The African Contract (22 page)

“Hope your buddy Bull has come to release us,” Stone said.

They waited for someone to release the latch on one of the doors. Stone and his companions got to their feet and heard an unwelcomed voice.

“Well, CIA spies. The time has come. You did not truly believe you would live?”

It was Nabeel Asuty's voice, and they soon learned what he had in mind. A hissing sound came from below the wooden floor, and through the cracks in the planks he saw a crimson glow. Smoke started creeping into the boxcar.

“Would have preferred to saw off your head, Mr. Stone. You too, blonde slut.”

As the motorcycle took off, Sandra growled, “Let's make a pact. If anyone lives, that asshole dies.”

A second flare had been placed at the opposite end of the car. It took no time for the dry planks to catch fire and burn hot. The smoke proved the immediate problem—they would be asphyxiated before they burned to death. The two red glowing areas lit the inside of the car, and through the smoke, Stone watched Lange place both arms around Sandra. He should be the one doing that.

One of the hot spots burst into flames and the heat became oppressive. Stone wondered if he could jump through one of the flaming holes to the outside, but quickly realized the choking smoke would not allow them the time to wait for a hole to form.

“Our only chance is to break open this door,” Stone yelled. “Let's hit it. All at once!”

They repeatedly slammed their bodies against the door. Stone knew he ached from the beatings he received and knew his companions hurt. Their determination to open the door despite their pain impressed him.

The flames came from both sides, and all coughed from the smoke. Finally the aged planking holding the latch gave. They yanked the door open and cool air rushed in. All three leaped from the boxcar, landing and rolling on the ground.

Not long after, as they sat on the dirt and coughed, Bull and a youngster drove up, came over, and passed around a water jug. The railcar roared in flames. All lifted their heads as the old plane lumbered above them.

“There goes the bomb,” Bull said.

The flames reflected off the plane's gray undercarriage. There were no aircraft identification markings. Just as they heard the last of the C-119's engines, another smaller twin-engine propjet flew overhead and turned south in the opposite direction.

“Mr. Van Wartt and Abdul Wahab returning to Cape Town.” Bull searched their faces and asked, “Would have expected any competent military operation to have a backup, aye Mr. Dirk Lange?”

“Our backup must have stopped for coffee,” Stone said.

“Quite the joker, Yank,” Bull said. “But there is a bit of Armageddon on that plane.”

Stone wanted to thank him for his part in having the bomb get into the hands of the terrorists, but considering he held a submachine gun, thought better of it.

“I'll try to find my phone,” Sandra said, groaning as she raised herself. “I ditched it before surrendering. Do you mind?”

“Take this torch, miss,” Bull said, handing her a flashlight. “Watch out for the creatures.”

Stone offered to go with her, and they walked carefully toward the spot where she had hidden. In short time they found her phone and the Glock she had left there.

“Hide it under your shirt,” Stone said. “Our friend Bull would more likely suspect me of having it.”

“
Really
?”

“Sweetheart, you know me better than to be chauvinistic, but Bull's world is a few years behind.”

“Don't give me that ‘Sweetheart' shit.”

“Sandra. Did you notice the friction between Abdul Wahab and his man Asuty?”

“Yeah. Trouble in paradise.”

“Might have saved our lives.”

“And how about that Bull and his buddy Van Wartt?” Sandra whispered as they neared Bull and Lange.

“Lucky for us Bull has a mind of his own.”

When they came up to the two Afrikaners, it was apparent they had established some sort of bond. The two men conversed as they walked to the Land Rover. At the same time, Lange motioned for Stone and Sandra to follow. They passed the burning hulk of railcar throwing a trail of sparks to the star-crowded sky.

Sandra phoned Colonel Frederick. “Colonel, I have some news. Asuty has taken off flying north with the nuclear bomb in an unmarked C-119.” Pause. “We couldn't stop him … We were captured—” She stopped and swirled around toward the boxcar fire. Stone saw from her body movements that Frederick was doing all the talking and from her nervous “Yeses” and “Rights” that he was pissed. At one point she suggested he talk with Stone, but when Sandra threw up her free hand, Stone knew he was not going to speak with him.

The conversation ended with her saying she'd wait for further instructions. She whispered to Stone, “Frederick was only an hour from landing here. He's decided to return to the staging area. Someone will come and pick us up. I think he said early morning.” She put her phone in her pocket. Touching his shoulder, she added, “He suggested I tell you something.”

“Oh?”

“Retire.”

Bull Rhyton's homestead was a mile away from the town of Bruin Karas and a quarter mile off the paved road. Dinner consisted of leftover breakfast
putu
porridge, venison sausage, and fresh oven-baked biscuits, hard on the outside, soft inside. Bull passed around jerky, called
biltong
.

Mrs. Rhyton, a stout woman with graying hair and weather-worn features, did not conceal her dislike for the Americans, but Stone watched Bull pull her aside and point to Sandra. She bent over and touched her bruised face, and tenderly led her toward the bedroom. In between tut-tuts, Stone heard her tell Sandra she had medicines for the cuts. The children, barefoot and bronzed, wandered through the kitchen, and even the youngest, not much over six years old, wasn't hesitant to look Stone straight in the eye.

At the kitchen table huddled over their meals, Dirk Lange and Bull spoke in low tones peppered with
ja-nee
, the non-committal Afrikaner phrase for “yes, no,” and used when nothing else comes to mind. Stone took his plate out to the front porch open to the sky. He sat on a wooden crate and gazed up, remembering Sandra's words on how dark it got in places like this, in the middle of nowhere. Dark it was, except for stars so many and so bright that it was impossible for him to make out their constellations. The moon's mountain ranges etched its brilliant surface.

Hayden Stone knew his impatience had led to a bad decision. He should have stayed with his group and not approached the boxcar. It had been a trap and he fell into it—like a greenhorn. The blame for the terrorists escaping with the bomb rested on his shoulders. Colonel Frederick had reason to be disgusted. He had screwed up before, but never with such potential consequences.

Bad situations had been turned around in the past. He'd do so again, he was certain. Still. Flying somewhere over the vastness of Africa, jihadists had a nuclear weapon and planned to use it against the West. Maybe if the gods were on the right side that relic of an airplane wouldn't make it to its destination.

Bull came out the screen door and sat next to him. He held two mason jars with clear liquid. “I gave your comrades pain pills. Do you want one?”

“No. Thank you.” Stone looked down at the drinks.

Bull huffed. “You were the one who took the worst beating. Maybe this is more to your liking.” He handed Stone a jar. “Not a very fancy glass for an American.”

“This is how we drink our moonshine back home.” Stone took a good gulp and, as expected, felt the burning slide down his throat. “Nice and mild.”

Bull grunted.

“If you knew where that plane was headed, would you tell me?”

“I wouldn't tell you.”

Therefore, Bull would tell Dirk, not me the Yank
. “Would Van Wartt tell me?”

“Dawie van Wartt doesn't talk to your kind.” Bull leaned his elbows on his knees. “Dawie is happy to be rid of the whole mess.”

“Did you hear Abdul Wahab mention where Asuty was headed?”

“Wahab. Now there's a slippery devil. I don't think you'd have a problem getting the information from him. For the right price.”

There it was again. The black-and-white image of Abdul Wahab as an adversary fogged. Stone took another drink and let the alcohol seep down into his body, dulling the pain.

Bull said as he got up, “Guess you have to ask Nabeel Asuty where the bomb is.”

“When I meet Asuty again, a conversation is not on the agenda.”

The next day, Stone waited on the side of the red-dirt runway, taking in the sweet liquid of an African morning. Sandra's phone buzzed. From the speaker Stone heard a familiar voice he hadn't expected—Jacob, his Mossad friend. Minutes later a large helicopter made a wide sweep around the airfield. The three miniature motorcycles and the equipment that Asuty's jihadists hadn't pilfered were staged for loading. As if not to have guilty knowledge, Stone turned away when Lange handed one of the Browning rifles to Bull. A token of appreciation from Lange for saving their lives.

Stone watched Bull's nephew, Corneliu, whisper to his uncle. Bull came up to Stone. “My nephew says the same copter landed here some days ago. People who were in it got out and inspected the boxcar.”

The helicopter landed, blowing dust and gravel over everyone. Stone watched Jacob hop out the door. He wasn't smiling.

Over the noise of the rotors winding down, Jacob yelled, “You fucked up, Stone. Big time.”

“Any idea where the jihadists are?” Stone asked.

Jacob now had a coughing spell and motioned for them to move away from swirling dust. Given his cough, Stone was surprised to see that Jacob looked healthier than the last time they had met.

“They were heading north,” Jacob said. “I suspect toward Libya.”

“They'd have to stop for fuel a couple of times,” Stone said. “Probably near Luanda, Angola first.”

The pilot cut the engines and dust sank silently around them. Stone had a few questions for Jacob—first, what Frederick was up to.

“He's in Windhoek with the two planes. He's waiting to get a fix on the C-119 carrying the bomb,” Jacob said. “Your satellites lost contact with it.”

Stone thought a moment. “My guess is Asuty brought in a nuclear engineer, and he discovered the bomb was leaking radiation. Somehow they masked or patched the bomb, or whatever those nuclear people do. Our satellites probably can't detect any emission signatures.” He watched the miniature motorcycles being loaded aboard the helicopter. “Where are we going?”

“I'm taking you back to South Africa.” Jacob looked away. “Just as well. Colonel Frederick is in a foul mood. Best you not meet with him now.”

“Any word on Wahab or Van Wartt?”

“I have it on good authority that Mr. Dawid van Wartt is headed for some extensive legal problems in his country,” Jacob said. “As far as Abdul Wahab is concerned, he may have lucked out.”

“How's that?”

Jacob spat. “You'll have to bring the matter up with your Colonel Frederick when you see him next.”

CIA Headquarters—August 20, 2002

Elizabeth Kerr stopped in front of the metal security door and tapped five numbers on the keypad. The lock clicked open and she walked into the special task force office space. In more than a week the fourteen-person group gave the appearance of having been together for months. Maps and posters were pinned to the off-white walls; piles of files and books lay scattered on desks along with various-shaped coffee mugs.

As she started for John Matterhorn's glass-enclosed office in the corner of the expansive space, flashing yellow warning lights suspended from the dull white ceiling startled her. They served to alert the office staff that non-CIA or non-cleared visitors were present in the office space, so safeguard classified material.

Kerr halted. Furious. This was the third time it happened. Everyone on the staff knew she was from the National Imagery and Mapping Agency, with security clearances on her dossier that matched theirs and a few additional accesses most of them hadn't heard of. These people knew she was the reason for their existence as a task force. She had seen the blip on her computer indicating a nuclear emission originating in southern Africa. Because of her perseverance, her superiors followed up on the discovery and notified the CIA. Clutching her folder, she turned to leave when the chief, John Matterhorn, ran out of his office toward her.

“Elizabeth.” He led her to his office. “I'm sorry. It won't happen again.”

If it weren't for their family connections, she would have told John to take his task force and his surly, insular people and stick them all up his ass. She had calmed a bit by the time she entered his office and settled in a chair across from him. John began sorting out the photographs and data sheets she laid before him. Lost in studying the material, it appeared he had let the earlier flashing light incident pass—she hadn't.

“John, before we start analyzing this data, please explain what happened in Namibia yesterday.”

He removed his glasses and cleaned them with an ironed handkerchief he pulled from his back pocket. A heavy sigh followed. Carefully he replaced them, avoiding her gaze. “Things did not go as planned.”

“Yes, I know. The plane flew off with the bomb.” She let the words hang.

“Our people were captured, tortured. Thank goodness, they're alive.” He avoided her gaze. “We have alerted CIA stations in Angola and the Congo. We're setting up an interception in the Chad region.”

“Interception?”

“We're looking for an asset in one of the foreign air forces. Force the plane down, you know?”

Kerr looked out John's office and saw his people on the phones, walking back and forth with papers in their hands. These people with all their sources and analysis hadn't a clue where the plane was now, or was headed. She did.

“John. Look at this map and this readout.” She slid them in front of him. “Five hours ago we identified what we believe is our target aircraft flying over the northern region of Angola. The direction of the flight was still due north.”

“How?” John looked up. “Is the bomb leaking again? Is that how you found it again?”

“No. It's not leaking.”

Then how …?”

“We have a new satellite. Polyphemus.”

John moved close to her. “Really?”

“Not to get overly specific, the satellite …” She searched for words not too technical and not too revealing of her agency's sensitive information. “The satellite took an image of the plane while it was parked on the Bruin Karas runway. Sort of a three-dimensional fingerprint. The image is in the satellite's computer memory, and it can search for the plane using the stored criteria.”

“So you know where it is all the time?”

“No. The technology's not perfected. Weather, clouds play havoc with the input.” She folded her hands on the table. “You can imagine the problems with the tropical storms.”

John studied the map and the data in front of him. “It was here five hours ago. Looks like the intended destination is Libya.”

“Maybe.”

“I know what you're thinking. We're fixated on Libya.”

“What really happened on the ground in Namibia? I thought you had your top man there.”

John raised his hands. “We did. Gus Frederick told me his people fell into a trap. He's very irritated with Hayden Stone.”

“John, you can say it. He's damn pissed off. As he should be.”

“Yes, Gus is disappointed.”

“So get a new man.”

John Matterhorn studied her. “We all make mistakes. All have setbacks.” He looked down at the report as he spoke. “For years Gus and Stone have had running battles. Sort of like an ongoing Kabuki dance.”

“This is no time for dancing.”

“Hayden Stone always comes through.”

Kerr murmured, “Yeah.”

Matterhorn's assistant knocked on the door. “Miss Kerr. You have a call on the Green Phone.”

Kerr left the office and went to the long table by the far wall holding a bank of secure phones. When she left his office, she heard John instruct his assistant to pass the word that the warning lights were not to be turned on when Kerr came in.

A few minutes later Kerr returned and sat waiting for John to finish his own phone call. When he hung up, he said, “Latest position we have for our target is over the Congo River. Moving faster than we thought it would. Wonder where the next refuel stop will be.” “Another bit of information. One of its two engines is giving it some problems,” Kerr said.

“Polyphemus can see that? Amazing.” He thought a second. “Good news. That'll slow them down or force them to land.”

“Something else. The direction of flight is shifting slightly to the west.”

“Ah. North by northwest.”

“Sorry, John. That's only a movie title. On a compass rose the direction is north-northwest.”

He looked up on the map of Africa on his wall. “That is not in the direction of Libya, is it? Unless they were blown off course.”

“More in the direction of Gabon or Cameroon,” Kerr said. “We should know in a little while. Unfortunately, Polyphemus is down right now.”

Cape Town

At the CIA safe house, Hayden Stone tried to relax on the wooden deck overlooking a gloomy False Bay. The gray, overcast sky accompanied a wintry wind from the beach. A doctor and nurse from the American Consulate were examining Sandra's and Dirk Lange's multiple injuries. Stone volunteered to be treated after them. He knew none of his bones were broken, although he had large welts and bruises on his chest and legs. The two gashes in his scalp might need stitches.

That morning they had flown back on Jacob's helicopter and were dropped off at a nearby airport. The Mossad agent had fidgeted and huffed the entire flight. Jacob kept saying, “Shouldn't have let them take it.”

An hour out of Cape Town, Stone leaned close to him and said he knew that the same helicopter they were in had landed a few days ago near the boxcar and the occupants had inspected the bomb.

“Were you one of the people the CIA satellite saw?”

Jacob answered with one of his token sour looks. Before they parted, he handed Stone a phone number. “Contact me if you hear anything,” Jacob said. “Contact me if you don't.”

The nurse came out on the deck and told Stone it was his turn to be checked. “Your friend Sandra Harrington will need X-rays,” she said. “We're worried about her. She's on the way to the clinic.”

Lange came out of the bedroom being used as an examining room. “Thanks for having your people look me over. No broken bones, just this eye, which they advised I have a specialist look at.” He bit his lip. “Worried about Sandra. She may have a cracked rib or two.”

Stone found Lange's concern for Sandra annoying. “Suppose you'll report back to your service,” he said. “I wonder how they'll react when you tell them what you've been up to.” “I've been informed that your embassy has notified my government about the bomb. Officials in Pretoria must be in turmoil. Can you imagine when they hear that one of their nuclear bombs was stolen? And by a leading member of the white community? They'll want to know why I didn't inform them about our trip to Namibia.”

“So they didn't know anything about Van Wartt or Abdul Wahab? They had no idea what they were up to?”

“Not exactly. Let's just say our intelligence services are covering their activities.”

Stone decided to remain silent. Let Lange reveal as much as he thought he could.

Lange touched his swollen eye. “My home office is in disarray. I've been telling the friends I trust about what's been happening. My service may be taken over by the politicos, the crowd who made up the ANC's infamous secret service,
Mbokodo,
during apartheid. If the politicos take over, my friends and I are out of work.” He laughed. “Lack of job security, as you Yanks would say.”

“Stay in touch,” Stone said. “We might put you on our rolls.”

“Two things before I go. I … we've come up with some information that may help in knowing where that plane is headed.” Lange sat on the edge of a folding chair. Stone did likewise. “Nabeel Asuty went to Abdul Wahab's villa immediately after Sandra shot her former, uh, friend, Farley Durrell.”

Interesting. Did Dirk see Farley as a rival?
Things were close between Lange and Sandra, and he didn't quite approve.

Lange continued, “Asuty told Wahab that Farley was an infiltrator. They planned to kill him, but his plans were thwarted when gunfire erupted on the Victoria and Alfred pier. When Farley got shot in the leg.”

“Really?” Stone leaned back on the doorjamb.
Sounds like they listened in on the conversation. Should have known the South Africans had a bug or an informant in Wahab's villa.

“I remember one bit of interesting information. A mention was made that Farley was working with some shipping company in Cameroon. Douala, I believe.”

“Douala is north on the way to Libya.” Stone said.

“Exactly. No doubt, the CIA analysts debriefed Farley before they sent him back to the States.”

“It's worth checking.”

Lange leaned forward. “The second matter involves Sandra and me.” He looked down. “We're fond of each other. We both know this may cause problems with her employers and mine. I'm sure both organizations will take a hard look at our relationship.”

“This comes as a complete surprise to me,” Stone said with a straight face.

“Do you have problems with me being involved with Sandra? I mean, have you ever had ideas about her …?”

Stone took his time in answering. “Dirk. Sandra and I are business partners. We work well together. We like each other, but more important, we trust each other. When I was in the FBI, at times you needed a partner, and if you were lucky, they were good like Sandra. If so, you could count on them and they could count on you, especially when crunch time came. Adding romance to the equation brings complications.”

“Thanks. That's a relief.” Lange got up and they shook hands.

Stone watched Lange carry out his gear and get in a car with a CIA staffer. He hoped Sandra wasn't getting herself into another romantic mess. More than that, he resented Lange moving in on Sandra. What would that do to his relationship with her? Nothing positive. From the window, Stone watched the car depart for Cape Town.

He found the doctor waiting in the room—a man with a Pakistani accent. As Stone suspected, he had no broken bones and didn't need stitches for the two gashes in his scalp. The doctor handed him a bottle of pills for his headaches. The pain came from a slight concussion, he was told.

One of the CIA technicians looked in the door and said, “Colonel Frederick wants to speak with you … on the computer.”

Stone went to the communications room and sat before a laptop. The last message on the screen read:

Get me Stone. NOW.

Fredrick was still pissed. He would have to be diplomatic. He typed:

Hi, Colonel. We all made it back. Sandra is having her ribs x-rayed for fractures. Dirk's
eye
may give him problems. I've a concussion. Any leads on the plane?

Stone waited for over five minutes. Frederick responded, and Stone watched the letters form into words across the screen.

The plane with the package you let get out of your hands is somewhere over the Congo River. What did Jacob say? Did he have anything important to give us?

Stone let out a whistle. Frederick's anger bounced from the computer screen. Couldn't exactly blame him.

Plan to meet with Jacob later today. Confident he will have something of value to give us.

A few minutes passed.

Stone. My confidence in you is very low today. Give me something.

What Lange said about the meeting of Asuty at Wahab's villa came to mind. Not much, but it was something.

Reason to believe Farley Durrell was working at a shipping company in Douala, Cameroon, before Asuty learned he was an informant. Did anyone look at Durrell's debrief after he left?

Another two-minute pause before Frederick responded.

We will look into that when we have time.

Stone typed quickly.

I can do it. What about Abdul Wahab? He may know where they are going. He may be receptive if the approach is right.

The answer came quick.

No, on both suggestions. Out.

Stone stared at the screen. It appeared Colonel Frederick no longer required his services. The colonel could be difficult at times. No matter. Stone would ignore him. He'd continue on the case. Colonel Frederick would have to accept it.