The African Contract (13 page)

“I know. Colonel Frederick from the director's office briefed me about Ambassador Bunting. Seems Frederick and Bunting worked together in the past. Sounded almost like Bunting was one of us. Who knows? With his connections, the ambassador may someday be the Director of Central Intelligence.” Fleming adjusted a family picture on his desk. “I have a meeting with him this afternoon.” He rose, walked around his desk, and took the armchair closest to Houston. “What happened to the bird, you know, the drone?”

“Damndest thing,” Houston said. “It was on its way back to the control post when a damn hawk attacked it. Swooped down in flight and struck it hard. The drone ended up in someone's swimming pool.”

“Did we get it back?”

“Yeah, but not without a little, err, incident.”

Fleming waited for Houston to continue.

“We sent a new officer over the fence to get it.” Houston waved his hands around. “Well, to make a long story short, our guy goes in the pool, he dives down to the bottom to retrieve the bird, and when he surfaces, he's looking into the barrel of a shotgun held by the irate homeowner.” Houston ran his hands through his hair. “Luckily, we had another officer standing by with her wits about her. She runs up to the fence and asks the man holding the gun if her model airplane was broken. She sweet talks the owner of the house, who grabs the bird from our guy climbing out of the pool. Our gal is, shall we say, attractive, and she establishes a rapport with the guy, we get the bird back, and all ends happily.”

Fleming sighed and appeared to be in thought, which made Houston nervous—had he explained too much about the disaster that could have happened?

“Do we have another bird … drone, that is?”

“Should have one operational tomorrow.”

“So, our technical coverage of Van Wartt in Cape Town is presently down.” Without waiting for a response, Fleming continued, “We'll have to rely on human sources. How are we down in the Cape for assets?”

“Thin.”

“The station is getting a new operative. He should be arriving in Cape Town as we speak.” Fleming sighed. “Hayden Stone is his name.”

“Do you know anything about him? Is he good? Controllable?”

“Yes and yes to the first two questions.” Fleming went back to his desk. “As to the third question, Mr. Stone has a tendency to wander on his own. He's former FBI.” Fleming did an eye roll. “Wait. I take that back. Three months ago he worked for me in the South of France. More apt, he was assigned to me when I was in Paris. Mr. Stone is hard to control to say the least, but his instincts are spot on, if you know what I mean. You must have heard about the shoot-out in Villefranche and then the termination of that terrorist in Montpelier? Stone was instrumental in both actions.”

“We can always use good people,” Houston said. “But back to Van Wartt. We still have a wiretap and random physical surveillance on him. He's been in contact with Abdul Wahab. Something fishy going on there.”

Fleming sat with his hands lifted to his chin as if in prayer. “The agency has unfinished business with Mr. Abdul Wahab. Are we on Wahab? Is he being covered?”

“At the time, indirectly. The other service, actually two other services have coverage of Wahab. The locals, and we only get from them what they think will keep us happy, and the other service.”

“And the other service is who?”

“The Canadians.”

“You're shitting me. I'll be damned.” Fleming smiled. “God, at last someone we can trust.” Fleming crossed his legs and examined the crease in his trousers. “What's your read on the relationship between Van Wartt and Abdul Wahab?”

Houston let a moment pass, then answered carefully, “Their connection might be commercial, in some way.” He knew Fleming wouldn't be satisfied with this response.

“I was stationed in Paris when Abdul Wahab operated down on the Riviera. His people murdered two of our officers. Killed, we believe on his orders.”

“Are there plans to take him out?”

“Nope, and if you want to discuss it, we have to go into the bubble.”

They both remained silent for a few moments. “Now what about our ambassador and his love … that is, his extra-curricular activities,” Fleming asked.

Houston squirmed in his seat. “Again, boss, we should discuss that in a secure environment, like the bubble. The situation you'll find quite interesting.”

Cape Town—August 16, 2002

Outside Hayden Stone's hotel window, the morning sunlight washed over boats tied up at the Victoria Wharf. In the distance Table Mountain loomed over the tops of high-rise buildings floating above a soft haze. He had slept well, comfortable in the fact that the agency still valued his services. The potential danger he faced made his mind as sharp and clear as this bright winter morning by the sea. He still had to find out the full story behind the mission. It had to be good.

When he arrived at the hotel the night before, he refused the first room offered and asked for one on the second floor. If somehow he had appeared on the SASS intelligence watch list, they would have a bugged room waiting for him. This change of room would complicate matters for them, but again the entire hotel might be pre-wired.

His stomach growled and he debated whether to have breakfast at the restaurant downstairs or find a place along the wharf. He decided on the latter. He placed some intricate traps in his room, including the obligatory single hair over the lock of his suitcase, which any respectable intelligence service would find and replace after they had gone through his belongings. He turned on the TV, put the DO NOT DISTURB sign on his door handle, and departed. Outside he walked along the quay toward the shops and small eateries.

Already tourists and visitors began to filter into the area. Stone wore European-style shoes, trousers, and a long-sleeved shirt to blend in with his fellow strollers. He put on his Italian sunglasses and changed his gait by placing his hands behind his back and assuming a leisurely shuffle. Just another tourist taking in the sights.

Stone's orders were to be available for any approach. He reasoned that the most likely would come from Jacob or Dirk Lange, but he had to be alert for an encounter with henchmen of Nabeel Asuty or Abdul Wahab. Operational protocol called for the local CIA base to place countersurveillance while he wandered about. Stone hoped his faith was not misplaced.

It took less than an hour for Stone to cover the whole Victoria Wharf waterfront. As he meandered, he made phone calls on the non-attributable cell phone provided to him on arrival at the airport. He had also received a pistol, not a Colt .45, but a .40 caliber Sig Sauer P226. Unfortunately, he had little luck in reaching his old contacts. One had moved to Australia, another was in prison, and a third had died mysteriously. He remembered one other, a woman named St. John Smythe. He'd try her later.

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
!”