The African Contract

by Arthur Kerns

  Asuty looked out at his car. His three men were being pulled out and slammed against the doors. He tensed, moved toward Van Wartt, but in one motion the man standing next to him placed a large hand on his neck, tightened the grip, and as Asuty gasped, removed the automatic from inside his waistband.

  “Please, excuse me, Abdul. We don’t have time for debates, no matter how much you people from the Middle East love to talk.” Van Wartt rested his arm on Wahab’s shoulder. “Do you have the money?”

  “Yes. It’s in that car.”

  “It had better be all there,” Van Wartt said to Wahab.

  “Take that matter up with Nabeel Asuty here.”

  “If it’s not, I shall.”

  Asuty threw his head back as if he’d regained his composure, but for the first time in Wahab’s memory, he stammered. “I … I believe we have all the money that was agreed upon.” Then appearing confident, stated, “It is urgent that this plan commence. Are you prepared to take us north to Bruin Karas?”

  Van Wartt froze, then walked behind Asuty, pulled out a pistol, and rapped the back of his head. Asuty dropped down on his knees for a second, but immediately was back up. Wahab recognized in Asuty’s face the hate of a killer, but what surprised Wahab was that Van Wartt exhibited the same look. Truly, Van Wartt was no stranger to violence.

  Wahab tried to speak, but Van Wartt raised his hand. “Abdul. Your man here needs lessons in manners.” Now he spoke in Asuty’s ear. “The South African authorities are searching for you, Nabeel Asuty. One doesn’t attempt to shoot American agents in Cape Town’s more respectable neighborhoods. In addition, you did a bad job disposing of the body of your comrade. It’s now lying on a slab at the city morgue. Your picture and the pictures of those three goons out there are on the evening television news.”

  “What do you suggest we do, Mr. Van Wartt?” Wahab said. “We’re at your disposal. Are we not, Nabeel?” Out the window he saw two of Asuty’s men forced to the van and the other one shoved back into the white sedan.

  Van Wartt moved close. “Abdul. We must act fast. My men will take Asuty and his thugs to the airport that is an hour’s drive from here. You will ride with me. Arrangements have been made for us to fly tonight to Namibia.”

  The manner in which Van Wartt’s men whisked Asuty and the three others away impressed Wahab, who after watching the vehicles speed off, invited Van Wartt into his home. The two found Lady Beatrice standing in the living room.

  She wasted no time. “Do you two have time for a drink before taking off?”

  Van Wartt switched on his charm. “We must be going. An unexpected opportunity arose for an unusual safari. I do hope you don’t mind me taking Abdul away for a few days.”

  Wahab suggested to his wife that Van Wartt might care for a drink while he went and packed some clothes. In his bedroom closet he found khaki shirts, trousers, and a pair of boots, which he threw in a travel bag. He headed for the door, then went back to his chest and traded his Colt for a new 9mm Beretta M9 pistol. He loaded it and slipped it in a shoulder holster. As he turned, placing two full magazines in his jacket pocket, he was startled to find his wife standing next to him.

  Beatrice looked him up and down and sighed. She placed her hand on his jacket where it covered his automatic. “You are coming back, aren’t you?”

  “I’m planning to.”

  “When you return, you’ll cease this nonsense, won’t you?”

  She surprised him by kissing him on the cheek and again on the lips.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  South of Cape Town—August 18, 2002

  The late afternoon crowd had gathered at the seaside hotel’s lounge. Sandra Harrington spotted Dirk Lange sitting at the far end of the bar, nursing a Castle beer. He was smoking a cigarette, something new. The entire time she had known him, she never even caught a whiff of tobacco on his clothes. She took a seat on the barstool next to him, blocking the view of a redhead in a tight green sweater a couple of seats away, who was leaning provocatively toward Lange.

  “That’s a dirty habit, sport.”

  “The lady over there glaring at you offered it to me.” With his eyes Lange indicated the redhead, who in a huff moved to the far end of the bar. “But it’s not a habit.”

  “Cigarettes or redheads?”

  Lange gave her the same boyish grin that she remembered from back in Freetown, Sierra Leone. In many ways, he reminded her of boys she knew in high school before they lost their virginity. However, Lange’s clothes sense betrayed a degree of sophistication not consistent with shy men.

  “When you called, you said you had something important to tell me.” He looked around the bar filled with guests of the hotel and what appeared to be locals from the nearby seaside town. “You came alone?”

  “Yes. Hayden is attending a function at my ambassador’s residence. I would have liked to have attended. Never been to one of your barbecues.” He grinned. “I said something funny?” she asked.

  “Tonight our mate Hayden Stone, according to my sources, will have a big surprise.”

  Sandra stiffened.

  “No,” Lange said. “Nothing unpleasant. Just that an old friend from France flew down to see him.”

  She let a few seconds go by, wondering what friend he was referring to. “You seem to know an awful lot about us.”

  “You know my profession. You forget this is my country. My job is to know what’s going on.” He touched her fingers. “It’s almost sundown. Let’s move to that table I reserved. We can watch the sunset.”

  “First I’d like to ask a question. Back in Freetown, we heard that you and a gal from our embassy were, shall we say, quite close.” She watched pain come to his eyes. “It ended badly?”

  “Thanks to your people in Washington.” His voice held an edge. “The lady, her name was Marsha, decided she’d had enough of Africa, and so she’d departed Freetown, never to be seen again.” He looked away. “In the end she believed what they had told her. That I was merely recruiting her. Using her, that I didn’t love her.”

  Sandra looked across the bar. “And both she and her superiors in Washington were wrong.”

  “I’m sure our table is ready.”

  Their table provided a view of the rough coastline with long, wide breakers coming in from the South Atlantic, the foam tinted red from the setting sun. Sharp angled mountains sat back inland looking down on homes scattered in both directions along the shore.

  Although her companion ordered another beer and some chips, Sandra ordered a soft drink. For the foreseeable future she needed a clear head. It was her turn to surprise Mr. Lange.

  “How would you like to come with Stone and me to Namibia?” she asked.

  His eyes flickered. She waited.

  “That’s a big country.” He looked at his beer but pushed it away. “Are we going on safari?”

  “One could say that.” She was pleased that he had been caught off guard. “The three of us will go up to the Kalahari and find an abandoned railroad car sitting out in the desert.”

  Lange came close, putting his elbows on the table. “I met with our Mossad friend Jacob this afternoon. He said that a …”

  Sandra whispered, “A big explosive device.”

  “Yes. Your old friend Abdul Wahab desires such a device. And Dawid van Wartt is the person furnishing it.” He turned and looked at the sunset. “For years, this, what you Yanks call an ‘urban legend,’ has been tossed about in our circles. The missing atomic bomb.” He tapped his knuckles on the tabletop. “So that’s where it is. Not surprising. We should have realized that Van Wartt and his crowd had stolen it.”

  “Did Jacob have anything else to say?”

  “He wants to meet with Stone.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible, but Stone’s boss, Colonel Frederick, will be in touch with him.” She spoke softly. “We want to get the bomb before it falls in the hands of those madmen. We don’t have much
time. People we can’t identify have been snooping around the boxcar.”

  “I’m not sure I can tell anyone at my home office about this. Things are a bit confused there nowadays.” Lange tapped her hand. “There are some people in the new government who would go befok to have this thing. For the prestige and power, if you understand what I mean.”

  “We need your knowledge of the area. Is there anyone you can trust in your organization?”

  “Of course, but it would take time to tell them.” Lange said as if making a formal declaration, “I’ll come with you.”

  “We leave tomorrow.”

  “I suggest we travel there as if we were on safari,” he said. “Ever been on safari?”

  “No, but my people will be able to round up the necessary guns and gear.” She rose. “Thanks for the drink. I’ll be in touch.”

  She hesitated and remained seated on the edge of the chair. “By the way. What was that big surprise for Hayden?”

  “Some baroness is in town to see him.”

  “Do you mean a contessa?”

  “Pardon. That’s it, a contessa. I’m told she has a thing for him.”

  “I believe you’re right.” Sandra strode out of the bar. Last thing she wanted at this time was for Hayden Stone to have distractions.

  The fire in the bedroom’s brick hearth eased to crumbling red embers. Ambassador Marshall Bunting relaxed on the bed, his head propped on the pillow, wondering if he should or should not get up and add a log or two. Patience solved the quandary.

  Lying close to him, she stretched, moved her face toward his, and asked, “Shall I add a log?” Without waiting for an answer, she slipped out of bed and went over to the fire. She bent over and took two small logs from the bin and carefully placed them on top of the embers. Within seconds, both logs were blazing. She remained crouched by the fireplace, looking into the flames.

  Bunting admired her, wearing his white dress shirt, which didn’t quite cover her firm, delicious ass. She pulled her hair back with both hands; the motion opened the front of the unbuttoned shirt, and when she turned sideways, allowed him to see her breasts glowing in the gold light of the fire.

  She rose quickly, took three quick steps toward the bed, jumped in, and made one more leap, landing on top of him. “That’ll keep us warm for a while,” she said, giving him a wet kiss.

  The last hour had been all lovemaking, and Bunting was exhausted. The last stragglers hadn’t left the braai until after midnight. They were businessmen and their wives from Austin, Texas, who obviously didn’t know diplomatic functions ended before eleven. That is, Bunting’s functions did.

  “What shall we talk about?” she asked, running her hand down along his side, then stroking the inside of his thigh.

  “Interesting group of people tonight, wouldn’t you say?”

  She took a deep breath. “Yes. Quite fun.” Her eyes glistened in the firelight. “What did you think of the contessa?” Without waiting for an answer, she said, “I think she’s just great.”

  She hugged him, and after a second, gave an exaggerated sigh. “You didn’t like Hayden Stone?”

  “How well do you know him?”

  Ignoring the question, she continued. “My plan to reunite Lucinda and Hayden worked. Don’t you think? I’m like cupid shooting an arrow. Hmm. I’m a bit hazy on my mythology. Was cupid male?”

  “In some pictures, Cupid looks somewhat androgynous,” Bunting said. “Where do you know Hayden Stone from?”

  “We knew each other in New York City. Years ago.”

  Bunting ran his fingers through her hair, looking directly into her wary eyes. The sleeve of his shirt she was wearing had lipstick on it. Why did women do that? Marking their territory? He let her answer hang before he continued, “You know he’s heading to Namibia on a trip. That region has very interesting birds.” He stopped stroking her hair. “I’m thinking of going up to Botswana next month to do some bird-watching. You might find it interesting. Want to join me?” He waited for a response.

  “Sounds like fun. Let me know the dates.”

  “Someone told me that you and Hayden Stone met the other day.”

  She stiffened. “As I said, we’re old friends. We met … For one thing, I was seeing if he was ready to meet the contessa again.” She moved away from him and placed two pillows behind her head. “Please don’t tell me your people are watching me?”

  “Are you aware of his line of work?”

  “Yes. He’s a spy.”

  Bunting was taken back by her candor. “To be more precise, he’s a counterspy. A similar but quite separate vocation.”

  “How interesting.”

  “And you, dear.” He touched her shoulder, and she withdrew. “Are you also in the trade?”

  She rolled out of bed and stood in front of the fireplace. “You know I am. If you didn’t, I’d bloody well say that you are incompetent. Or your people are.” His white shirt came off and she rolled it into a ball. She threw the shirt in his direction. “Time for me to depart.”

  Bunting sat up. “I’m curious. Who do you work for?”

  She straightened her back and stood naked, in silhouette by the bright firelight. “Who do you think?”

  “The Brits. MI6.”

  “That’s what your people told you?”

  Bunting nodded. “We’re on the same side, you know. Colleagues. The Five Eyes program and all that. Now come back to bed.”

  “I’m off.” Patience picked up her clothes and headed for the bathroom, but stopped and walked back. “I’m glad I drove myself here tonight.” She carefully laid her clothes on the foot of the bed and slowly dressed in front of him.

  “Sweetheart. It’s late. You shouldn’t be driving on the roads at night. What with the crime.”

  “Bugger off.” Taking her time, she put on her lace pants, started with her brassiere, then threw it down, and put on her blouse, leaving the top three buttons open.

  “Please, dear, reconsider.” How dramatic. How bitchy. God, she is wonderful.

  “You had me followed. You didn’t think enough of me to ask me directly if I worked for MI6, or if I was meeting Hayden. No trust on your part!”

  “I am, or was, a bit jealous.” He patted the bed with his hand to return.

  “For your information, Hayden and I were never lovers. We were just in love.”

  “See. That answers everything.” Bunting clapped once. “We can get back to normal.”

  She headed for the door. “When I report this episode to my people, I don’t think they’ll like it one bit.”

  “For God’s sake. You’re not going to tell your people at MI6 everything we’ve done?” He waved his hand around. “Are you?”

  Patience came back to the end of the bed. “No. I’m not telling MI6. They are the people that I’ve been loaned to.” She smiled. “You didn’t know?” She waited for a response but he didn’t give one. “I’m telling my organization, the CSIC. The Canadian Security Intelligence Service.”

  For a moment, Bunting said nothing, then muttered, “I didn’t know Canada had spies.”

  “Few people do. Precisely the reason we’re so good.” She walked to the door. “Cheers, Mr. Ambassador.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Bruin Karas, Namibia—August 19, 2002

  Hayden Stone watched the pilot and copilot of the twin-engine Otter search for a clear landing space in the semi-arid savanna one hundred feet below. The sun had yet to rise, but first light revealed rolling hills and arroyos. Dirk Lange leaned over and told him they were called dongas in Zulu. Through the square window, Stone saw a dirt road undulating through tall brown grass and thorn bushes. Finally, the pilot used the road as a landing strip.

  When the plane hit the ground, it bounced once and then pitched forward to a stop. Outside the plane dust swirled from the rotating propellers. Across the aisle Colonel Frederick gave orders to the two CIA logistics officers sitting next to
him. Stone signaled thumbs up to Sandra Harrington and Dirk Lange, who in turn released their seat harnesses. The tail door of the plane lowered and the two CIA officers, a man and a woman, jumped up, unstrapped the three miniature motorcycles, and wheeled them down the ramp.

  Stone and his two companions carried their gear off the plane while the pilot eased up on the throttle, which helped lessen the noise level.

  Stone surveyed the surrounding terrain. Sunrise was still a half hour away and the desert had yet to reveal its colors. The morning temperature had to be in the low 40s and by noon they could expect it to reach the high 70s. Not bad for winter.

  Stone called out to Frederick in a raised voice, “How much time do we have?”

  “Only five minutes on deck. Then we’re wheels up.” Turning to Sandra and Lange, he yelled, “Important thing is to make sure your radios are working. After that, get these bikes ready.” Frederick held a satellite phone to his ear.

  The front and back fenders of three Suzuki DS80s were loaded with packs containing water and provisions. The female CIA technician quickly went over the specifications of the dirt bikes used by the special operations units. They learned the motorcycles could hit fifty miles per hour but had limited range.

  “They’re easy to handle.” The technician proceeded to show them how to brake and shift gears. “We fabricated special mufflers. They sound like the wind on a blustery day in Chicago.”

  The other CIA technician handed them rifles with shoulder straps—Browning BARs to Stone and Lange, a Browning BLR Stalker to Sandra. “They’re all .308 calibers, so you can exchange rounds if necessary.”

  Stone examined one of the .308 Winchester rounds knowing it to be effective, but the bullet had more drop at long range than the .30-06 Springfield he was accustomed to.

  “They look like the 7.62 NATO rounds I’m familiar with,” Lange remarked as he loaded a box magazine and inserted it into his rifle.

  Frederick, still holding the phone to his ear, shouted over the plane’s engines, “Remember. If you meet any locals, you’re on safari. That’s why we gave you hunting rifles.”