The African Contract

by Arthur Kerns

  That morning Sandra had demanded she accompany him on the meet, and at one point became quite adamant, but as they argued, he watched her physically deflate, eyes redden, and finally acquiesce. She trudged to her bedroom.

  The station chief was another matter. After making the appointment with Lange, he had touched base with Craig in his embassy office. He showed a strange disinterest in the meet and said countersurveillance was unnecessary. His dislike for Dirk Lange came out rather loud and clear.

  “Really can’t afford spending resources on someone we know to be a small-time player. The guy’s a bum. South Africa’s equivalent to Eurotrash. People like him wind up everywhere there’s a buck to be made. They’re like gypsies.”

  Stone was relieved to not have Craig involved in his meeting. The man’s animosity toward Lange could only make Stone’s pitch difficult. He wanted to find out what the man had to offer, report the details back to Washington, and head home. But something nagged at him. Craig’s lack of interest in an operation on his turf was hard to fathom. More likely one of Craig’s assets worked at the Hill Station Club and would report back to him about the meet.

  He turned off the road, drove up a short dirt driveway, and parked in front of a two-story house that served as the clubhouse. Nearby, three weathered colonial-style homes sodden in the rain looked like they hadn’t been occupied since the British granted independence to Sierra Leone.

  A black man carrying an umbrella came up to the car. A large two-way radio hung on his belt. Behind him the clubhouse sat morose, upstairs windows flung open, the paint faded on the cement block walls topped by a rusty tin roof.

  “You are Mr. Costanza? Mr. Lange awaits in the bar.”

  The guard led Stone up broken concrete stairs to the entrance past scraggly bushes with yellow flowers. “The bar is beyond the ballroom.”

  The room had not seen a dance in years, yet the wooden floor had maintained a degree of polish. The floorboards didn’t squeak underfoot. Scattered around the room were chrome-framed chairs, the type Stone had last seen in an American diner. No tables were visible.

  In contrast to the club’s exterior, the mahogany-paneled bar was clean and looked cared for. Tall chairs lined the bar, a limited but expensive selection of liquor sat on the glass shelf, and a dated computer cash machine hummed. A local man wearing a striped shirt sat, before him a half glass of Guinness.

  At the far end of the bar, under a row of British Navy ship plaques displayed on the wall, in a position where he could see anyone coming in, a sandy-haired man in a yellow tennis shirt sat smoking a cigarette. The eyes gave Stone a long once-over. From a photo Craig had shown him that morning, Stone knew the man to be Dirk Lange.

  Stone acknowledged the black man and walked straight for Lange, right hand extended. “Mr. Lange? I’m Finbarr.”

  Lange’s handshake was firm and quickly withdrawn. He motioned for Stone to take a seat next to him. When the bartender approached, Stone ordered a Star beer, then laid a black Moleskine notebook on the table. “Good of you to help me out with my story on the elephants here in Sierra Leone.”

  “My pleasure. Only hope I can be of assistance.” Lange’s eyes darted to the man with the Guinness. “They are a distrustful lot, those animals. The ones that manage to survive. In that region there are too many people with AK-47s looking for something to kill.”

  Stone made a pretense of opening his notebook and scribbling with his pen.

  “This is an interesting club,” Lange continued. “Has history. Have you been here before?” Without waiting for Stone to answer, he rose. “Come, I’ll show you the billiard room upstairs. You know a famous English writer was a member here during the Second World War.”

  “So I hear.”

  “He was also a spy.”

  Upstairs, a shaded lamp hung over an old, well-maintained billiard table. Not three feet away, a ragged hole in the floor the size of a manhole looked down into the ballroom.

  “Termites?” Stone asked.

  Lange said, “Probably,” and led him to the green painted wall next to the open window. He searched the grounds below. At last, he turned, moved closer, and looked directly into Stone’s eyes. “Jonathan spoke to me about you.” The words came more as assurance than a statement. “I will come to the point.”

  He stood close and the nearness made Stone uneasy. The man smelled of a cheap aftershave that airlines placed in travel amenity kits.

  “Ronda. A colleague at the aid organization fell in love with an Arab man who lives next to one of the big mosques in town. They slept together and one night began smoking hashish. Three weeks or so ago, she confided in me, being a fellow South African. She is disturbed, troubled.” Lange moved away and for a moment listened at the door. Returning, he continued. “She said that while in bed, smoking hashish, the Arab starts bragging about how his people will triumph against Western civilization. That he was helping purchase the means of making a bigger statement than was made with those towers in New York City.”

  “What kind of statement?”

  Lange shrugged. “Ronda came to me about this. Being a sensible woman, she was quite worried.”

  “Can I talk to her?”

  Lange shook his head. “Last week fishermen pulled her body ashore in their nets.”

  “Did the police rule suicide or foul play?”

  “You are joking, Mr. Costanza? The police here are not concerned with the random body that washes ashore. They have a backlog of explained deaths to process.”

  “You believe this Middle Eastern friend had something to do with her death?”

  Lange nodded. “I told all this to Jacob, who said he would have someone come and talk with me.”

  Stone, thinking about his last assignment on the Riviera, asked if Lange thought the Arab had been talking about spreading Ebola or some other disease.

  “I doubt it. To me, it sounded like some object they were buying. Something that would prove catastrophic. Ronda told me she thought the Arab inferred one of her own kind, a South African, was selling them this ‘thing.’”

  “Someone from South Africa?”

  “That was her impression.”

  Stone walked to the window. The still air in the room hung heavy with dust. Down below, the guard stood under the roof of a shed next to the parking lot. He turned back to Lange. “This Arab. What nationality? Lebanese, Syrian? Is he still here? Know where I can find him?”

  “Egyptian.” Lange motioned that they should return downstairs to the bar. “Saw the bugger two days ago at the open-air beach café on the point. Out Lumley Beach Road.”

  “Have a name?”

  “Nabeel. Nabeel Asuty.”

  Stone followed Lange to the door. “Mr. Lange. Tomorrow I suggest we go drinking by the bay.”

  Stone eased the battered truck down the tree-covered lane from the Hill Station Club to the American Embassy. The steady rain washed mud onto the patchy macadam, and at places the runoff poured across the road from the hill above, splattering the windshield with muddy water. The meeting with Lange went well, he thought. The information was a bit sketchy and hearsay, but still Lange gave him a name, Nabeel Asuty, and an address for a place that he frequented—a mosque located downtown.

  A cable setting out the results of the meeting had to be sent to Stone’s boss, Colonel Gustave Frederick, at CIA headquarters. However, Stone had to follow protocol: Luke Craig had to sign off on the draft before it was sent over the agency’s communications network. Craig’s reaction would be interesting. Would he blow off the allegation that Nabeel was involved in a grandiose terrorist plot? Did he know this individual and already have him in the agency’s crosshairs?

  Stone would know by tonight whether he was staying in Freetown to follow up on the case or heading back to Washington. As he drove, he imagined himself opening that café along the Southern California coast. He’d be near his two kids, who attended college nearby. This last thought reminded him th
at he must email both of them. He remembered his ex-wife lived in Los Angeles, competing for their children’s attention. By the time Stone pulled up to the embassy, he decided he wasn’t that eager to board a homeward plane.

  Craig surprised him. Swiveling side to side in his chair, he read and reread the draft Stone had prepared. He stopped occasionally to make edits with his number two pencil, a practice that Stone knew was instinctual for any boss in the agency who authorized the sending of cables to their headquarters division. Bosses had to make their mark on all outgoing communications. What caught Stone off guard was Craig’s interest in the content of the draft. Evidently, Craig had picked up other information that made the account credible. Stone guessed the station’s source at the Hill Station Club reported something positive about his meet with Lange.

  “The name Nabeel Asuty doesn’t ring a bell, but we know about activity at the mosque,” Craig admitted. “Most of the hotheads in town gather there to plan their version of jihad. As if this country needs any more turmoil.”

  Since Craig appeared in a cooperative mood, Stone offered, “I suggested to Lange that I’d contact him for a follow-up. What do you think?”

  Craig looked off as if in thought. “Why don’t you and Sandra stay on for a bit? Contact the source tomorrow and see if this Nabeel can be located. We need a face on this guy.” Craig returned to scribbling on the bottom of the draft. “I’m making that suggestion to headquarters.”

  Stone said he’d get hold of Lange and head for the café on Lumley Beach Road. Craig continued his scribbling. “My people will ramp up coverage of the mosque and try to come up with corroborating evidence,” he muttered. Stone knew he was dismissed when Craig lifted the phone and told his assistant to send in one of his case officers for a briefing.

  A mixture of cooking aromas greeted Stone as he walked in the second-floor apartment. Sandra Harrington stood at the sink draining pasta in a colander. Her demeanor appeared a lot more chipper than when he left for the embassy that morning.

  “We’re having spaghetti,” she said. “My stomach and head feel a lot better.”

  The place settings were laid out on the wooden dining table, something cooked in a covered pot, and a short baguette of bread lay on the counter ready to be sliced.

  “What, no candles?” Stone asked.

  “Not tonight,” she said. “But I did get some ground beef and some sort of squash from the commissary here on the compound.”

  Stone told her she looked a lot better. The color had returned to her face. Her blouse and shorts looked as if they had been washed and ironed that day. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she had put on earrings. His eyes lingered on her legs, tanned and firm.

  “So, how did the interview go with Lange?” she asked.

  He related the details of the meeting with Lange and Craig’s reaction. She turned from browning the ground beef and gave him a look. “Craig knows more than he’s letting on.”

  “I agree.” He walked to the counter, cut a slice of Gouda cheese, and put it on two crackers. He handed one to Sandra. “But he wants us to stay and run with it, for how long I don’t know.”

  She studied the cracker. “Imagine getting fresh cheese in this country. The embassy’s administrative office must be well run.”

  “I’m meeting with Lange tomorrow around lunchtime to see if we can get a read on this Nabeel character. Are you ready to go back to work?”

  “You bet. And how about you? What happened to the guy who was itching to fly home?” She grinned. “The thrill of the chase got you?”

  “Maybe I didn’t want to head home as much as lay over in Paris, but to answer your question, something about this case has sparked my interest. Luke Craig knows more than he’s willing to let on. That’s to be expected.” He thought for a moment. “Jacob told me in Monrovia that he’s concerned enough that I should contact Dirk Lange, who in turn says this Nabeel character probably had a South African killed to keep her quiet about some big plan to attack the West. Another Twin Towers-type attack. And this guy Dirk Lange turns out to be … interesting.” Stone saw his Irish whiskey bottle and two glasses sitting next to the refrigerator. “Shall we? Or is the stomach too sensitive?”

  “Water it down for me.” She turned off the heat to the frying pan and tossed a few slices of onion in with the beef. “What’s your take on Mr. Dirk Lange?”

  “Not what I was expecting. You know, the typical tough guy soldier of fortune. Understand, he’s no marshmallow, but he has a human side. Seems to be bright and knowledgeable about what’s happening in this neck of the woods.”

  “I believe it, since he’s South African. Is he trustworthy?”

  “I suppose. After all, a hard-nosed character like Jacob deals with him, and Jonathan and he have a good relationship …”

  “Not good enough. What’s your gut instinct?”

  Stone poured whiskey into the two glasses. It was good to have her cool, no-nonsense thinking back. “For one, he doesn’t trust me. I’m sure he thinks I’m agency, and we don’t know the whole story of his relationship with that CIA gal.”

  “I think we know. He was banging our CIA staffer, and the station made it uncomfortable for both of them.” She clicked Stone’s glass and sipped her whiskey. “Did you get a feeling that he’s been trained? That he’s a pro?”

  “He’s trusted to some extent by Jacob, so he floats in those circles.”

  Sandra looked hard. “Again, do you trust him?”

  “Not yet.”

  They sat and started eating. She had tossed a light tomato sauce with the pasta, and the whiff of garlic pleasantly added to the taste. Stone saw her appetite had improved.

  Laying down her fork, she sat back and looked into space. “So, tomorrow we three go to this outdoor café and look for this Nabeel.” Continuing as if going down a list, “The dead South African presumably was murdered by Nabeel because she knew too much about some planned terrorist operation. What happened to her body?” She turned to Stone, who shrugged.

  Sandra was right. He should have picked up on that. Lange only said the police hadn’t been interested. “The South African Embassy would have made an inquiry,” Stone said. “Maybe Craig can find out.”

  “It’s logical to assume that we’re dealing with a group of terrorists who have a plan to make a big splash. Like spreading a plague in the US, or poisoning city water supplies. We have to know who we’re dealing with, what their backgrounds, educations are.”

  Stone studied Sandra’s face, the sharp outline of her chin and the bright green eyes that, when in thought, appeared to dance with ideas.

  “What?” Sandra frowned.

  Catching himself, he said, “Nothing. Just thinking about what you said.”

  “About what?”

  “Oh, about … everything.” Stone tried to appear busy twirling the pasta around his fork. “It’s good to have you back.”

  She returned to her meal and after a moment, out of the corner of his eye, Stone caught a quizzical glance.

  Chapter Ten

  Freetown, Sierra Leone—August 11, 2002

  After fueling up the truck at the embassy maintenance compound, Stone and Sandra picked up Dirk Lange, waiting patiently outside his office building. Lange suggested he take the wheel. “Driving through town from here to Cape Sierra Leone can be tricky for a visitor.”

  Stone got out of the car and walked around and took the passenger seat. Sandra moved to the middle and introduced herself. After a bit of banter between the two, Lange circled the miniscule square showcasing Freetown’s landmark Cotton Tree. He drove southwest on Siaka Stevens Street. Stone noted a change in Lange’s demeanor. With smiles and a mellow voice, his attention focused fully on Sandra.

  “First time here on the continent?” Lange asked.

  “Been to Africa, but never Freetown.” Before he could ask another personal question, she said, “And you? How long have you lived here?”
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br />   Lange took a moment to answer. “You don’t know?” He flashed a boyish grin.

  “Just checking to be sure you’re the same guy I heard about.”

  “I’ve been here off and on for a number of years. First, working for a British-owned security company, now I’m in the mining business.” He pointed to the run-down neighborhood of shanties and hollowed-out houses they passed. “You wouldn’t think this country is enormously wealthy in minerals, now would you?”

  “You also do charity work?” she asked.

  “Keeps me busy.” He honked at a pedestrian who had stepped in front of the car carrying a live chicken by its feet. “Have no family except my parents back in Jo’burg. How about you?”

  Stone decided to interrupt Lange’s questioning of Sandra, which resembled first encounter bar talk. “How far do we have to drive?”

  “We go west on the Motor Main Road, cross the bridge to Aberdeen, and then we’re almost to the café. Don’t expect too much from the kitchen.”

  “Dirk,” Stone said, “I forgot to ask. Do you meet often with Jacob?”

  The response came at once and in a flat, deliberate tone. “He didn’t tell you?”

  Stone looked out the side window. Lange knew what was and was not appropriate when asking about intelligence relationships. Obviously, the man had training. Question: Was he an active member of the South African service or just a runner?

  “Jacob only indicated he trusted you,” Stone said. “He was also concerned enough about your information to tell me to contact you.”

  “And you, Mr. Finbarr Costanza, is it? What is your relationship with Jacob?”

  Well done, you big prick. “A sporadic one over a long time. Do you expect him to drop by?”

  “We both know he pops in and out unexpectedly.”

  Sandra heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Not to change the subject, but this café we’re going to. Is it a local hangout?”

  “It is an expat hangout. A very pleasant place,” Lange said, his broad smile returned. “It overlooks Man of War Bay, and you can sit and have a cool drink under the palm trees. An escape from reality.”