by Arthur Kerns
Bull Rhyton ground his boots in the gravel beneath the bench. His eyes didn’t blink. Finally, he said, “Ja?”
“I offered the bomb to the Libyans.”
Bull cursed and spat. He used Van Wartt’s formal name. “Dawid. The Libyans and our new ruling party, the ANC, have been in league for years. They supplied the explosives and guns that killed our people. Why did you deal with them?”
“It was only a backup plan. In the event these jihadists wouldn’t take the bomb.” Van Wartt lifted his hands. “How they found the boxcar, I don’t know. What they intend to do, I don’t know.”
Bull turned his face away. When he looked back at Van Wartt, he said coldly, “You assume it is the Libyans. Maybe someone else knows about it. My nephew said they looked European.”
“Ja. They may not be Libyans.” Van Wartt folded his arms. Then who for God’s sake are they?
Van Wartt stood, started pacing, stopped, and whispered, “We have to move quickly. I’ll contact Abdul Wahab and tell him he has to take possession of the nuclear device within two days.” He sat down. “Can we move it somewhere else?”
“The damn thing is leaking radiation! Who will move it? Not me. Not my kin.” He slapped his leg. “This is all bad. We’ve gotten ourselves in too deep with these evil people. I don’t like it anymore.”
“Think what these hypocrites in America and the West have done to us.”
“Dawid, we have been through much, hey? We have fought together up in Angola. Truly I believe this plan has gotten out of control. We must give the bomb back to the government.” He waited for a response from Van Wartt and, getting none, rose. “I’ll let myself out.”
Van Wartt watched the big man push past the guard, open the gate, and leave. Bull should have been told about the Libyans, but he had known what his reaction would be. He would have objected just like he had now.
He lingered on the bench and lit a cigarette. The words of his father came to him: In Africa, the strong eat, the weak are eaten. He crushed the cigarette under his shoe and looked again at the beautiful city below. The damn Americans and Europeans were responsible for the embargo of his country during apartheid. Making his people pariahs to the world. His Afrikaner people became hated and made scapegoats for the West’s own failings. Forcing them to relinquish control of their government, of their country. America deserved the Twin Towers attack. Many of his friends had cheered when they watched the burning towers on TV. See how it feels, you sons of bitches, his friends had shouted.
Two minutes after Van Wartt hastened back inside his villa, the brown and black bird tipped forward, lifted from the branch with a flurry of its wings, and sailed down the mountain.
The meeting with Bull Rhyton had disturbed Van Wartt, but as the Bentley neared the Camps Bay residential area, he rehearsed what he would say to Wahab. The man had been dragging his feet. Was it the money? He had assumed these terrorists had an inexhaustible supply of funds. Perhaps Wahab didn’t have the network he claimed to have. Today he must get a timetable from that man.
More and more the need for revenge against the Americans and Europeans took a backseat for the need to dispose of this nuclear device as soon as possible. Bull’s uneasiness, no, hostility to the plan, disturbed him.
Van Wartt found Abdul Wahab not in the fish and chips restaurant as agreed, but across the road. Here the ocean edged Victoria Road. The sea floor dropped dramatically, and at certain times of the year Southern Right whales came up, almost within touching distance, exhaling water from their blowholes. Wahab stood with the other onlookers gaping at two immense mammals surfacing in the black water.
Van Wartt stepped up next to him. “Fascinating animals, no?”
Wahab continued to look ahead. He appeared disturbed.
“Abdul. Shall we walk along the shore?”
“I decided to forgo a meal of fish and chips,” Wahab said. “If you don’t mind?”
“I agree. We do have important business to discuss, and this is a perfect place for it.”
“Why are there no waves along here?” Wahab asked. “There is surf where I live.”
“Deep water. No waves,” Van Wartt said impatiently. “Will you be ready in two days to travel north and pick up the … package?”
Wahab stopped, looked around. “We are experiencing a delay. It’s a matter of getting enough people. We had a setback. I need more men for my team.”
Van Wartt thought a moment. “Damn! Those Arabs who were involved in the shooting at Victoria Wharf were your men.” Getting no answer from Wahab, he said, “Dammit to hell!”
“A minor setback. As we speak my headman is obtaining additional men.” Wahab looked directly at Van Wartt. “Not to worry. The plan goes forward.” He looked away as if he knew he failed to be convincing.
“You have two days from now. Call me tomorrow at this number. I would be most appreciative having an update tomorrow.”
Wahab pronounced, now more evenly, “I shall, if I can. If not … maleesh.” He shrugged and walked away.
Van Wartt cursed and hurried to the Bentley. He had to contact the Libyan chargé in Pretoria and set up an emergency meeting to determine if it was the Libyans who Bull’s nephew had seen two weeks ago up in the Kalahari.
Chapter Twenty-One
Cape Town—August 18, 2002
Hayden Stone watched Sandra fidget and fret while driving the rental car. They had just left the city and were heading for a conference called by the ambassador. The meeting was to be held at the official ambassador’s residence, a distance from center city in a treed suburb. The ambassador promised a braai afterward. Since COS Fleming didn’t want them staying at Victoria Wharf after the shooting incident, the two would then head for the safe house.
Fleming had phoned and advised that Ambassador Bunting wanted the meeting at three o’clock in order to hash out issues that had come to his attention. One issue on the agenda was Sandra’s putting a bullet in Farley Durrell’s leg. True, she had saved Farley from being murdered by Nabeel Asuty and his thugs and should be commended by her superiors for quick thinking, if not flair for improvising, but both knew their bureaucracy would view the action outside the norm. As very “sticky.” Administrative criticism could be expected.
Shifting her weight and hitting the wheel with both hands, Sandra let out a long groan. “This mission sucks! Nothing has gone right. I want to go back to Paris.”
“Pull over. I’ll drive,” Stone said, and surprisingly she pulled off onto a dirt shoulder. Stone hoped he’d have the good sense to remain silent and allow her to talk, tell him her concerns.
The surrounding neighborhood consisted of elegant homes placed on expansive lots. Traffic had been almost nonexistent since leaving the city, but as they exited and walked around the car to change positions, a black SUV approached from the other direction, slowed, and stopped opposite them.
The moment the SUV’s windows lowered, Stone, standing in the open, yelled, “Take cover!”
His Sig Sauer was out at the same time gun barrels emerged from the front and rear windows of the SUV. Bullets whizzed by Stone’s head and slammed into the car. The windshield shattered behind him.
Stone ducked behind the open driver’s door, using it as a shield. He returned fire.
Crouching in front of the grille, Sandra began shooting with a controlled two-shot sequence. By now the front window of the rental was gone. The attackers’ rounds penetrated the car door Stone used for cover. Gun empty, he needed the other magazine inside the pocket of his coat, which was lying on the car seat.
He dove headlong into the car and squirmed over to the passenger side. Finding the spare magazine in his coat, he scrambled out the other side.
Sandra had shifted position from the front of the car to the trunk area and was in the midst of reloading. The SUV crept along the road, maintaining rapid fire. Reloaded, Stone bent down next to Sandra and steadied his pistol with both hands. He aimed and fired
at the SUV’s tailgate window. The window fell apart, revealing a bearded man in sunglasses.
Stone lined his sights and eased off two rounds. The man’s sunglasses flew from his face, and his gun dropped out of the vehicle. The driver accelerated, peeling rubber from the SUV’s rear tires.
The two watched the vehicle disappear. Out of breath, they leaned on the car’s trunk. She said, “Good thing they left. I’m out of ammo.”
Examining his Sig Sauer, Stone said, “Not a bad weapon. Fairly accurate. I nailed one of them.”
“By my count, there were two more. One looked like Nabeel Asuty.”
They straightened and looked around. No movement came from the nearby homes. Either they were accustomed to gunfire in their neighborhood, or were wise enough to stay indoors when shootings occurred.
“I’ll phone for help,” Sandra said. “This car isn’t going anywhere. A bullet must have hit a hose in the engine compartment. Hear the hissing?”
In less than ten minutes, a car arrived from the ambassador’s residence. Owen, dreadlocks flopping, who the two had met at the safe house the previous night, jumped out. After assuring neither required medical attention, he inspected the rental car. “The rental company won’t like this, but then carjackings aren’t unusual here.” He ordered them into his car. “We have to get out of here in case they return.”
They retrieved their luggage from the trunk while Owen checked the inside of the car for any belongings. Before getting into the car, Stone ran over and with his handkerchief picked up the pistol that had dropped out of the SUV. He came back and asked, “Shouldn’t we gather up our brass?”
Owen looked puzzled.
“The brass. The expended cartridges lying on the ground.” After Stone had said it, the absurdity of the question hit him. “Guess we shouldn’t be worried about the crime scene.” Handing the pistol to him, Stone said, “Here’s one of their guns. We may get a make on a fingerprint.”
They drove away at a normal speed. Owen asked Stone, sitting in the backseat, to check behind them for any suspicious cars, and he began a dry-cleaning run along the back roads to the ambassador’s home.
Sandra spoke up. “I’ll bet Nabeel Asuty’s pissed.”
“Stupid move on his part,” Stone said. “Makes me wonder why he did it, and if they are the terrorists who want the bomb, why are they still here in Cape Town?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Cape Town—August 18, 2002
Hayden Stone watched people file into the high-ceilinged room used by the ambassador as an informal meeting area. French provincial chairs had been arranged in a circle. Two of the room’s walls, painted a rich yellow, darkened as the afternoon shadows advanced. Colonel Gustave Frederick stood next to him, waiting for the stragglers before he began his briefing.
“I guess that little fracas out on the road got your juices flowing,” Frederick said.
“It got my attention,” Stone said, coming down from the adrenaline rush caused by the gunfight. His stomach growled and he felt edgy. A drink would help.
“Glad headquarters is on the ball, sending you here to smooth this operation.”
The COS, Charles Fleming, entered the room and introduced Colonel Frederick to the assembled group, which included the base chief, Houston, and the four agency people, whom Stone had met at the safe house. Then Fleming said, “The ambassador wants to talk with us—oh, here he is.”
Ambassador Bunting rushed in and told Frederick that he wanted to speak alone with him and Stone and Sandra. The four gathered by the fireplace, and Bunting came to the point.
“These shootings have put the embassy in a delicate position.” He raised his hand, knowing Frederick would protest. “I know your actions were reactive, well for the most part, but the South Africans are sensitive about firearms. Certain unfriendly factions would have a heyday with these two shootings.”
“So far we haven’t been identified or connected with the incidents,” Stone said.
“So far.”
Frederick said, “I plan to send these two to Namibia tomorrow. That should allay your concerns.”
“Wait ’till the ambassador up in Namibia hears.”
Stone said, “We hope to have this problem solved before anyone knows we’re there.”
“Considering the serious nature of this mission, it better be quick,” Bunting said. As he left he told Frederick, “I’ll let you conduct your meeting.”
To the group Colonel Frederick went over the situation and the obstacles they faced. CIA Headquarters considered the nuclear device up in Namibia a top priority and had sent him to oversee the operation.
“Are we going north to Namibia to seize that thing?” Houston asked.
Colonel Frederick held up his hand. “Before we get into specifics, let me tell you what Langley cabled to us an hour ago. As you are aware, we have a fix on the nuclear device, which is located in the southern region of Namibia on the fringe of the Kalahari Desert.
“Two weeks ago our satellite tracked two, rather, four men, identities unknown, scoping out the boxcar that has the nuclear device inside. They flew in by helicopter and two of them searched the boxcar, entered it, and took some readings. They took off and flew north toward Angola.”
Stone said, “Two weeks ago? That’s quite a time delay. Do we know where in Angola?”
“No,” Fleming interjected. “For some reason they lost coverage. Maybe technical.”
“Our people in Angola are attempting to identify the helicopter. They have make, model, and markings. It had a peculiar livery and logo, probably bogus.”
“What is the station in Windhoek doing?” Stone said.
“The COS in Windhoek is stateside in the hospital.” Colonel Frederick pointed to Fleming. “Since you’re the backup COS for Namibia, that will smooth administrative issues.” He looked at Stone and Sandra. “We have to step lightly, especially after that ambush today. The ambassador expects to take heat from the South African officials. Apparently they feel they have enough problems with the homeboys shooting each other. They don’t need to import sideshows.”
The snickers from the three men from the safe house disturbed Stone. He expected more from them, no matter how unseasoned they appeared. Across from him Sandra stiffened when Colonel Frederick turned in her direction.
Frederick regarded his notes. “Sandra. Very quick thinking on your part, by the way. You saved a fellow case officer’s life. Well done.”
Sandra relaxed and shot Stone a look of relief. Both now knew where Colonel Frederick stood regarding Sandra shooting Farley Durrell. He was definitely in her corner.
“Back to those four men up there in the desert,” Stone said. “Any indication they were Abdul Wahab’s people? Or Van Wartt’s group?”
“Houston, did you research that?” Colonel Frederick asked.
“We’ve tracked Wahab and Van Wartt in town. No linkage between the unknowns and either man.” Houston paused. “But here’s something. Our bird, that is drone, picked up a meeting yesterday between Van Wartt and a fellow from Namibia. The two were sitting outside Van Wartt’s residence. Believe the fellow’s name is Rhyton. We’re checking him out. Anyway, both seemed on edge. When Rhyton left, Van Wartt drove to a gas station and called the Libyan consulate. Later he met a man at the Bo-Kaap Museum.”
“What’s that?” Sandra asked.
“It features Cape Muslim culture.”
“This guy. Did you ident him?” Stone asked.
“Looked North African, but nobody we know from the Libyan consulate.”
Stone looked at Colonel Frederick. “Could be an intelligence officer from Libya.”
There were a few nods among the group.
Stone continued, “Now about the bomb. We’ve got to take possession before Wahab’s people get there.”
“That’s one of our hang-ups,” Colonel Frederick said. “We don’t have the aircraft or ships in the vicinity to take some
thing like this on. The navy is sending an amphibious ship with marines and helicopters, but won’t be in position to launch a team for at least forty-eight hours.”
“We could neutralize the opposition.” Stone’s suggestion met silence.
Finally, Colonel Frederick said in a quiet voice, “Van Wartt is a South African national, and we can’t touch him on his home turf. As for Abdul Wahab.” He looked at Fleming, who squirmed in his seat. “Let’s forget about Wahab for the time being. The people he’s dealing with are the major targets. What’s that man’s name who is working for Wahab?”
Stone caught Sandra’s eye. She’d picked up on the same undertone. Why was Abdul Wahab off limits all of a sudden?
Fleming spoke up. “Nabeel Asuty. The one who today tried to kill our colleagues here. Asuty’s the guy who’s gathering men to take possession of the bomb.”
Colonel Frederick said, “Stone, I want you and Sandra to fly to Namibia. Secure that boxcar. Leave here early tomorrow.”
Stone nodded and turned to Sandra, who seemed to be thinking the same thing he was. How in hell would they to travel to the Kalahari Desert, find the boxcar, and secure it for two days?
“We’ll provide logistical support from the station,” Fleming offered. “We have a plane available.”
Houston said, “You’ll need a little more than water bottles and field rations. You need some local support up there.”
“We’ll ask the South African intelligence officer Dirk Lange to come along,” Stone said.
“I don’t know about—”
“Do you two trust him?” Colonel Frederick asked.
Both Stone and Sandra nodded.
“Make it happen.” Frederick looked around. “That’s it for the time being. Let’s see what kind of game the ambassador has cooking on the grill.”
Stone watched the people file out of the room and head for the patio area where the ambassador was hosting his function. Fleming held back at the doorway, directing his question to Frederick. “Bringing in this South African, Dirk Lange, can create problems. I know he helped Sandra save Farley Durrell’s life, but it’s best to vet his background before we let him in on our operation.”