The African Contract

by Arthur Kerns

  The message inside the envelope had come as a pleasant surprise. MEET ME IN THE PLANET BAR. It was signed “Harrington” in Sandra’s elegant script. He carefully folded the message and slipped it into his inside jacket pocket, smiling. Colonel Frederick had somehow managed to get Sandra off the agency’s bad girl list. Wonder what her old boyfriend Farley Durrell is up to? Would he accompany Nabeel Asuty here to Cape Town?

  In the bar he moved toward two empty seats next to the fireplace and saw a blonde seated with her back to him. She stood, retrieved her evening bag from the cocktail table, turned, and walked by him, giving him a slight bump. He caught a whiff of Sandra’s perfume as she passed. In a navy blue pantsuit, she obviously had been watching for him in the wall-to-wall mirror behind the bar.

  Acting as if he couldn’t decide whether to stay, he turned and followed her. With a determined stride, she went out a side door, took a path through the lighted gardens, and approached a black sedan waiting in the darkened parking lot. The back door opened and she slipped in. A few seconds later he was sitting next to her in the backseat. Discreetly, she reached over and squeezed his hand and held on for a moment. In the front seat one of the two men said, “We’re on our way,” to a hidden microphone, and the car sped from the hotel grounds and drove south on the M3. Stone knew the road as the Simon van der Stel Freeway or known locally as the Blue Route. They were headed toward the coastal town of Fish Hoek.

  The city lights faded behind them. They rode in silence as the CIA officers in the front seat constantly checked each passing car. When the lights of a car shone in the face of the driver—an African-American in Rastafarian attire and dreadlocks—Stone caught his eyes studying him. Evidently, Stone’s reputation had been broadcasted on the agency pipeline. The cowboy was in town.

  The driver tilted his head back and asked Sandra, “Is our guest staying overnight?” Rasta man had a distinct Philadelphia Main Line accent. Probably a Bucknell or Penn graduate.

  “Yes. We have a lot to talk about.”

  Therefore, Stone would be staying in a safe house tonight. He hoped the accommodations weren’t too bad, what with the budget crunch. Who else would be there besides these three in the car? The base chief, no doubt.

  Sandra touched his hand again. “Someone will make sure your room back in the hotel looks like it’s been used.” She kept her hand on his. “Like I said, we have a lot to discuss.”

  The safe house was a five-room villa facing south overlooking False Bay. A soft breeze brought in the smell of sea foam. The furnishings were basic, but clean. Rasta man, whose name was Owen, had prepared two platters of bobojtie, the Cape Malay dish of lamb, nuts, raisins, and chutney, with a baked egg topping. Its rich aroma filled the dining room as they waited for the arrival of the CIA base chief. The chief of station would also be there, Sandra told him. He had flown in from the embassy in Pretoria for the meeting.

  An hour passed and M. R. D. Houston came in with the COS, who to Stone’s surprise and relief, turned out to be Charles Fleming, wearing as usual a bespoke gray suit.

  “You left Paris for South Africa?” Stone asked, exchanging warm handshakes. Fleming had been assigned to the Paris station. It had only been months before in the South of France when he, Colonel Gustave Frederick, and Fleming had been involved in a counterterrorist operation.

  “My family hasn’t gotten here yet, but, yes, it’s a good move and a very good slot.” Fleming looked over the remnants of the meal on the table. “Looks like you’re all finished eating. Let’s get to work.”

  He ushered Stone, Sandra, and Houston into a bedroom at the end of the hallway. Again, sparsely furnished, with only a long table and eight metal fold-up chairs. Cold water bottles stood upright in the center of the table on an old serving plate.

  “I just visited Paris,” Stone said. “Didn’t have time to look you up.”

  “I knew you were in town. Colonel Frederick told me.” Fleming glanced over to Sandra. “He was busy with a lot of things.”

  Sandra coughed. “Yeah. He can work miracles sometimes. That’s why I’m still here.”

  “And that’s why I’m still here.” Stone tapped the table. “Now, I suppose you want to know what Jacob had to say.” Stone related the details of his morning meeting, including what appeared to be Jacob’s ill health. “He’s concerned with Abdul Wahab as he should be, but he’s got this South African, Van Wartt, under his claw. Believes he’s the real problem.”

  Fleming rubbed his hands together, looked over again at Sandra, and said to her, “Might as well get right down to it.”

  She nodded and sipped water from a bottle. She’d lost weight and had circles under her eyes.

  Fleming started. “Hayden, this is all supersensitive, but things are moving so fast that … I can’t tell you everything. You know, compartmentalization.”

  “You mean I won’t hand over the whole story before the jihadists chop my head off.” Stone pulled out a cigar and asked if anyone objected. Houston, his arms bulging from his dark blue polo shirt, surprised him by also pulling out a cigar. Sandra said she didn’t mind if she could have a drag or two.

  “If we all have burnished our macho credentials, can we move on?” Fleming said, his handsome black face creased in a frown. “Stone, let me give you a little history in the South African nuclear weapons program.”

  “The what?” Stone handed Sandra his cigar and reached over to the sideboard and got two ashtrays. After taking a long puff, she handed it back.

  What Fleming related didn’t surprise him. Years ago Stone had heard South Africa had a nuclear bomb, but it was never really much interest to him. He wondered what this had to do with the operation.

  “Back in the late sixties, early seventies, the white government here had a viable nuclear weapons program. You have to remember the country was ostracized for the most part by the world for its apartheid policy. Trade embargoes, the whole package of sanctions by the world to force them to change and become more democratic. One of the results was that South Africa decided to become self-sufficient economically and militarily. Ironically, because of that they’re now the most viable economy on the continent.

  “And back then one of the ways to stay in power was to build the bomb,” Stone said.

  “Yes. They had legitimate worries. Angola had become independent from Portugal, and a communist insurgency arose with Cuban support. In fact, the Cubans had quite a military presence and they had their eyes on the South West Africa territory that South Africa controlled. A nuke or two would be quite a deterrent against the spread of communism.”

  “South Africa developed the bomb themselves?”

  “They had help. Their chief partner was Israel.”

  Stone leaned forward and tapped his cigar in the ashtray. “I see a story developing here.”

  “I’ll spare you the complete info dump just to say the two countries had a lot in common. Both felt like outcasts, both had this God’s Covenant thing going, and both needed a solid military stance. South Africa needed the experience—they had the expertise in nuclear development but not weaponry. Israel needed a place to test their device.”

  Stone had lost interest in his cigar and let it lay in the ashtray. Houston did the same.

  Sandra put her elbows on the table. “My understanding is the apartheid government destroyed their bombs just before relinquishing control.”

  “Ah. Now here we come to the interesting part. A little numbers game. One report says that they developed eight nuclear bombs based on the gun-type principle—that is, creating an explosion by shooting one piece of subcritical material into another.” Fleming paused. “Follow me, Stone?”

  “No.” Stone frowned. “Let’s skip the technical stuff.”

  “No matter. It’s the old-fashioned method of making a bomb. The first US bombs were made on that principle.”

  “So they were bulky?”

  “Yeah. About two feet by five and weighing close to a t
on. That’s going to be of interest to you later.”

  “So the eight bombs were dismantled after South Africa signed some treaty,” Sandra said.

  “Well, no. We know there were supposed to be eight bombs, because the Israelis were providing eight Jericho missiles for them. The South Africans were afraid that the Cuban antiaircraft batteries would bring down their Canberra or Buccaneer bombers, so they had asked for Israeli long-range missiles. Now here comes the numbers game. In nineteen eighty-seven we had a report that eight bombs had been produced. Then in nineteen ninety-four, six fully completed bombs and one partial were dismantled.”

  “But it’s believed they tested one near Antarctica,” Sandra added.

  “Back in September nineteen seventy-nine.”

  Stone sat back. “Okay. There are your eight bombs.”

  Charles Fleming slid an eight-by-eleven photograph across the table to Stone and Sandra. “Take a look and count the bombs. This picture was taken up there at the Vastrap facility up in the Kalahari Desert around ten years ago.”

  Stone looked at the photo showing fat bullet-shaped, brass-colored bombs, two to a rack, except in the back row. A single ninth, fully completed bomb sat on a cradle. “Looks like someone lost count.”

  “We think we located the unaccounted-for bomb. Also, we’re certain someone wants to hand it over to Abdul Wahab.”

  Stone let the last statement sink in. Abdul Wahab, a man in league with al Qaeda, in possession of an atomic bomb. “Shit! There’s no telling what Wahab wants to do with an atomic bomb. No wonder Jacob looked worried when I saw him this morning.”

  “What exactly did he tell you?”

  “He said that Nabeel Asuty is heading here from Freetown. Some big shot here in Cape Town, Dawid van Wartt, wants to sell them something. This guy is well connected. When I asked if it was an arms deal he was talking about, Jacob said he didn’t know. He did emphasize that this Van Wartt is big trouble.”

  “We know Dawid van Wartt is vocal in his hatred of the Western countries and especially America. We believe he’s the one who wants to sell Wahab the bomb.”

  Stone looked around the table. “Thank God it’s not a suitcase nuclear weapon. You know where this thing is?”

  “Another agency that does a lot of satellite recon advised they’ve picked up a possible nuclear glow in Namibia.”

  Sandra huffed. “They must pick up hot spots every day.”

  “Namibia is located north of South Africa in the Kalahari Desert.” Fleming took back the photograph. “We had a report that Mr. Van Wartt had a meeting this morning with an old army colleague who had just driven down from the area where the hot spot was seen.”

  “I’ll get a hold of Jacob again and question him about this,” Stone said. “I also have to find Dirk Lange, who I’m certain is with the South African Security Service, but Sandra and I have built a working relationship with him.”

  “Don’t ask Jacob any direct questions about the bomb.” Fleming tensed. “He was bouncing around this country during the seventies. He knows more about this than he’s letting on.”

  “Maybe that’s why he’s so worried.”

  “Can you trust those two—Jacob and this SASS guy Lange?” Fleming asked.

  “As much as they trust me,” Stone said. “Are we checking out that area up there in Namibia? Why not drop in one of those DOE response teams or maybe a SEAL team?”

  “We’re working on options. You and Sandra may come into play on that angle.”

  A little after midnight, Sandra knocked gently on Stone’s door. She whispered to meet her in the kitchen. He put his clothes back on and quietly went down the hallway. She sat on a stool sipping a glass of wine.

  “Want some?” she asked and motioned for him to sit. “I didn’t want to go into your room. These people have big ears and big mouths, if you know what I mean.”

  Stone knew that as gossip went, the sexual kind was the juiciest. It wouldn’t be the first time men and women on a mission got involved in a little side action.

  “Frederick put his neck out and saved my ass from going to a bureaucratic Siberia,” she said. “There were two catches. One, I work with you on this mission, which is turning out to be bigger than I thought.”

  “Bigger than I expected,” Stone said. “We’re not letting Wahab get ahold of this nuclear device. What’s the second catch?”

  “It has to do with that prick Farley Durrell.” She leaned closer. “Farley’s position with Nabeel Asuty and his gang is not going well. Some of them are suspicious of him. Evidently, he’s not as valuable to them as he was. You know what that means with those shits.” She took a deep breath. “You know how much I hate Farley, still … Anyway, Frederick told me one of our jobs might be to extract him from their clutches.”

  “Nothing I like better than a good shoot-up.”

  “Hayden! Be careful what you say around here! That’s why they call you a damn cowboy.”

  “Tomorrow I head back to my hotel. Hope Dirk Lange contacts us. We’re going to need him.”

  She poured more wine. “I’ll check in at the same hotel. That’ll double the odds of Dirk finding us.”

  “There’s one more source for me to contact,” Stone said. “Few people know this town better than Patience.”

  “And how well do you know her, Hayden?”

  “Well enough, toots,” he said. “Don’t stay up too late. You need your beauty sleep.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Cape Town—August 17, 2002

  Hayden Stone phoned his old acquaintance Patience St. John Smythe. After four rings, she answered. He identified himself and following a pause, she asked where he was. She always held conversations on the phone to the minimum. Stone attributed this quirk to the fact that she had been raised in a country that made it a practice to listen to their citizens’ telephone conversations. However, when he had gotten to know her, he found she was smart and kept a tight schedule, only allowing herself to slide into niceties when her calendar permitted.

  “Hayden. My, we haven’t talked in ages.”

  “Let’s get together.”

  Silence, then, “Do you have transportation?”

  When he said he didn’t, she told him she’d pick him up in a dark blue Honda in an hour at the corner of Wale and Adderley Streets. In front of the St. George’s Cathedral. End of conversation. Still the professional. Even if the conversation had been overheard, the secret service would have a difficult time setting up surveillance in one hour in the middle of downtown business traffic.

  Stone holstered his new Sig Sauer, left his hotel room, and took the stairs up to Sandra’s floor. She waved him in and went back to unpacking her suitcase, laying the clothes on the couch. He told her about the phone call. She showed interest in the details.

  “The woman seems pretty savvy. Who does she work for?”

  “I’ve always thought the Brits, but I’d noticed in the past a lot of inconsistencies in her stories.”

  “What information does the station or Charles Fleming have on her?” Sandra asked. “And how long have you known her?”

  Stone looked at his watch. “Look. I have to go. Only have a little more than half an hour before I meet her.”

  When he reached for the doorknob, she said, “Fleming doesn’t know about this? You’re playing the lone ranger. This isn’t how we do things. You know that.”

  “I’m meeting someone that in the FBI parlance is a hip pocket source.” He detected no reaction from Sandra, so continued, “Basically there’s nothing about her recorded on paper or in a file. I just collect information from her and attribute it to another source.”

  “Sounds fishy and not according to the rules. You’re not in the bureau anymore, and if you keep up this shit, you’re not going to be with the CIA either.”

  Stone had learned the hard way he shouldn’t argue with a person giving him good advice. As he was about to fall back on old habits and
say something dumb, Sandra saved him.

  “What’s your relationship with this Patience?”

  “I hope we’re still good friends, but the last time we were together …”

  Sandra sighed and held up her hand. She reminded him of one of his grammar school teachers having lost patience with him. The “patience” crack made him smile.

  “Don’t smile, smart-ass. Give me that gun.” Taking it, she asked, “Are you familiar with this?”

  He told her no, that for some reason they hadn’t given him the Colt .45 that he’d asked for. “At least it’s a forty caliber S&W,” he said. “It looks like a pistol, not some high-tech toy.” She took the gun and gave him a thorough rundown on the Sig Sauer. Had she been a firearms instructor at one time?

  A taxicab dropped him off at the House of Parliament, and then on foot he took Government Avenue through the extensive gardens to the cathedral. He took in the crisp morning air and walked briskly, glad that he had his leather jacket. He mused about his first meeting with Patience. Two years ago, in June or July, he had visited Salzburg, Austria. The weather was invigorating. Tourists strolled the streets from one music performance to another, and the river Salzach ran fast and cold from the melting snows in the Alps.

  As he had sat in an ornate music room waiting for an afternoon string quintet to begin, she slipped in the seat next to him. Rows of empty chairs surrounded the two of them, so it was evident that she wanted to meet him. The encounter was pleasant; the quintet’s set was dreadful.

  Their relationship had been semi-intense, platonic. She said she couldn’t help falling in love with a married man, but she didn’t have to bed him. Her words.