by Arthur Kerns
Dawid van Wartt swirled the glass holding chilled Chenin Blanc from his family’s Stellenbosch vineyard. He surveyed his guests who were milling about in the expansive sunken living room that took up one side of the home. His wife’s recent redecoration by a well-known designer flown in from Rome provided the occasion for the soirée.
Originally planned for only close friends in Cape Town and the ones who flew down from Johannesburg, the guest list had swelled. Now business associates were included, who gladly joined in to drink his vintage South African wine and nibble on freshly prepared hors-d’oeuvres. A number of the guests had congregated next to the floor-to-ceiling windows to gaze out at the other hillside estates, their white stucco sides dazzling.
The sprawling city below now glowed crimson in the setting sun. White sails dotted Cape Town’s Table Bay interspersed with anchored commercial vessels. A few couples walked the terrace that ran outside the windows for a better look, but soon, Van Wartt knew, the winter chill would bring them back inside to stand next to the fireplace.
Van Wartt and his wife, Kayla, watched Abdul Wahab and his wife return from their stroll along the flagstone terrace.
Kayla touched his elbow. “Who are those people?” She slightly raised her perfect nose, wrongly assumed by many of the Cape matrons as being reconstructed.
“Abdul Wahab and his wife, Lady Beatrice Roscommon,” he whispered in Afrikaans. “Recent arrivals from London.”
“She has a title?” Kayla continued in English with a touch of irony.
“So many of those Brits do.” Van Wartt looked for his cigarettes. “Wahab is the one with the royal connections. His number one wife is a Saudi princess.” Kayla looked a bit confused, so he explained. “Abdul Wahab has taken advantage of his religion to have two wives simultaneously.” “And Lady Beatrice puts up with that?” Kayla cursed under her breath in Afrikaans. “In a way he is rather attractive. Bastard.”
Removing a silver case from his inside jacket pocket, Van Wartt removed a cigarette and tapped it on the side. Lady Beatrice reminded him of that famous British actress who had played Cleopatra: long dark hair and ample breasts.
“Please don’t smoke. Others will start and the place will reek with tobacco.” Kayla brushed back her husband’s graying hair, then stiffened. “God. The two are heading our way. They’re your friends, dear. You handle them.” She moved over to a group of loud Afrikaners from the Orange Free State.
Wahab and Lady Beatrice came up, and Van Wartt immediately guided them to the bar, handing the bartender his empty glass.
“Please, let me have your drinks,” Van Wartt said. “I’ll freshen them up.”
“You do have excellent wines here,” Beatrice said, presenting a practiced smile.
Van Wartt agreed and, appearing to gaze into her violet eyes, glanced down her décolleté, admiring the cleavage. Her accent was upper, upper class British, cultivated at that boarding school his people had reported she attended. He had also learned from the same investigators that she had vast funds at her disposal.
“Mr. Van Wartt. Do you think we might have a brief word alone sometime this evening?” Wahab asked, accepting a ginger ale from the bartender.
“Please. Call me Dawid. Now’s a good time.”
“Splendid,” Beatrice said. “I’m off to the powder room.”
“The girl here will show you the way,” Van Wartt said, motioning to the uniformed servant. As Wahab’s wife walked off, he said, “The library’s free. We can speak there for a few minutes.”
“Excellent,” Wahab said. “And do you think someone can bring me a double malt scotch. Neat.”
“Of course, Abdul.”
They entered the dark-paneled library covered with heads of wild game Van Wartt had taken down over the course of years: an oryx, Cape buffalo, and an eland, among others. He considered this room his private space where he could comfortably make important decisions. Wahab sat in one of the two leather club chairs, Van Wartt in the other. The bartender brought in Wahab’s drink and left, closing the door.
“Abdul. Have you and your charming wife found Cape Town up to your expectations?”
“It’s a beautiful city to have a villa, if only for part of the year.” Wahab adjusted the sharp crease in his trousers. “You have been quite hospitable to us. I wish to thank you.”
Van Wartt dismissed the statement with a slight wave of his hand. “Not at all, Abdul. When I learned of your arrival from members of the yacht club, I took the opportunity to seek you out.”
Especially when my people told me you had to leave in haste from the Riviera because the French authorities were interested in your terrorist connections.
“I feel that you are interested in entering into some commercial arrangement,” Wahab said, sipping the scotch from the half-full tumbler. “You want to explore the business climate in Saudi Arabia?”
“No. More to the point, my friend,” he said in Afrikaner-accented English. “I’m interested in some of your contacts in the Middle East. Mainly the disreputable ones.”
Wahab leaned back in the chair and placed the glass to his lips without drinking. His cheerfulness had disappeared, and the lines at his eyes accentuated a cold hardness.
Van Wartt smiled. “I’m told we people in South Africa can be blunt at times.”
Wahab rose and headed for the closed door. “We must return to your guests.”
“I am so undiplomatic, my dear Abdul. I meant no offense.”
Wahab turned back toward Van Wartt. “I’m not easily offended, but I come from a culture where one must be cautious.”
“Of course. I understand.”
“Really?” Wahab walked back to the still-seated Van Wartt. “You have quite a mix of guests this evening.”
“Under the new government we are a multicultural society.”
“Is the American ambassador a friend?” Wahab asked. “And I see you have a Jew here also.”
Van Wartt rose; now his smile had departed from his broad tan face. “No need to worry. The ambassador is a fool. The Jew’s name is Jacob. He is a very useful contact in the diamond trade.” He forced a laugh. “We all do business with people who can help us. Why, I’ve been told that your wife’s investments in London are handled by Jews.”
“You appear to know a lot about me.”
“We both perform due diligence before entering into relationships. Do we not?”
Now Wahab smiled. “We may have common interests after all, Dawid.”
“Please sit. Let me explain.” Van Wartt waited until Wahab sat. This time his guest ignored his scotch. “You and I face common problems. Here in South Africa, our … that is, my world has changed with the new government. Your world is also experiencing change and threats. I think you have to agree that much of what is happening to us comes from outside forces beyond our control … it would seem.”
“I’m not sure—”
“I’m not happy with what has happened to my world, and I want someone to atone,” Van Wartt said.
Wahab looked away, as if to look out the window onto the garden. At last, he said, “Perhaps we should discuss this at a later time. Even though my wife and I have property here, I am still a visitor and must feel my way in your society.”
Van Wartt nodded. The man sitting with him was on the run. His father-in-law, a Saudi prince, had blackballed him and would not care to see him return to his country even if he wanted to. The CIA considered him to be involved with the deaths of two of their officers, and everyone knew those people had long memories. Eventually, Wahab would be receptive to his plan. However, he, Van Wartt, had no wish to tarry.
The two left the library and returned to the entertainment area with the other guests, quite a few of whom had found seats on the new couches and chairs imported from Italy. The sun had set and the city lights twinkled in the soft azure dusk. Through the glass doors, the deep ridges of the craggy mammoth, Table Mountain, had darkened.
“My. Who is that attractive woman?”
“Patience St. John Smythe. An official with the Cape Town city government. Well connected. Especially bright and unattached.”
“Quite intriguing. A member of the English tribe to complete your multicultural gathering?”
“My, Abdul. You are learning fast about your new country.”
Deep within, US Ambassador Marshall Bunting felt an excitement. He certainly did enjoy taking in the accent of this woman speaking to him. She spoke with that peculiar combination of inflections that comes from speaking British English, Afrikaans, and one or more of the native dialects. He also noted her perfume, light and woodsy. He remembered a similar fragrance one night in Paris a year ago.
However, that strange-looking bird perched on the olive tree branch at the far end of the terrace intrigued him.
“Ambassador,” the woman said, touching his sleeve. “We want to thank you for all your help bringing that art exhibit in from the Washington National Gallery.”
“You must thank my cultural attaché. He’s a wonder.”
“I know, but you have been very supportive with the exhibit last month and also with our AIDS conference.” She sighed. “Some of the people in my government don’t realize what a problem the AIDS virus is.”
Bunting turned and studied Ms. St. John Smythe. Age shy of thirty-five, not much younger than he. Hair very black, hanging loose, not too short. She had the ivory complexion of many women from the British Isles. A brush of light freckles across her nose made her face interesting. There was a distant air in her manner, yet she didn’t withdraw when he moved close.
“I noticed you watching that bird out there,” she said. “You’re known as an ornithologist.”
“No. I’m just a birder.”
“I hear that you have two bird species named after you.”
“Yes,” Bunting said with a grin. “A swallow and a tern. I’m quite proud of that.”
“May I ask? Are you accompanied tonight?”
“No.”
“Oh, so you are not … attached?” Following Bunting’s eyes, she began to look around. “Pardon. Didn’t mean to be so—”
“Not at all. Hmm. No, I’m not attached, but I am looking for my drink.”
Patience hailed the woman carrying a tray of wine glasses, took one, and handed it to Bunting.
“Thank you. And you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Attached?”
“Not seriously.”
Both sipped their drinks. She asked him what species of bird sat in the tree.
“That’s the problem,” he said. “It has all the markings of a golden-breasted bunting. They’re not usually found here. They live up north, and in East Africa.” He shrugged. “Cape buntings are the birds found here.”
“Can’t see it all that well. Lost one of my contacts coming in tonight, but we’re talking about birds with your name. They’re not named after you, are they?”
He laughed. “No, no.” The bird’s head swung to the right and to the left with sharp mechanical movements. The eyes looked odd. “Ah well, maybe the fellow’s lost.”
She moved closer and he enjoyed her presence. “Ms. St. John Smythe, I wonder—”
“That is a mouthful, isn’t it? Please, it’s Patience.”
“Patience. Next week I’m giving a reception here in Cape Town at our mission’s residence. It’s for a visiting congressional delegation. I have no … that is, would you consider helping me host the event?”
“I’ll check my calendar, but I’m sure I’m free.” She touched the lapel of his blazer. “Do you like to sail? My family belongs to the yacht club here.”
“Yes, I do. Haven’t had an opportunity to do any sailing here, though. Your bay looks challenging. Can get a bit rough.”
“You must join us sometime. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble, coming from San Francisco. I understand the bay there can get tricky.”
“Right.” So. She’s done her homework. Her arms have the firmness of an athlete. Probably a tennis player. My stay at this posting might prove interesting.
“There goes your bird.” She pointed.
He turned and watched it glide off, but not the way he expected it would. Something about the bird’s movements, or lack of certain movements. Something else, the shape of the bird in flight, was peculiar.
It hit him. During his outbriefs in Washington, DC, prior to his posting to South Africa, the Defense Department sent him and two other outgoing ambassadors to an Air Force base in the desert outside of Las Vegas. Their hosts provided them a “show and tell” of the latest military gadgetry. The motivation of the office that ran the military attaché program was to garner favor for their attachés attached to the embassies.
Bunting recalled that it was an enjoyable trip. His friend Valery had accompanied him, and the morning he was to take his classified trip to the airbase, after a very long night partying, he awoke with a throbbing headache and Valery’s naked body entwined in his arms. Lying there, he was certain that the night before he had said something to her about wanting to make their relationship a permanent one. He felt ill.
When he finished showering, he found Valery dressed, packed, seated straight in the desk chair, and smoking a cigarette. She asked him to be silent and informed him their relationship was not going in the direction she had envisioned, that he was taking things much too seriously, and that she couldn’t possibly handle anything approaching a commitment. She rose, said she was flying to Boston that morning, and said to keep in touch.
Leaving, she blew him a kiss from the door.
He recalled his headache immediately disappearing, and cheerfully ordering a full room service breakfast with a double Bloody Mary.
The briefing at the airbase consisted of PowerPoint presentations on the military’s latest and most expensive toys. After a buffet luncheon, he and the other two ambassadors were taken to a vault. There around a large conference table, an affable scientist from one of the Defense research agencies, wearing a Drexel University lacrosse sweatshirt, showed them a number of exotic gadgets.
One particular item had caught Bunting’s interest. It was among a collection of drones, unmanned aircraft used for surveillance. Some had five-foot wingspans, some looked like miniature helicopters, and one resembled a saucer. As the scientist brought one after the other out to display, the drones became smaller and smaller. At last, after adjusting his eyeglasses that had slipped down his nose, the man presented his piece de résistance, lifting it and letting it fly about the room.
The bird-shaped drone was the size, shape, and color of the bunting that had just flown from the Van Wartts’ olive tree. Identical.
“Ambassador?” Patience placed her hand on his shoulder.
“Oh. I didn’t mean to be rude. Just remembered something,” he explained. “I think I’m off. Can I give you a lift home?”
“Thanks. I drove.”
“I’ll call tomorrow.”
“Do.”
Ambassador Bunting paid his respects to the van Wartts and outside found his driver waiting for him by the embassy’s armored BMW sedan. Riding down the winding road toward the sparkling lights of the city, he made a mental note to speak with his CIA base chief at the Cape Town consulate first thing in the morning. Why wasn’t he informed of the surveillance, especially since he had announced his daily schedule at the huddle that morning? Unless, of course, it wasn’t their drone. Maybe the Russians? Doubtful. Reports were their intel operations were in chaos. Israelis? Possible. Nevertheless, he would get an explanation.
At the same time,
he’d get the base chief to do a background trace on Patience St. John Smythe. He did so hope that she wasn’t too good to be true.
Chapter Nine
Freetown, Sierra Leone—August 10, 2002
At nine in the morning, Hayden Stone phoned York Export Ltd. and asked Mr. Amadu, the office manager, to speak with Dirk Lange. Amadu asked the nature of his call, and Stone reminded him of his visit to the office the day before.
“Oh yes. Mr. Costanza, I believe. The travel writer.”
“The same.”
“I took the liberty of making inquiries for Mr. Lange and could not find your name posted on any of the bibliographies.”
“Is Mr. Lange available? If so, put him on.”
After a pause and without further comment, Amadu transferred him to his boss. When Lange answered the phone, Stone detected a slight Afrikaner inflection to the otherwise clipped English accent.
“Good Morning, Mr. Lange. The name’s Finbarr Costanza. I’m a writer, and a mutual friend suggested I give you a ring.”
“And who would that be?”
Stone provided the parole, the password provided by Jacob, to confirm his identity. “A fellow from London said you knew a lot about the forest elephants.”
After a silence, Lange asked, “Are you interested in the herds in the Gola Forest North or the Gola East?”
“Both are of interest for my story.”
“Let us meet for lunch at the Hill Station Club. The history of the club might be of use for your story,” he said, and as an afterthought asked, “What do you look like?”
“White. Dark hair. No facial hair,” Stone said. “Oh. I’ll be wearing a khaki safari jacket.”
“Of course you will.”
Stone drove the small Toyota pickup from the city into the hilly, forested district that overlooked the bay. The meeting with Lange was scheduled for one in the afternoon. As he drove on the narrow lane through the tropical forest, a soft rain fell and the windshield wipers slapped a hypnotic rhythm. Each time the car passed over a rut in the road, the right bumper, the victim of a past collision, clanged against the car’s frame.