The African Contract

by Arthur Kerns

  Bunting wasted no time getting to the point. “Mr. Houston. I attended a soirée the other evening at the residence of one Dawid van Wartt.”

  “Yes, sir,” Houston murmured.

  “I observed out the window, perched in a tree, a drone in the shape of a bird. Remarkably realistic, I might add.” Bunting stopped to let what he said settle in and continued. “One of yours, Mr. Houston?”

  He stammered and shook his head. “It wasn’t my operation.” Houston looked directly into Bunting’s eyes. “I only know about it because the team flew in from Washington and hit me for hotel accommodations. They arrived two weeks ago. I’m not in the loop.”

  “I trust your boss, the station chief in Pretoria, is aware of what’s happening on his turf.”

  Houston nodded.

  “For two weeks this operation has been going on?”

  No answer at first, then a nod.

  “The target is …” Bunting pretended to hesitate before asking, “Me?”

  “Good God, no. Not you, sir!” he blurted. “That Arab fellow. What’s his name? Wahab something.”

  Bunting tried to remember the people he had met at the party. The name Wahab didn’t ring a bell. “What does he look like?”

  “About our height, a little less than six feet. Fortyish. Well groomed and dressed. Trimmed black beard.”

  M. R. D. Houston knew enough about the operation that he was certain of the target’s description. Bunting let the young man fidget. Finally, he asked, “This Wahab is important if you’re spending all these resources on him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why is he so important?”

  “Well, sir …” Houston took a deep breath. “You’ll get this from the station chief, so …”

  “I’ll act surprised when I talk with your boss. Please, go on.”

  “A couple of months ago, Wahab was involved in the death of two case officers on the French Riviera.”

  “I see,” Bunting said. He started walking back to the Land Rover. “I return to Pretoria tomorrow afternoon. Tell your boss I want to meet with him on this matter.”

  “Yes, Mr. Ambassador.”

  As they climbed into the vehicle, Bunting looked at his watch. It was close to noon. He wondered if his colleague, Colonel Gustave Frederick, had arrived in his spacious seventh-floor office at Langley. A call to him was in order. Did he have a hand in this operation?

  Ambassador Bunting chose a table within the enclosed patio area set off from the main dining room. Dusk was in the process of bringing its shadows and warm colors onto the waterfront of Cape Town’s Victoria and Alfred complex. He readjusted his silverware setting, placed the blue linen napkin on his lap, and sipped his ice water. He would wait to order his cocktail until Patience arrived.

  She fluttered in, looked around, saw him, and hurried to his table. She reminded him of one of those English schoolgirls: bright, fresh, earnest. Her motions at times were birdlike. Is this what had attracted him?

  “Sorry I’m a bit late. Last minute details at the office. Traffic.”

  He rose and pushed in her chair. “No problem. Care for a drink?”

  “A wine. Riesling, please.”

  He ordered a South African vintage for her, and for himself, a negroni cocktail. She wore a charcoal pinstriped business suit. Skirt cut to the knee. She had a curl to her hair, and her eyes were deep blue.

  “So,” she said. “How are the arrangements for the reception coming along?”

  She had agreed to help him host a dinner at the official ambassador’s residence the following week. The US Embassy had two ambassador’s residences: the main one in Pretoria, the other in Cape Town.

  “Coming on quite well. We’ll have about seventy guests, and the household staff is getting things organized. I’ll be back from Pretoria the day before the event.”

  “Anything special I should do for you?”

  “Not really. I passed your name and telephone number on to my secretary, and of course I’ll be in touch with you during the week. I really appreciate your help.”

  For the first time since arriving, she appeared to relax. As the drinks came, the Italian ambassador ambled by with his wife, acknowledging Bunting with a wink. Nothing like being seen in public with a beautiful woman.

  As the maître d’ led the Italians to their table, he turned back to Patience. “I’m glad we met at the Van Wartts’ party. It was a rather interesting affair, don’t you think?”

  She nodded, and as if pondering the question, asked, “How so?”

  “I don’t know. Quite a varied group in attendance. Do you know that fellow Abdul Wahab?”

  “Oh, that dreadful man married to Lady Beatrice. He has two wives. Can you imagine?”

  “How does Lady Beatrice handle that?”

  Patience shrugged. She remained close to him, and he caught whiffs of her perfume. The same scent she had worn at the Van Wartts’ party. For a brief second, he imagined how it would be to unbutton her blouse and, quickly, unsnap her bra and massage what had to be luscious breasts. The skin matching her ivory complexion.

  “This Abdul Wahab,” he continued. “He and Dawid van Wartt are close friends?”

  She placed her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand. Controlled now, looking as if she was waiting for his next question, her eyes became vivid blue.

  “You’re probably thinking I’m trying to pump you … for information.”

  Gradually the warmth returned to her face. She picked up on the double entendre, straightened, and said, “Shall I order for both of us?”

  They had the same seafood main course. The linefish catch of the day, something foreign to Bunting, was well prepared, moist and with a unique meaty texture. In the distance, the setting sun spotlighted Table Mountain, and the city lights started to flicker. While debating dessert, Patience again leaned toward him, motioning that he should do likewise.

  “You’re going to tell me a secret, aren’t you,” he said, his hand touching hers.

  “Wahab is being watched by the government.”

  “I see.”

  “He arrived recently and has been using all his contacts in an effort to remain in Cape Town. There are important people here who sympathize with his political views. Van Wartt is a risk taker when it comes to business, and somehow he and Wahab have something cooking.”

  “That’s very interesting.”

  “I’ll skip dessert and have a cappuccino,” she said.

  “Me too.” He was still whispering. “I know you sail, but perchance do you play tennis?”

  “I’m very good at sports.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Cape Town—August 12, 2002

  Abdul Wahab, shielded from the wind in the protected veranda, glared out over the choppy sea. The winter August wind brought the temperature down below sixty degrees Fahrenheit. He turned up the collar of his Harris Tweed jacket and leaned back in the white wicker chair. Next to him, on the table, rested his leather-bound copy of the Koran and a dog-eared copy of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales in Middle English.

  The butler, Dingane, a handsome man with streaks of gray in his close-cropped hair, laid down a Limoges tea service next to him. A chocolate-coated biscotto lay next to the cup and saucer. Without asking, he poured his employer a cup of Ceylon tea. Wahab enjoyed the English custom of afternoon tea, although he preferred having it, like now, during late morning.

  The home, built into a steep mountain slope, overlooked the expansive shoreline of Bantry Bay lined with white beach houses. A relaxing view, yet somehow he found it boring. His wife Beatrice had purchased the home a while back, while married to that American tycoon from Silicon Valley. Absentmindedly, he stroked his neatly trimmed moustache and goatee. He had to admit, Cape Town was pleasant, but it lacked the panache of the French Riviera.

  Thinking about the Riviera made him uncomfortable. Only a few months ago, he had to flee Villefranche bef
ore the French authorities arrested him for importing narcotics. His father-in-law, a Saudi prince, had for all practical purposes disowned him. Of course he, Wahab, for that matter, had all but abandoned the prince’s daughter to a mental asylum near Jeddah. There was the matter of his connections with the terrorist groups—the brothers no longer viewed him as reliable. And of course the CIA. Had they connected the death of their two people on the Riviera to him?

  All these problems because of one man: Hayden Stone. Now that same man had come to Africa, and Wahab’s first attempt to even the score had failed. Whoever talked him into that snake stunt in Monrovia? That weasel, Nabeel Asuty. Then he sends four fools to Monrovia to kill him. Idiot.

  Behind him the glass door slid open and his wife, Lady Beatrice, marched out. She wore a beige twill suit over a pink blouse. A matching scarf covered her hair.

  “Dear Abdul. Don’t tell me you are sitting here moping.”

  “Just having tea, my dear. And a cigarette.” He pulled out his silver cigarette case.

  “Don’t light up now. That awful Egyptian is in the reception area waiting to speak with you.” She went to the railing and looked back and forth across the landscape. Turning back to him, he said, “Really, you shouldn’t invite that type to our home. For God’s sake, join a club in town to entertain people like that.”

  “A good idea,” he said, starting to rise. “Where are you off to?”

  “The museum. I’m meeting with women from the National Gallery.”

  Next to the marble pedestal displaying a bust of Apollo, Nabeel Asuty sat in a gray cushioned accent chair, legs crossed, dangling his right shoe, a knockoff Gucci. Dingane hovered about the reception area, keeping an eye on him. Wahab approached and extended a cordial greeting. Nabeel rose and presented a saccharine smile. Wahab thought the man’s obsequiousness complimented his coarse facial features.

  “Nabeel, my friend, let me show you to the garage.”

  A dark shadow crossed Nabeel’s eyes. Wahab knew him to be touchy on matters of courtesy. Could it be his humble origins? Quickly, he followed up by saying, “I have purchased a new toy I want to show off.” He whispered, “Much more private out there.”

  The saccharine smile returned.

  Wahab led him along the driveway to the detached garage that overlooked a fifty-foot drop to another home.

  “You live well, Abdul Wahab.”

  In Arabic, he responded, “God is good.” They entered the garage, and he pointed to a green Jaguar XK-150 roadster. “A beauty, no?”

  Nabeel agreed, walked up to the car, and sat on the front bumper. “May I smoke?”

  “I’d rather you not.” Wahab tensed to the man’s impudence. “And if you don’t mind, do not sit on the car.” Nabeel rose and walked to the closed garage door and stared out at the ocean below. “What news do you bring?” Wahab asked.

  Nabeel made a display of changing his attitude to one of cordiality. “My friend, our brothers in Sierra Leone are an undisciplined lot. They talk jihad, but are more interested in dealing in diamonds and gold.”

  “And there are other problems, yes?”

  “Yes. This American, Hayden Stone, is a nuisance. Have you ever met him?”

  “I have seen him … and met him.” In Afghanistan and on the Riviera.

  “In Freetown, I met him in a café and learned that he is arrogant. I sent two of our people to handle him.” Nabeel glowered.

  Wahab shook his head slowly. “They are now enjoying Paradise. No?”

  Nabeel looked down at his feet.

  “And in Monrovia, the snake made a mistake and bit the wrong man. Then you send four of your men to kill him and that ends badly. And Mr. Stone lives on. He appears too much for you.”

  Wahab watched Nabeel stiffen as he walked up to his Jaguar, took out his handkerchief, and wiped down the front bumper where Nabeel had sat. “I have a complicated task before me. This task, if accomplished, will far surpass Osama bin Laden’s 9/11 glorious victory. Our world will cheer our work, and they will write poems that will be recited for centuries.” Wahab laughed to himself. If he continued on this vein, the rich, poetic Arabic language he was speaking would soon take him off in irrelevant directions.

  He cleared his throat and brought himself back to business. “I need assistance from competent people to carry out this mission.”

  “You need not worry about me, Wahab.” Nabeel smirked.

  “I do when you murder your lovers. The ones you tell too much in the heat of passion. While smoking hashish. Especially when those lovers are Afrikaners.”

  Nabeel froze. His body appeared to shrink within his suit. The eyes pleaded.

  “Yes, I know what goes on in Freetown,” Wahab said in a low tone. “Now go back there. Await orders, and come up with a sound plan to kill Hayden Stone. Rather, come up with a number of plans. Contact me before you do anything.”

  CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  Elizabeth Kerr knocked on the door twice, and then stepped from the quiet corridor into a noisy room filled with people in motion. Twenty-four hours before, top officials on the seventh floor at CIA headquarters had given their imprimatur to form this ad hoc working group to address the problem in Namibia. The group’s team leader, John Matterhorn, an older man with thinning brown hair and wire-rimmed eyeglasses, came up to her.

  “Good to see you, Elizabeth. Come with me. We’ll find a corner and talk a bit.”

  She knew John and his wife, who was also a CIA case officer. Kerr’s family and his were old friends. He had recommended Elizabeth to an acquaintance for employment at NIMA, the National Imagery and Mapping Agency located in the suburbs of Northern Virginia. Another case of Washington beltway networking in the intelligence community.

  “I got the word to report here this morning,” she said, looking around at the controlled turmoil. Some of the staff chattered happily as they lugged computers and pushed file cabinets around the room. Others slowly arranged desks and chairs, pausing at times to assess their fellow workers. Elizabeth surmised the happy ones were glad to be assigned to the group; the others looked as if they wished they were back at their old jobs.

  “Bit hectic for now,” John said. “But in a day or so, things will be running smoothly. Always does.” Pushing two chairs together, he motioned for her to sit. “You’re responsible for all this.” He waved his hand. “Good work on finding that nuclear thermal source. The director is very, very interested in this project.”

  “John. One problem. I can’t be here all the time. My organization insists that we keep monitoring the target from our location. Anything we pick up will be transmitted or carried here.”

  He pushed his glasses back on his nose. She knew what he was thinking. Her people would not allow CIA to have control of their equipment or their sources and methods. Agencies in Washington, DC, didn’t survive lending their techniques to other agencies, even for a short term. Rarely were they returned.

  “I understand. In that case you’ll be travelling back and forth a lot. I want you to know the success of this program rests a great deal on your shoulders. Any new developments out there in the Kalahari?”

  Elizabeth opened her briefcase. “Here are some photos you’ll find interesting. They were taken about two weeks ago, ten o’clock in the morning Namibia time.” John studied the overhead photographs taken of a boxcar sitting on a railroad siding in the desert. Two figures stood nearby next to an ATV. He flipped through the pictures quickly, stopping to closely examine one in particular.

  “Is this their helicopter?” Without waiting for an answer, he asked, “French make?”

  “It’s an older Aerospatiale SA 330. Called a Puma.” She pointed. “See, they stowed the ATV in it.”

  “How many people, all together?”

  “We saw four men standing around the helicopter. Two drove in an ATV to the site but didn’t stay at the boxcar for long. They took some readings with what we think was a Geiger co
unter and hurried off.”

  John pointed to a spot some distance from the boxcar. “Who are these two figures over there?”

  She paged through the photographs John held and pulled one out. “Here’s a closer shot. Two young men or boys were watching from behind a bush. Appeared to be hiding. Afterward, they walked toward the nearby town of Bruin Karas.”

  “Which direction did the helicopter take?”

  “North toward Angola. That’s when … we lost our window.” Kerr hesitated. “The satellite had to be switched to a target in Iraq.”

  “You’re kidding! Who the hell ordered that?”

  “A request from you people. The CIA.”

  “I see. Any idea who the four were?”

  “All four were male,” Kerr said. “Caucasian or light skinned. Dressed European fashion. That’s all.”

  John sat back, silent. Elizabeth thought she saw his mind working. This would be the first time she had seen him engaged professionally. In the past they had been together only socially for dinners or at the Tuckahoe Tennis Club.

  He picked up the stack of photos and snapped through the sheets while he talked. “This is some form of nuclear device. Large, not suitcase size, which we all worry about.” He paused at one photo showing the two men at the boxcar. “South Africa had a nuclear weapons program a while back when they controlled Namibia.” He restacked the photographs on the desk. “Lord knows how many of these things are floating around the world.”

  “I’ll get a cable out to the chief of station in Luanda. Don’t know how good our Angolan sources are, but we’ll try to come up with their identities. Did you get any markings or numbers on the that helicopter?”

  She handed him a sheet of paper.

  “Good. We’ll get this out right away.” He looked around the room. “That is once we get the computers up and running. Namibia is another story. That’s a one-case officer post, and she’s back stateside for surgery. The COS in Embassy Pretoria is covering that post, which may work to our benefit.”

  The noise level increased in the room as people jostled one another, avoiding bumping into the incoming office furniture. John suggested they go to the ground-floor cafeteria between the new and old office buildings and have a cup of coffee.