife remained in bed this morning. She said her stomach had cramps, blaming the
tokoloshe
, ground-hugging night gremlins. “He visited last night when I slept, I'm sure,” she moaned. “Build me a bed of bricks to stay off the floor to keep him away.”

He berated her for bringing up old myths, reminding her they were Christians. However, this afternoon he would arrange to get bricks from his cousin, who worked at the villa down the road. Building a traditional brick bed was preferable to her going to that old hag witch doctor.

He paused in the foyer, inspected the floor for dirt and the two Greek marble busts for dust. None. He stopped and sighed. His family had become a strain. Lady Beatrice had arranged a scholarship for their son, but the boy was more interested in playing his
igopogo
, the oil can guitar contraption favored by the South African bands. The young men in this new South Africa had many temptations. He was the only child who lived after his beloved wife's six pregnancies, and Dingane knew they spoiled him. He must watch his son, or he would become a
tsotsis
, a young gangster roaming the streets.

Noise from outside interrupted his thoughts. From behind the carved oak door, he heard a car stop in front of the house and two doors open and slam shut. A hard knock on the door immediately followed. Must be rude visitors for madame's husband. He looked in the TV monitor covering the outside entrance and saw that despicable man, Nabeel Asuty, with another ugly Middle Easterner. Both men looked around nervously as if they were fleeing from someone or thing. Dingane took his time opening the door.

“I want to speak with Abdul Wahab,” Nabeel said, not looking at Dingane. “I must see him.”

Dingane arched his back, as he had seen the British butlers do in old films, and said, using his best English diction, “I shall see if the master is receiving guests.” As he turned to go to the sitting room, he noted with humor the man's face contort with anger.

He found Abdul Wahab and Lady Beatrice sitting on the opposite sides of the room, both reading portions of
The Star
, the Cape Town daily newspaper. Beatrice lifted her eyes and asked who was at the door. When told, she shouted at Wahab. “Damn it to hell, Abdul. I told you to keep those swarthy buggers out of my home.” Wahab rushed from the room.

She called after Dingane. “Keep an eye on them.”

He nodded and went back to the foyer where Wahab was leading an agitated Nabeel to the library. The other man, who had a prominent bald spot, remained standing. Dingane motioned for him to sit. The man scowled and sat roughly into a chair. Dingane couldn't help thinking how inappropriate it was that the delicate French armchair should host the backsides of such a crude person. Intending to keep a watch on him, Dingane busied himself sorting the morning mail on the table.

“
Ureed ma'
,” the man shouted in Arabic.

Dingane feigned ignorance, but knew the man had asked for water.

The order came again as if
he
, Dingane, was the inferior, only there to do this man's bidding. Again, Dingane acted as if he didn't understand, and the man rose, making a cupping motion with his hands. At this, Dingane's wife appeared.

“My dear. How do you feel?” he asked in Zulu.

She made various faces that said she felt better, but not much better, and glowering at the visitor, asked in Zulu, “What is this pig doing here?”

“Fouling the place,” Dingane said. “He has ordered water.”

“Shall I get it while you wait here with him?”

“Yes. Take your time. Make it warm and dirty it.”

Dingane leaned on the opposite wall and motioned to the man that his water would come. The man looked away, not bothering to conceal the pistol in his belt. Perspiration ran down his neck.

Dingane heard the faint voices of Wahab and Nabeel coming from the library. Obviously, something was amiss, as Lady Beatrice was wont to say. That husband of hers was trouble. Much trouble. He remembered the time Lady Beatrice and he had that short conversation out in the gardens.

“You Zulus don't have problems with multiple wives, do you?” she had asked.

Somehow, he had always thought it odd that she had mentioned the fact that Wahab had another wife in Saudi Arabia. However, from the time he had told her that his blood was royal Zulu, the two of them had formed an understanding.

He had answered her, “Not with Zulus, no, mum, but one must remember it was allowed in the holy book, the Old Testament.”

She had thrown her head back and laughed. “But Dingane, my good man, that helps me not. I'm all New Testament.”

From down the hallway the pantry door creaked, then closed. Without seeing, he knew Lady Beatrice had switched on the recorder hidden behind the side panel. Later on today, she would retrieve a little black object from the machine, which no doubt held the conversation of her husband and that vile man, Nabeel Asuty.

Before dinnertime, Dingane could expect to be paid a visit from his friend in the South African Secret Service wanting to know about the visit of these two Arabs. Two days ago his friend said he would bring another person from the SASS who was interested in questioning him about both Wahab and Lady Beatrice. Dingane had no trouble providing information on Wahab; however, they need not know about Lady Beatrice's suspicions of her husband and things like her electronic device. The SASS people would be happy enough when he handed them the water glass with the fingerprint impressions of this bald-headed thug.

Abdul Wahab allowed Nabeel to rant. Both remained standing in the middle of the book-lined library. Nabeel's dark face glistened with sweat, which in Wahab's mind made him appear even more unctuous. They spoke in Arabic.