by Arthur Kerns
Stone made sure that he came to the street corner at the precise time Patience had given. A dark blue sedan approached the curb and the headlights flashed. He went up to the passenger door, looked in, and climbed inside. Patience leaned over halfway to give him a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and sped off. He had forgotten she had a heavy foot on the accelerator. He’d let her get her bearings before making conversation, but a minute later she started in.
“You haven’t changed much.” She glanced over, then up to the rearview mirror. “Put on a little weight around the middle.”
“You, my dear, on the other hand, simply glow.”
She did. Her features had softened. She was on the way to becoming one of those women other women secretly hated—one who improved with age. He expected her to be in a business suit, but instead she wore taupe twill slacks and a cashmere sweater over a turtleneck. Gold flats matched an expensive watch, bracelet on left wrist, and rings on both hands. Causal chic. However, her perfume signaled business office, not boudoir.
“Are you here on holiday?” She looked over. “Of course not. Spying on my country?”
“No. As a matter of fact, I’m working with elements from your local government.”
Stone, at times like this, got a kick out of semantics. He and Dirk Lange did have something of a working relationship. Also, he had to clarify which country he was referring to. She held a British passport as well as a South African one.
“I almost left you hanging there on the corner. You deserve to be stood up.”
“We didn’t part on the best of terms, did we?” Stone knew diplomacy was in order. “The whole thing bothered me. A lot.”
“Let’s get this over with, so we can move on.”
She looked for agreement on his part, so he nodded.
“You are insensitive and in the realm of personal relationships, wholly unreliable.” Once again, she glanced in the rearview mirror. “Now let’s get to whatever you called me about. Shall we?”
Stone felt relieved they had gotten past that hurdle. The car headed out of the city. He needed a safe place where he could question her about Van Wartt. If he was lucky, she might even know something about Abdul Wahab. He suggested lunch.
“We are going to a cheetah sanctuary about forty-five minutes from here. It is located on a wine estate. They have a restaurant.”
“Is it a game park?” Stone enjoyed safaris, but this was not the time to go touring.
“It’s part of the Cheetah Outreach Programme. I’m going to let you pet a real live cheetah. Sometimes they bite.”
They drove through the famed Stellenbosch wine country. Except for the backdrop of jagged mountains, one would believe they had been transported to Napa Valley in California. Hilly, with neat divisions of vineyards interspersed with tidy homes favoring Cape Dutch architecture. This was not the raw Africa of legend. Patience was true to her word, and they arrived at the sanctuary in forty-five minutes.
A regal, lean animal, stretching six feet from head to tip of tail, the young cheetah reclined on top of a three-foot high metal cage. The face with big amber eyes resembled any placid household cat. No sign of an efficient killer, the fastest mammal on earth. So calm and friendly now, but when, like so many of Stone’s quarry in the past, would they turn on you?
Under an open wooden pergola within a high-fenced compound, other cheetahs that had been taken in by the sanctuary for rehabilitation lounged and made soft guttural sounds. A staff person in khaki shorts and long-sleeved shirt stood close to Patience and Stone as she stroked the animal’s back. The cat acted as if it was normal to be in close contact with two-legged animals.
Stone had seen a change in Patience the minute they entered the gate. She showed affection for the animal, and the cat displayed easiness with her. Africans, he knew, had a strong attachment to the animals of their continent. Moving closer to Stone, she took his hand.
“Just stroke its back like this,” she said softly. “I think it’s a female.”
“It is, miss,” the uniformed attendant said. “She has been here for close to one year now.”
The vision of a full-grown cheetah taking down a gazelle flashed in Stone’s mind. “What do you feed her?” Stone asked, running his hand along the soft, tawny, black-spotted fur.
Patience moved close and whispered, “American bastards.” She returned her attention to the cat.
Inside a rustic wooden building, not unlike one would find in the American West, the sanctuary’s restaurant served basic South African fare along with wines from the vineyard located on the property. Stone ordered a Cape-style smoor with spinach and jus. She had a salad. They sat outdoors, where the sunlight brought out the sheen in Patience’s hair. Her almost mauve eyes studied Stone and he knew she wanted to talk business.
“Before we start on your inquiries … that is why we’re here, correct?” she said. “You want some sort of information from me, unless you are in Cape Town to resume our relationship, and if you are, you’re too late.”
“That’s getting to the point,” Stone said. “Yes. I hope you can help me, but first, what’s this ‘too late’?”
“I met a man who is, well, special.” Patience looked off. “However, in the beginning stages, you know? Now, what do you want to know? Wait, what are you doing here? The FBI has no jurisdiction here.”
The last time they’d been together, he was in the FBI, working cases in New York City. The two had attended a diplomatic function on the East Side. Her “people”—Stone assumed British MI6, though he could never confirm it—and the FBI were interested in a particular Russian intelligence officer. They had orchestrated a pitch to the Russian to defect, with no success.
“I retired early from the FBI and now I’m sort of doing freelance work.”
“For the right side, I assume.” Her eyebrows had lifted just enough to show she had shifted to professional mode. Well, almost. “Are you and your wife still separated? It’s been a while now since the two of you have gone your own ways.”
“Along with my retirement, we made the separation official.”
She tapped the table with her fingers. “Too late for us.” She said it with finality. “Now, what is it you want?”
As he began, her eyes darkened. “I’m interested in a South African by the name of Dawid van Wartt. We have reason to believe he is in league with Middle East terrorists who want to target the US. Do you know anything about him?”
“Seems all you Yanks are interested in is dear Dawie.” She glared. “Stone. You realize you are asking me to give you information on a fellow South African. There are legal issues here.”
“You’re a lawyer. That shouldn’t bother you, but to reassure you, I’m working with a South African intelligence officer on this.”
“He knows about me?” She looked alarmed.
“No one is aware I’m talking with you. This is between you and me.” He decided to chance it. “You might know him.”
Before he could give her Dirk Lange’s name, she slumped back in the chair and looked skyward. “There goes a Wahlberg’s eagle. Beautiful birds, aren’t they?” She reached for her glasses. When had she started wearing them?
The graceful bird soared then dropped fast behind a tall tree. Mealtime for him.
She saw that Stone picked at his meal. “If that dish is too spicy, you could tame it with a beer.”
Stone indicated his water was fine.
“I remember from New York you’d never drink while on duty like the other agents we worked with. Bureau regulations, you would say. Are you on duty now?”
“Just trying to keep my wits about me.”
“You’re a bit of a stuffed shirt. Won’t change with the times. At least you don’t double knot your shoe laces.” She hesitated, then almost whispered, “I don’t bed married men, like you were back then, but you could have done me the favor of trying harder.”
A family passed by their table; having finishe
d lunch, they headed for the cheetah enclosure. The parents wore short shorts and heavy sweaters favored by Africans . The father had the distinctive Boer moustache. The boy and girl went barefoot like many of the white farmer children in South Africa.
He caught Patience watching him. “Tough lot, aren’t they?”
“I like them.”
“They don’t like you, Yank,” she said. “They blame your kind for the end of apartheid and their way of life.”
They watched the family head for the entrance to the sanctuary.
Patience changed her tone of voice and spoke softly. “Hayden, you must realize you caught me by surprise. I had no idea you were onto Van Wartt. All this is becoming awkward for me. Let me explain.” She moved her chair next to him and whispered, “The love of my life is your ambassador to South Africa. He is also interested in Van Wartt. My people are interested in Van Wartt. One person in the local secret service who I know is interested in him is … Dirk Lange.”
Stone attempted a nonchalant smile. She knew Dirk. Small world. However, he let sink in the fact that her lover was none other than Marshall Bunting, the American ambassador.
“Dirk Lange is a sweet man. Also, very reliable.” She looked him over. “However, dear Dawie on the other hand is a bloody rockspider. You know, not quite what we call a hairyback Afrikaner, but still one of those thickheaded Boers.” She put her glasses away. “No. I’m not generalizing. I have many Afrikaners for friends, but most are quite impossible. And,” she said with emphasis, “it’s not an English–Boer thing.” She smiled. “Perhaps it is.”
“How well do you know him?”
“Attended some mutual functions. Met his wife at the Museum of Art a few times. She’s as bad as he is.” She clicked her tongue twice. “Met him numerous times at the yacht club. Oh, Hayden, do you still sail? No matter. Back to sweet Dawie. He occasionally has hit on me without success, and that sums up the personal contacts. Now for what you Americans say, the nitty-gritty.”
“I wish I’d brought my notepad.”
“None of this is to be written down. Understand?”
“You know how I operate.”
“Checking.” She placed her hands over her mouth. “He’s a member of the Broederbonders. That’s a secret society of apartheid zealots. Under the old regime any senior member of government had to be a member. They also controlled the police, education, broadcasting, and the censor board, everything important.
“Van Wartt’s money and power comes from an engineering firm, some mining, and real estate investments. He holds a general’s commission, but that’s inactive.” She paused to sip her soda. “This is interesting. His status with those Broederbonders is shaky. Reports are his fellow loonies consider him too extreme. Some are beginning to maintain a distance, not completely, mind you. After all, that crowd isn’t on everyone’s dance card and their social circle is thinning.”
“Extreme in what way?”
“Rants in public, especially when he’s in his cups—about settling the score with those who caused the downfall of apartheid. He tried to enlist others in some wild schemes, like computer hack attacks against Wall Street. That didn’t go over big with that crowd, most of whom have their money parked there. Lately, he’s tamed down.” She waited a moment. “One incident that I’m certain has hardened him. Just as the new government took over, a massacre occurred up north. During Sunday service, in one of those Dutch Reformed churches in the farm area, a group of blacks, rebel types, entered and machine-gunned everyone. No one survived.”
“So Van Wartt’s religious?”
“I’m not certain. All I know is his parents and sisters were in the congregation.”
“Damn,” he said. “An incident like that would make anyone seek retribution.” He thought a moment. “Were the killers brought to justice?”
“Of course not. Reconciliation for past crimes and all that nonsense the new government is pushing. You must realize that for Van Wartt this is home. There’s a strong connection with his ancestors, blood, and history.” She met his eyes. “Not unlike your feelings for the United States.”
Stone mulled over what she said about Van Wartt. The thought occurred: How much of an attachment did Patience have with this country after living here since she was twelve years old? “I heard he has something going with a Saudi named Abdul Wahab. That he wants to sell Wahab something very big and dangerous.”
“Yes.” She gave him an admiring glance to say he was on the top of his game. “My people picked up on Abdul Wahab when he fled France a few months ago. One of his two wives is Lady Beatrice. Quite an extraordinary woman, even though her taste in men is questionable.” Pause. “Wahab is knee-deep in the terrorist trade.” She stopped, her eyes left him, returned, and narrowed. “You visited the Riviera recently, didn’t you?”
It was Stone’s turn to churn the information he’d learned. Patience was not just a South African lawyer who happened to work occasionally for MI6. She was a full-blown case officer. Granted, she might not have known why he had come to Cape Town, but she knew a lot about Abdul Wahab and Van Wartt’s activities. Were MI6 and the CIA exchanging information? Finally, he said, “Yes. I did.”
“You’re here to kill Wahab for murdering those CIA officers in the South of France, aren’t you? You work for the CIA. You were involved in that big shoot-out in Villefranche.”
“Get this straight. I’m not an assassin. You know me better than that.”
“I don’t know you at all.” She seemed to fret. “Well, not all, all.”
Stone grinned. She was quite dramatic at times. “Patience, dear.” This time he moved closer. “What I do, I do in the service of my country. Always have. I’m a minor player. Just a contractor on a job to obtain information to prevent another 9/11 in the US, London, Paris, or Israel.”
“Were you truthful about no one else knowing about us?”
“Neither the station here nor the man I work for at Langley knows about you and me.”
She put her face close to his. “How about that blonde I saw you scoot out with last night at the Mount Nelson Hotel?”
“Your eagle is back. Finished lunch, I suppose.”
“Surprised?” She smiled. “I was in the bar with a friend. You didn’t see me. Maybe you are slipping. I notice a gray hair here and there.” She leaned against him and with that mischievous look he recalled from the past, whispered, “You have another surprise flying into town.”
Chapter Nineteen
After Hayden Stone left the hotel to meet with his contact, Sandra Harrington took a stroll along the waterfront. It was time that she establish contact with Dirk Lange. Walking through the Victoria Wharf complex might provide an opportunity for a casual encounter. A bright sun warmed her face even though the air chilled her legs. Aside from cries of sea birds flying overhead, quiet settled on the area. The seaside smelled of fresh fish that drifted up from open tanks in trawlers tied along the quay.
Noisy tourists boarded a double-deck sightseeing boat at the end of the pier. The sign at the gate announced two-hour tours of the bay, and Sandra considered spending her afternoon on one of the boats. Then she remembered the meeting the night before with CIA station chief Fleming. When he had told them about the nuclear weapon that could end up in the hands of Abdul Wahab’s terrorists, even Hayden Stone’s sangfroid had slipped a little. Was considering a little sightseeing at this time a way to shove such a horror out of her mind?
She loosened her scarf, shook her hair, and leisurely continued along the dockside, inspecting the various boats, curious at the many configurations and conditions of the craft moored along the way. Just as she was about to take a break from her trolling for Dirk Lange and find someplace to get a cappuccino, that feeling came. In the back of the head, down the neck, and along her spine came the sensation, not a chill nor shiver, but something almost akin to a touch of a warm finger. She was being watched.
Don’t alter your pace nor
movements. Just walk a minute, stop, adjust your scarf, and gaze out at the boats. She cursed herself for leaving her sunglasses in the hotel room. Squint. Now look around for the person or persons who are following you. She stopped and went through her routine. Then reversed course, heading back toward the end of the pier. No sign of Lange. She strolled, placing one foot in front of another as if she was walking a line. One would suppose her in deep thought.
Still no sign of him. Suddenly came a shiver. What if it wasn’t Lange who was watching her? Nabeel Asuty and his cohorts were in Cape Town. Nabeel saw her in the café in Freetown, where Stone and Lange had killed two of his men. Her pace quickened and she headed for the hotel.
Instead of waiting for the elevator, she raced up the stairs and hurried to her room. The hotel maid stood at the door, pulling her cart out of Sandra’s room, about to start cleaning the one next door. Sandra tipped her, looked up and down the hallway, closed the door behind her, and leaned back on the wall. Sweat dripped down her back. Why had she lost her composure? Don’t worry. The instructor at the Farm, the CIA training facility, had advised her class years ago that it happened now and then. Rarely did it happen to her.
Light knock on the door. She tensed. She reached for her Glock and carefully slid back the cover to the door’s peephole. Dirk Lange’s handsome face appeared through the smudged circular glass. She quickly let him in.
“Did you just check in? I see that you haven’t fully unpacked,” Lange asked.
She eyed his black turtleneck shirt under a brown leather jacket. With his sandy blond hair and close-cropped beard, it all came together. Quite attractive.
“Don’t know how long I’ll be here. Besides, I get tired packing and unpacking.” She pointed to one of the armchairs for him to sit. “I thought I sensed you following me.” She sat on the edge of the bed. “How long have you been in town?”
“Two days. Did you see our friends from Freetown?”
“Nabeel Asuty?”
“Nabeel and some of his chinas,” Lange said.
