The African Contract

by Arthur Kerns

  Still hungry, he decided on a small storefront eatery where he took a seat looking out on the people passing by. The coffee was weak, but the egg concoction wrapped in phyllo dough was satisfying enough. In the back of the restaurant a jazz piece by Dave Brubeck played on a dusty tape machine. After an hour sitting at the table and drinking a second cup of bad coffee, he started to become an object of interest for the two bored Portuguese waiters. Settling his bill, he was heading back to his hotel when he spotted him.

  A hundred yards away, Jacob, wearing expensive leisure clothes, rose from a café table under a blue-striped umbrella. The Mossad officer threw coins on the table and, tapping a rolled-up newspaper in his right hand three distinct times, indicated it was safe to make contact. He turned away from Stone and headed toward the far end of the waterfront complex. Stone followed at a discreet distance.

  As they passed by various shops and exhibits, Stone’s antennas worked overtime. A number of times he saw what he believed were police or intelligence agents—and they probably were, he reasoned. The local authorities were keen on keeping this tourist attraction as free as possible from crime, and they’d be on the lookout for anyone suspicious. He believed he wasn’t their target. He also hoped Jacob, walking in front of him, hadn’t attracted attention.

  At the far end of the waterfront, Jacob stopped on the pier, leaned on the railing, and appeared to study the watercraft passing by. From the left a brisk breeze blew in off the Atlantic, and Stone zipped up his jacket. Few strollers had ventured this far from the center of business activity. Stone came up and leaned on the railing a few feet away.

  “I believe we’re clean,” Stone said.

  Jacob looked over. “I’d like better assurances than that, my friend.”

  “Hey. I did the best I could.” Stone waited. “After all, your people probably trained the local service.”

  Stone recognized the annoyed look on Jacob’s craggy face. The man had extensive sources in all tribes of the South African community: black, white, mixed races, and Asians. His intelligence organization had tight liaisons with the predecessors of the SASS. However, Jacob appeared uneasy with the domestic intelligence organization, the National Intelligence Service, the South African equivalent of the FBI. The NIS would be very interested in both Stone’s and Jacob’s activities inside South Africa.

  Stone spoke without looking at him. “I met Mr. Lange in Freetown. We had a very interesting time together.”

  “He told me.”

  Both men faced toward the water and talked into the wind.

  Stone said, “I understand an old opponent of mine is in town. Abdul Wahab. We had an encounter in France.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  Jacob’s complexion looked more sallow than it had in Monrovia when they last met. Perhaps it was the chill in the air. Stone knew that Jacob would tell him what he wanted, when he wanted. He had to be patient.

  Jacob took a deep breath, turned, and looked around at the people on the pier. Satisfied, he faced back into the wind.

  “Our Afrikaner, Dirk Lange, was impressed with you. Thank you for not embarrassing me.”

  Stone felt like saying he should shove his backhanded compliments, but again noted Jacob’s unhealthy pallor. A doctor’s visit was in order. However, Stone exercised caution. The only time Jacob showed any warmth to him was years ago at the memorial service for Jacob’s daughter in New York City. In the synagogue he had approached Stone and told him if Stone was to wear a yarmulke, for Christ’s sake wear it properly. Then gently he patted Stone’s shoulder twice. That was it.

  Stone let a moment pass. “You look like shit.”

  Finally a reaction. He shook his head and released an ever-so-thin smile that vanished as quickly as it came. “I’m concerned.” He coughed and spat over the railing. “Something is in the works and it may be too big for us to handle.”

  “I see.” Stone waited a moment. Jacob had good sources in this country. “What can you tell me?”

  “I’ll be brief. We can’t stay here long.” Jacob spoke quickly as if reciting from a numbered list. “Mr. Lange can be trusted just so far. He has his own issues. His intelligence service is going through a bit of turmoil. Lange may be looking for new employment.”

  A pause. “The changeover from apartheid is bringing party people into the secret service. They are not professionals, just apparatchiks. That is good for us.” Another pause. “Nabeel Asuty is coming in from Freetown to meet with Abdul Wahab. Both men are trouble. Neither has a particular liking for you.” After one more coughing spell, Jacob continued, “Wahab and Dawid van Wartt have established some form of arrangement. This looks to be our major problem.”

  “Who’s this Dawid van Wartt?”

  “We’ve been here too long. Let’s walk back into the crowd.”

  They walked in tandem back to the throng of shoppers and stopped at a storefront tourist shop. Behind dark wood African carvings, a little brightly colored desk flag stood upright in a penholder. It was the old regime’s flag. Jacob handed it to Stone after paying the proprietor in rands.

  “Van Wartt is a hard-line Boer. Wealthy. Connected with the intelligence service. High-ranking army officer for a while.” Jacob took the flag back from Stone. “He despises the West, especially your country.”

  “So?”

  “He’s selling something to the jihadists, something they are very anxious to get their hands on.”

  “Sounds like an arms deal.”

  “One would think, except for one thing, or two things for that matter. The first is Van Wartt isn’t concerned about the price they’ll pay.”

  Stone looked around at the people milling about. “So whatever it is, he wants them to have it. A biological, chemical, or nuclear weapon.”

  Jacob tensed and moved away, their meeting over. Stone would have to wait to know the second thing about Van Wartt’s dealings with Wahab and the jihadists. He walked to the entrance of the wharf complex and stopped at the parking lot. As he turned to go back to his hotel, a beat-up Land Rover pulled next to him and the driver, a young man with a set of jug ears, called out the parole, the recognition phrase to identify him as CIA. The young man instructed him to be at the Mount Nelson Hotel promptly at eight that night. The Land Rover sped away and Stone continued on to his hotel.

  From the pilothouse of his yacht, Dawid van Wartt watched Bull Rhyton lumber down the wooden pier. A big rock of a man with a “bull neck” and arms that bowed out from his muscular body, he approached the yacht’s gangplank and was stopped by the guard. Van Wartt called down and the guard allowed Rhyton to board.

  He led his visitor to the lounge and closed all the doors. Gusts blowing in from Table Bay rattled the hatches and slightly rolled the vintage thirty-meter craft. Rhyton settled himself into an armchair and rubbed his right knee.

  “Drink?” Van Wartt asked in Afrikaans. “Perhaps for that knee.”

  “Too early.” Rhyton’s red face inspected the inside of the cabin. “Nice.”

  “She’s an old craft, but sturdy.” He pointed. “You should have that Communist shrapnel removed. I know a good doctor.”

  He shook his head. “Agh.” Bull’s favorite negative expression.

  Van Wartt sat across from him and inwardly smiled. At fifty years of age, Bull still resembled an overgrown Boer teenager. His eyes spoke more than his tongue. Twenty-four years ago this man had been his sergeant when, as a new lieutenant, Van Wartt’s airborne unit was called up for the 1978 border raid into Angola. Their unit dropped into a rebel base, killed many Cubans and guerillas, and since, every year on May 4th, celebrated Cassinga Day. Last May, Van Wartt had asked his former sergeant if he would help him with his plan. The man had readily agreed … at first.

  “Well, my friend.” Van Wartt said. “How are things up north in the desert?”

  “Warmer than here.” The burly man had just driven three days from Bruin Karas, a hamlet sitting across the border in
Namibia, South Africa’s former territory of South West Africa. He hadn’t changed his soiled bush clothes.

  Van Wartt wished that it wasn’t so early in the morning. A little drink would loosen Rhyton up. He must take his time with the man. A few lazy questions before zeroing in on the subject. “How are our friends up in Bruin Karas?”

  “Do you have coffee?” Rhyton asked.

  “Come. We’ll go to the galley.”

  As Rhyton drank his coffee from a heavy mug, the two stared out the portholes at Cape Town. The hot coffee loosened his tongue. “Bruin Karas remains the same for the most part.”

  Van Wartt knew that Bruin Karas had not changed. It would be difficult to call it a town. It was more of a settlement, with two stores, a petrol station, and an eating establishment that also served as a bar. Like all farming or ranch communities, it served as a central place for supplies, relaxation, and gossip. Relatives of Bull Rhyton lived there, and Van Wartt had met them on the occasions when he had visited and inspected the boxcar, sitting off on an unused siding, appearing for all practical purposes abandoned.

  Strange. His friend had just hinted that things were not all the same in Bruin Karas.

  Seated again in the salon, Van Wartt knew the time had come to get to business. “What is wrong up there?”

  “Our friends say it started three, maybe four months ago. When the temperatures were still high.” Rhyton leaned forward. “Around the trein, the boxcar, some young fellows found dead animals.”

  Van Wartt raised his hands as if to say, “So?”

  “The same boys, one is a nephew, developed rashes, like burns. Their parents want the boxcar moved.”

  Van Wartt tapped the arm of his chair with his fingers. “Did you go out to the siding and look at it? Was it broken into?”

  “The lock on the door was broken. The boxcar still stands out at the end of the spur. Nothing around for miles. I saw no dead animals around it.” Rhyton paused, thinking. “ Screws were off one of the plates on the bomb. I touched the sides for heat. Nothing.” At this, he inspected his hands.

  “This is not good. Must be a leak. A very bad time for this to happen.” Van Wartt thought a moment. “I wonder how much time those children went there. They were probably curious and tried to get inside it.”

  “I don’t like any of this anymore. We shouldn’t have this thing. The bomb belongs to the government.”

  Van Wartt jumped up. “Good God, man! We don’t have the old government. This is not our government.” He looked up at the ceiling light. “Return it to the kaffirs?”

  “We should get it out of there.”

  Van Wartt took his seat again. He did his best to look composed. Rhyton mustn’t think this worried him. He spoke in a low voice, “I will push our plan along with this man, Abdul Wahab. I’m sure someone in his group is an expert in these matters. They want to take delivery soon.”

  “How will Wahab take possession? Where will he take it?”

  “He’s not specific. I didn’t tell him where the device is located,” Van Wartt said with a wave of the hand. Truth to be told, he had no idea if Wahab had the means to move it from the middle of the Namibian Desert to wherever he intended.

  “I don’t like this whole matter anymore.”

  “What do you say?” Van Wartt yelled. “This is payback to those who have taken away our world. Our way of life!” His fists clenched and he watched Rhyton intently study his face. He breathed hard. “Your people and mine have been here for hundreds of years. The same, no, longer than the Americans have been in their country. Fok hulle!”

  “I don’t believe it is God’s will that we kill innocents.” Rhyton stood. “These are evil people we are dealing with.” Now, he spoke softly, “Dawie, my friend, are we sure we are in control of this? I think not. Those devils may turn this thing against us.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Cape Town—August 16, 2002

  Following the waiter wearing a short white jacket, Abdul Wahab passed the bar toward the far end of the room. At a window table sat Dawid van Wartt, who had a view of the bay and at the same time could watch the patrons entering the grill. He noted that Van Wartt’s right leg twitched. No doubt, Wahab thought, this was his usual table here at the Bay Yacht Club.

  Wahab had intended to be late for their luncheon appointment, just to keep the South African off balance, but as he drove to the club, he wondered if that was wise inasmuch as he wanted Van Wartt to sponsor him for club membership. No matter. Today they had important business to conduct, and the matter of his joining this pretentious establishment could come later.

  “Sorry for making you wait, Dawid,” Wahab said. “Traffic and my driving.”

  Van Wartt rose. “Ah no, Abdul. I lost track of time looking out at the bay. See. The wind has died and the white caps have disappeared. Just a lovely view.”

  Wahab took a seat, told the waiter he wanted some sparkling water, and while looking out at the moored yachts, asked, “One of those is yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which one?”

  “The big one.” Van Wartt leaned forward. “Abdul. We have urgent business to conduct. Before this place begins to fill up, let’s settle a few matters.”

  Wahab took offense at Van Wartt’s rudeness. Afrikaner or not, he expected to be treated with deference, and why do all these Boers wear the same absurd mustache? “Please, begin,” he said.

  “The packet we have talked about is ready for pickup.” Van Wartt spoke softly. “Because of circumstances, the timing of the delivery has become critical. First, have we reached an agreement on price? Second, are your people prepared to take possession?”

  Wahab watched him sit back and play with his napkin. His eyes focused on the embroidered anchor emblem on Van Wartt’s blazer. No doubt he would have one of those when he became a member of the club. He detected some sense of urgency on Van Wartt’s part. Why? Did the man suddenly need the money?

  He said in a low voice matching Van Wartt’s, “About the price of the merchandise. We talked about ten million dollars—”

  “Euros. Ten million euros,” Van Wartt corrected.

  This interested Wahab. The man across from him was concerned about the amount of money. Euros were worth more than dollars. He might have some fun. “Dawid. My people tell me that such a sum is not available at this time. They are thinking half that amount. Perhaps at a later time something more would be added.”

  For the moment this was true. Since his misadventure on the Riviera, al Qaeda considered him a risk and had placed middlemen between them. He was forced to work with the weasel Nabeel Asuty, who only had his Egyptian contacts, but they knew how to bargain. Not like his Saudi brothers flush with their dollar stockpiles.

  Van Wartt’s cold eyes fixed on him and appeared to move off to empty space beyond Wahab. At last, he said, without looking directly at him, “Five million will do. Can you take delivery within a week?”

  “A week?”

  “Yes. This is the bank number where you forward the funds.” Van Wartt wrote on the cocktail napkin. “I’ll arrange transportation for your pickup of the device. You will need five … no, six men. I suppose one of them will be versed in nuclear technology. We’ll provide the necessary test instruments and equipment.”

  “I’ll let you know by tomorrow morning.” Wahab coughed. “Where will my men go?”

  “There’s an airfield up north. Driving distance from here. They’ll be flown to the site, and when they take possession we’ll take them to some reasonable destination of your choice.” Van Wartt made to rise from his seat. “You do have a place to take it? Don’t you?”

  “We’ll have one.”

  “I’ll expect your call. Meanwhile, I have an appointment.” Van Wartt got out of his chair and turned to the waiter who had hastened to his side. “Mr. Wahab will stay and have lunch. Put it on my tab.” Leaning down, he said, “Abdul. Time is of the essence. Oh, the crab salad
is especially good.”

  In time, the waiter brought the crab salad. Wahab found himself picking through lettuce for the crab morsels. He swallowed the chunks but didn’t enjoy the succulent meat. For what it was worth, he could have been eating the bland African corn porridge, putu, as his mind raced from one perceived obstacle to another. Van Wartt had surprised him with the deadline. It would be difficult to keep.

  Wahab laid down his fork. Perhaps it was, as they say, a blessing in disguise. Nabeel was on his way here to Cape Town, and when he arrived he would be told to get six men together. Meantime, to cover his bets he would get in touch with his al Qaeda contact in South Africa. This development would be of interest to them. All this could work.

  As for Dawid van Wartt, Wahab must be careful. This man had a bad reputation. Men like him were doubly dangerous if they were under pressure, which he seemed to be.

  Noisy gulls outside the window attracted his attention. The wind had picked up again, bringing in a gray cloudbank. Wahab dropped his fork. Nabeel had called and told him he was hurrying here from Freetown.

  In addition, Hayden Stone had arrived in Cape Town. This time Wahab would make sure that the man who had caused him so much trouble in the past would be eliminated.

  At a little before eight that evening, Hayden Stone approached the front desk of the Mount Nelson Hotel and as the man in the Land Rover had instructed that afternoon, inquired if “Finbarr Costanza” had any messages. After searching through the message folder, the desk clerk handed Stone an envelope.

  He waited to open it until he found a quiet place and took the hallway off the main lounge. When he entered a side room he discovered a wedding party in progress. He stopped in the middle of the room next to a round table holding an arrangement of white flowers that towered over his head. The Mount Nelson oozed chic and always seemed a bit over the top, but their martinis were the coldest in town. The barman stored the vodka in a small freezer. He read the message, smiled graciously to the bride and groom, and headed for the bar.