The African Contract (17 page)

“We were infiltrated! They placed this man within our group. This, this Englishman.”

“Who is
they
?” Wahab demanded. “And who is this man?”

“The British MI6. I'm certain.” Nabeel paced and wiped his face with a dirty handkerchief. “He is English. A convert to our faith, he insisted.”

“Who allowed this Englishman into the group? Why was he allowed in? Why was I not informed?”

The number of questions appeared to slow Nabeel's fuming. He ceased pacing. “Our group decided he was of value. He had contacts with airlines and shipping companies. He was very devout.”

Wahab eased into his chair at the desk and studied the man standing before him. In a way, it was a pleasure to watch him squirm. Truth of the matter, he neither knew nor cared about Nabeel's group of thugs. They were all uneducated, except for their reading the Koran, and had one-track minds—jihad and the destruction of Western civilization. He asked again, “Why was I not informed about bringing in a Westerner?”

Nabeel shrugged. “It seemed of little consequence at the time.”

“Let me go over this again. You discovered this man was a spy. You neglected to say how you found out, but that matters little right now. You planned to take him in a boat to the middle of the bay and kill him. What happened at the wharf?”

“Someone shot him.”

“Your people shot him on the pier? Why?”

“No. Most strange. None of my people fired. Someone else did. The police came and arrested two of my men because they found they were carrying guns. Mohammed, sitting outside, and I escaped and came here.”

“You came directly here, you idiot!”

“No. We took a roundabout route. One other member of our group escaped. Don't know his whereabouts.” Nabeel folded his arms across his chest. He didn't like being called an idiot. “The Englishman was taken away by the police.”

Wahab leaned forward and rested his arms on the desk. His beautiful plan for a major terrorist blow was unraveling. Van Wartt demanded that he take possession of the nuclear device within the next few days. Now they were minus two men and didn't have sufficient manpower to transport the nuclear weapon.

“When we take possession of the bomb, we need at least six people to transport it to … Where have you planned to take it?” Wahab asked, realizing that he had mistakenly placed a great deal of the plan in the hands of this fool.

Nabeel regained his composure. “Where is the bomb now?”

“Up north in the desert. How and to where will we move it?”

“We were thinking to Douala, Cameroon.”

“Who are we?”

“The Englishman had contacts with a shipping company. Now, that plan is—”

“How did you discover he was a spy?”

“By chance. He wanted a woman and we all went to a whorehouse he knew. We caught him passing a piece of paper, a message of some kind, to one of the prostitutes. A fight broke out between the Englishman and two of our men. We were thrown out by the pimps.”

“Where were you at the time?”

Nabeel looked down at the floor. “In one of the rooms. Busy.”

That poor woman, thought Wahab. Having to share a bed with this slime. He gathered himself. “My good friend. Things have gone astray, but we shall prevail. The greatest strike against the infidel is in our grasp. Go. Stay alert and await my call.”

Nabeel blinked, turned, and hesitated with his hand on the doorknob. “One more thing. That man Hayden Stone is in Cape Town. I will find him and kill him.”

“I told you before, Stone is mine.” Wahab rose. “I'll show you out.”

After he watched Nabeel and his man drive off, Wahab asked Dingane to bring him a cup of fresh coffee. Back in the library, he eased the door shut, hoping his wife would not interrupt him with a tirade on Nabeel's visit. He needed time and quiet to think. The plan to explode the nuclear device off the shores of Los Angeles, San Francisco, or Tel Aviv needed immediate fixing. After an hour the realization came that his control of events was tenuous. Perhaps, control had never been in his hands.

Wahab thought back to the events on the Riviera and how all his plans, organization, and contacts had been lost. The support and trust of his benefactor, the prince, father of his first wife, had vanished. Saudi Arabia barred him from his homeland. Al Qaeda and other terrorist groups mistrusted him. The French intelligence service made him flee his beloved South of France. The CIA wanted retribution for his hand in the deaths of two of their operatives, and they had sent Hayden Stone to settle the score. As for Stone, the man had constantly hounded him from Afghanistan, to the Riviera, to here in Africa.

Perhaps Stone was not the jinn he had believed, haunting and hounding him. The fault might lie within. He picked up his worn copy of the
Canterbury Tales
from the table, opened it, and saw the Middle English text. He thought of his Oxford don in the worn cardigan sweater and his days as a student in England. A young Arab in a strange, fascinating world that he had reluctantly grown to love.

Wahab laid the book on the desk, keeping his hand on the leather binding. He heard his English wife's voice from beyond the closed door. He closed his eyes and wondered, who was he, really?

Cape Town—August 18, 2002

As Dawid van Wartt maneuvered the curves of Kloof Road, he pressed down on the accelerator, enjoying the power of his new Bentley coupe. The way the car held to the road impressed him. At least something was going well today.

The first thing that morning, he had received an urgent telephone call from the manager of his real estate firm. A sizable group of trade unionists were demonstrating in front of his main commercial building downtown. The reason given by the strikers to the press was “inadequate wages” for their maintenance people. What had really happened was Van Wartt's corporation had been late and parsimonious with the requisite
omkoop
, the bribes to the union leaders. A second phone call determined that certain politicians had offered to help in easing tensions—that meant more bribes. Such was the cost of doing business in South Africa.

The visit later that morning from his friend from Namibia, Bull Rhyton, concerned him most. A little before noon, Bull had phoned and said he was outside the gate of Van Wartt's villa and had to speak to him. Van Wartt met the burly, unshaven man and led him to the garden. They sat in the warm sun on a concrete garden bench. In the cooled winter ground, a few flowers gave off weak fragrances while a brown and black bird fluttered in the bladdernut tree directly above them. Stretching below, the houses and buildings of Cape Town sparkled. Farther out, ships crisscrossed a calm bay.

Quick pleasantries were exchanged and at last Bull got to the point of his visit. His voice carried an edge. In Afrikaans, he addressed Van Wartt using his nickname. “Dawie, this morning my nephew phoned me. He said two weeks ago he saw two men by the boxcar. They broke inside.”

“Two weeks ago? You just came from Bruin Karas. You hear this now?”

“He knew he was to stay away from the boxcar. His mother found out and made him call me.”

“Did these two men who broke inside take anything out?”

“No. Corneliu said when they came out of the boxcar, they acted concerned. One had an instrument in his hand. I suppose it was a Geiger counter.”

Van Wartt frowned. “Then what?”

“They left on an ATV. Headed west, Corneliu said. Out of sight. However, going back home, my nephew saw a helicopter fly.”

“The two men weren't locals?” Van Wartt guessed the answer.

Bull shook his head. “Do you know who they were?”

An unexpected turn of events. Van Wartt searched for the right words. He knew that however he explained it, Bull would be unhappy, disappointed. “I neglected to tell you. I formulated a backup plan. I reasoned we must get rid of the bomb quickly, one way or another.”

Bull Rhyton ground his boots in the gravel beneath the bench. His eyes didn't blink. Finally, he said, “
Ja
?”

“I offered the bomb to the Libyans.”

Bull cursed and spat. He used Van Wartt's formal name. “Dawid. The Libyans and our new ruling party, the ANC, have been in league for years. They supplied the explosives and guns that killed our people. Why did you deal with
them
?”

“It was only a backup plan. In the event these jihadists wouldn't take the bomb.” Van Wartt lifted his hands. “How they found the boxcar, I don't know. What they intend to do, I don't know.”

Bull turned his face away. When he looked back at Van Wartt, he said coldly, “You assume it is the Libyans. Maybe someone else knows about it. My nephew said they looked European.”

“
Ja
. They may not be Libyans.” Van Wartt folded his arms.
Then who for God's sake are they?

Van Wartt stood, started pacing, stopped, and whispered, “We have to move quickly. I'll contact Abdul Wahab and tell him he has to take possession of the nuclear device within two days.” He sat down. “Can we move it somewhere else?”

“The damn thing is leaking radiation! Who will move it? Not me. Not my kin.” He slapped his leg. “This is all bad. We've gotten ourselves in too deep with these evil people. I don't like it anymore.”

“Think what these hypocrites in America and the West have done to us.”

“Dawid, we have been through much, hey? We have fought together up in Angola. Truly I believe this plan has gotten out of control. We must give the bomb back to the government.” He waited for a response from Van Wartt and, getting none, rose. “I'll let myself out.”

Van Wartt watched the big man push past the guard, open the gate, and leave. Bull should have been told about the Libyans, but he had known what his reaction would be. He would have objected just like he had now.

He lingered on the bench and lit a cigarette. The words of his father came to him: In Africa, the strong eat, the weak are eaten. He crushed the cigarette under his shoe and looked again at the beautiful city below. The damn Americans and Europeans were responsible for the embargo of his country during apartheid. Making his people pariahs to the world. His Afrikaner people became hated and made scapegoats for the West's own failings. Forcing them to relinquish control of their government, of their country. America deserved the Twin Towers attack. Many of his friends had cheered when they watched the burning towers on TV. See how it feels, you sons of bitches, his friends had shouted.

Two minutes after Van Wartt hastened back inside his villa, the brown and black bird tipped forward, lifted from the branch with a flurry of its wings, and sailed down the mountain.

The meeting with Bull Rhyton had disturbed Van Wartt, but as the Bentley neared the Camps Bay residential area, he rehearsed what he would say to Wahab. The man had been dragging his feet. Was it the money? He had assumed these terrorists had an inexhaustible supply of funds. Perhaps Wahab didn't have the network he claimed to have. Today he must get a timetable from that man.

More and more the need for revenge against the Americans and Europeans took a backseat for the need to dispose of this nuclear device as soon as possible. Bull's uneasiness, no, hostility to the plan, disturbed him.

Van Wartt found Abdul Wahab not in the fish and chips restaurant as agreed, but across the road. Here the ocean edged Victoria Road. The sea floor dropped dramatically, and at certain times of the year Southern Right whales came up, almost within touching distance, exhaling water from their blowholes. Wahab stood with the other onlookers gaping at two immense mammals surfacing in the black water.

Van Wartt stepped up next to him. “Fascinating animals, no?”

Wahab continued to look ahead. He appeared disturbed.

“Abdul. Shall we walk along the shore?”

“I decided to forgo a meal of fish and chips,” Wahab said. “If you don't mind?”

“I agree. We do have important business to discuss, and this is a perfect place for it.”

“Why are there no waves along here?” Wahab asked. “There is surf where I live.”

“Deep water. No waves,” Van Wartt said impatiently. “Will you be ready in two days to travel north and pick up the … package?”

Wahab stopped, looked around. “We are experiencing a delay. It's a matter of getting enough people. We had a setback. I need more men for my team.”

Van Wartt thought a moment. “Damn! Those Arabs who were involved in the shooting at Victoria Wharf were your men.” Getting no answer from Wahab, he said, “Dammit to hell!”

“A minor setback. As we speak my headman is obtaining additional men.” Wahab looked directly at Van Wartt. “Not to worry. The plan goes forward.” He looked away as if he knew he failed to be convincing.

“You have two days from now. Call me tomorrow at this number. I would be most appreciative having an update tomorrow.”

Wahab pronounced, now more evenly, “I shall, if I can. If not …
maleesh
.” He shrugged and walked away.

Van Wartt cursed and hurried to the Bentley. He had to contact the Libyan chargé in Pretoria and set up an emergency meeting to determine if it was the Libyans who Bull's nephew had seen two weeks ago up in the Kalahari.

Cape Town—August 18, 2002

Hayden Stone watched Sandra fidget and fret while driving the rental car. They had just left the city and were heading for a conference called by the ambassador. The meeting was to be held at the official ambassador's residence, a distance from center city in a treed suburb. The ambassador promised a
braai
afterward. Since COS Fleming didn't want them staying at Victoria Wharf after the shooting incident, the two would then head for the safe house.

Fleming had phoned and advised that Ambassador Bunting wanted the meeting at three o'clock in order to hash out issues that had come to his attention. One issue on the agenda was Sandra's putting a bullet in Farley Durrell's leg. True, she had saved Farley from being murdered by Nabeel Asuty and his thugs and should be commended by her superiors for quick thinking, if not flair for improvising, but both knew their bureaucracy would view the action outside the norm. As very “sticky.” Administrative criticism could be expected.

Shifting her weight and hitting the wheel with both hands, Sandra let out a long groan. “This mission sucks! Nothing has gone right. I want to go back to Paris.”

“Pull over. I'll drive,” Stone said, and surprisingly she pulled off onto a dirt shoulder. Stone hoped he'd have the good sense to remain silent and allow her to talk, tell him her concerns.

The surrounding neighborhood consisted of elegant homes placed on expansive lots. Traffic had been almost nonexistent since leaving the city, but as they exited and walked around the car to change positions, a black SUV approached from the other direction, slowed, and stopped opposite them.

The moment the SUV's windows lowered, Stone, standing in the open, yelled, “Take cover!”

His Sig Sauer was out at the same time gun barrels emerged from the front and rear windows of the SUV. Bullets whizzed by Stone's head and slammed into the car. The windshield shattered behind him.

Stone ducked behind the open driver's door, using it as a shield. He returned fire.

Crouching in front of the grille, Sandra began shooting with a controlled two-shot sequence. By now the front window of the rental was gone. The attackers' rounds penetrated the car door Stone used for cover. Gun empty, he needed the other magazine inside the pocket of his coat, which was lying on the car seat.

He dove headlong into the car and squirmed over to the passenger side. Finding the spare magazine in his coat, he scrambled out the other side.

Sandra had shifted position from the front of the car to the trunk area and was in the midst of reloading. The SUV crept along the road, maintaining rapid fire. Reloaded, Stone bent down next to Sandra and steadied his pistol with both hands. He aimed and fired at the SUV's tailgate window. The window fell apart, revealing a bearded man in sunglasses.

Stone lined his sights and eased off two rounds. The man's sunglasses flew from his face, and his gun dropped out of the vehicle. The driver accelerated, peeling rubber from the SUV's rear tires.

The two watched the vehicle disappear. Out of breath, they leaned on the car's trunk. She said, “Good thing they left. I'm out of ammo.”

Examining his Sig Sauer, Stone said, “Not a bad weapon. Fairly accurate. I nailed one of them.”

“By my count, there were two more. One looked like Nabeel Asuty.”

They straightened and looked around. No movement came from the nearby homes. Either they were accustomed to gunfire in their neighborhood, or were wise enough to stay indoors when shootings occurred.

“I'll phone for help,” Sandra said. “This car isn't going anywhere. A bullet must have hit a hose in the engine compartment. Hear the hissing?”

In less than ten minutes, a car arrived from the ambassador's residence. Owen, dreadlocks flopping, who the two had met at the safe house the previous night, jumped out. After assuring neither required medical attention, he inspected the rental car. “The rental company won't like this, but then carjackings aren't unusual here.” He ordered them into his car. “We have to get out of here in case they return.”

They retrieved their luggage from the trunk while Owen checked the inside of the car for any belongings. Before getting into the car, Stone ran over and with his handkerchief picked up the pistol that had dropped out of the SUV. He came back and asked, “Shouldn't we gather up our brass?”

Owen looked puzzled.

“The brass. The expended cartridges lying on the ground.” After Stone had said it, the absurdity of the question hit him. “Guess we shouldn't be worried about the crime scene.” Handing the pistol to him, Stone said, “Here's one of their guns. We may get a make on a fingerprint.”

They drove away at a normal speed. Owen asked Stone, sitting in the backseat, to check behind them for any suspicious cars, and he began a dry-cleaning run along the back roads to the ambassador's home.

Sandra spoke up. “I'll bet Nabeel Asuty's pissed.”

“Stupid move on his part,” Stone said. “Makes me wonder why he did it, and if they are the terrorists who want the bomb, why are they still here in Cape Town?”