by Arthur Kerns
Jacob nodded. “Good choice. Ever been to Douala?”
“Yes. A steamy, dirty, dangerous seaport. It’s the end of the line. A perfect place to find some tramp steamer to take on cargo with no questions asked.” A thought occurred to Stone. “Let’s go talk to Abdul Wahab if he hasn’t already disappeared. By the way, the South Africans have him under surveillance.”
“I know, and he’s not disappearing.” Jacob smiled for the first time. “He’s about to see the light.”
Stone let that statement settle. “He’s being pitched by your side and the South Africans?”
“Both, and also your side.”
“The agency wants to recruit Wahab? The man instrumental in the deaths of two young CIA officers three months ago?” Stone knew his anger showed. “I can’t believe it.”
“Hayden. Try to understand.”
“The FBI doesn’t rest until it nails those who kill one of its own.”
Jacob held up his hand to calm him down. “You must learn that this is a different ball game. You’re in the spy business. You are no longer someone trying to catch spies like the FBI does.”
“It takes a thief to catch a thief. It takes a spy to catch a spy.”
“Abdul Wahab is more valuable alive than dead,” Jacob said. “At this time he has information and contacts we can use long term.”
Stone paced the wooden floor. Two college-aged girls with notepads stood at the entrance to the room studying the paintings on the walls. He let what Jacob said sink in. Evidently Abdul Wahab had offered his services, and the way the world had evolved since 9/11, the intelligence community couldn’t pass up the opportunity.
“Do you plan to go to Douala, and if you do, who will go with you?” Jacob whispered as the two girls made their way into the room.
“I’ll hold off going there until I hear something from Frederick, but I’m not waiting too long,” Stone said in a low voice. “Sandra would want to come, but she’s hurting. There’s Dirk Lange—”
“Lange is about to part from the secret service. In fact, he has a position with the Scorpions.”
Stone gave him a quizzical look.
As Jacob motioned they should leave, he explained, “The Directorate of Special Operations. It’s a unit formed to fight the South African crime syndicates.”
“So he’s no longer in the business?”
“No one ever leaves our business,” Jacob said. When they reached the gallery’s foyer, he tugged Stone’s sleeve. “I guess it’s just the two of us. Have any contacts in Douala?”
“This should be interesting, the two of us working together.” Descending the entrance stairs, Stone said, “We have a CIA station in Yaoundé. Surely they’ll be in the loop.” He thought a moment. “France has a close connection with Cameroon. Three months ago on the French Riviera, I met a guy in French intelligence. He might help us. Tonight I’ll get his number from a friend.”
The late afternoon sun came in through the louvered blinds and brightened the library in soft yellow light. Abdul Wahab always felt at peace here, even when he entertained difficult guests. Lady Beatrice and he sat patiently for the arrival of two individuals who would determine his future.
“When did you say they would be here?” Wahab asked.
“Momentarily. Dingane has been told to show them in.”
“I know this Dirk Lange fellow. He’s a South African intelligence agent, but Patience St. John Smythe. Why is she coming? She was at the Van Wartts’ party we attended recently, wasn’t she?” Wahab felt warm. Maybe he should remove his jacket. No, he must give a dignified appearance to these people. “She’s involved with the American ambassador.”
Lady Beatrice closed her eyes. “Patience is an old friend of mine from London. Her family belongs to our club. We sail together. Surely, I’ve mentioned it to you.”
Wahab gave a weary sigh. Nothing had gone as planned, but now that he looked back, he had lost control of this foolish endeavor a month ago. When that lowlife Nabeel Asuty came on the scene.
“I’m sorry, dear, you may very well have mentioned her name. She is an attractive woman.” Then remembering his original question Wahab asked, “So why is she coming?”
“She’s in the same business as Dirk Lange. She’ll be part of the … bargain.”
“Interesting.”
They heard Dingane at the front door bring people into the vestibule. A moment later there was a knock on the library door. Wahab opened it and led Patience and Lange into the room, offering them armchairs.
Wahab sat next to Beatrice on the leather settee. Should he ask how Lange felt? He looked at the man’s swollen eye and thought better of it, even though he had helped save his life. There was the matter of his being the original cause of Lange and his companions’ capture and subsequent beatings. He’d let them begin the negotiations.
“Mr. Wahab, you have a big problem.” Dirk Lange began. “You are a guest in South Africa and you assisted in the sale of a stolen nuclear weapon to foreign terrorists. The authorities are thirsty for blood.”
Beatrice touched Wahab’s arm as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.
“Some people have suggested that if you enter into an arrangement, you could avoid considerable unpleasantness,” Lange said. “Like imprisonment for the rest of your life in our Pollsmoor prison facility.”
The last statement made an impression on Wahab. “What are your terms?”
Patience now spoke. “You have vast knowledge and contacts with terrorist organizations. You will provide us a continuing stream of information on individual terrorists, terrorist cells, and when needed, will assist our people in any counterterrorist operation. We understand you have important contacts in Yemen. That is of particular interest to us.”
Wahab turned to Beatrice, who nodded. He did the same. “Who are these ‘people’? CIA?”
“It doesn’t really matter,” Lange said. “If you agree to our terms, and it will be in writing, we’ll arrange for your safe transport to another country.”
“I see.” Wahab looked at the ceiling. “I suppose I have no choice. Yes, I agree to your terms.”
“Good. We’ll begin to put matters into motion when these papers are signed.” Patience handed Wahab four official-looking memoranda. “You may want to sit over there at your desk and read them before signing.”
Taking the papers, Wahab read the top one while slowly walking to his desk. He looked up. “Canada? These are official Canadian documents! I would have sworn you were CIA. Oh well, I have no quarrel with Canada.”
Wahab went back to the forms and carefully signed each while the other three waited in silence. He looked up at Beatrice, but her eyes were looking off in the distance. He signed the last one and handed them to Patience.
“Have a seat over there, Mr. Wahab. We have some questions that demand immediate answers.”
Wahab obliged and noted his wife sat expressionless except for the downward curve of her mouth that appeared when she was distressed.
“We must know where Asuty is taking the bomb,” Lange said.
“He never told me. Not directly, that is. The deal was once he took possession our association ended. He never said what he was going to do with it, but it is assumed …”
“You assumed he intended to kill a lot of innocent people.” At Dirk Lange’s words, Beatrice jerked. “Think, Wahab. Give us something to go on. If you do, then those papers Patience is holding will become official. Otherwise …”
“I remember him saying something about a seaport and a shipping company. Oh, yes, Cameroon was mentioned, but so was Sierra Leone. Asuty’s group was infiltrated by a British agent. They tried to kill him but bungled it somehow.” Wahab looked at both his interrogators. “Ask MI6 what they know.”
“What about Libya? Could he be taking it there?” Patience asked.
“Definitely not. The Libyan intelligence service is at odds with Asuty’s group. He’s Eg
yptian, you know. Some bad blood there. Don’t know why.”
“We better get this to the right people,” Lange said to Patience.
This was the time to ask a question nagging Wahab since the morning. “Where is Dawid van Wartt?”
“He’s under arrest,” Lange said. “Very serious charges, you may imagine.”
“Knowing Dawid, he’ll buy his way out of this mess. A real blackguard. He talked me into this stupid idea.” Not quite fair. Since they were receptive to that question, what about the most important one. Why isn’t the CIA, and more importantly why isn’t his nemesis, Hayden Stone, present? He’d need to go about it obliquely. “I’m surprised Hayden Stone isn’t with us.”
Patience waved off the question and said, “I’m surprised you haven’t asked where we’re taking you.”
Wahab thought a moment. “Yemen?”
“Not yet. You’re heading for a colder climate. Pack your wools.” Patience rose. “Lady Beatrice, may I speak with you privately?”
“Before you leave,” Wahab said, “ I want to say I truly regret my actions. They were not at all thought out on my part.”
“Please,” Lange said. “No more of that bullshit.”
The absence of Hayden Stone concerned Wahab. If the CIA was not part of the deal, then dues were unpaid. Like the deaths of those two young CIA officers in the South of France. Another stupid mistake on his part.
“I have reason to believe that Hayden Stone still holds some grudge against me. Even though in Namibia I was instrumental in the saving of your life, Mr. Lange, and Stone’s life. Have you any idea what his thinking is about all this?”
“It’s always difficult to say what Mr. Stone is thinking or what he will do, for that matter,” Lange said.
“I’ll second that,” Patience said.
Wahab detected something in Patience’s aside that he couldn’t quite grasp, but it made him uncomfortable.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Cape Town—August 21, 2002
Rain pelted against the sliding glass doors that opened to the apartment’s third-floor balcony. Hayden Stone moved the sheet aside and, with half-closed eyes, peered out at the dim early dawn. He lay naked next to Lucinda, listening and feeling her slow, quiet breathing. She had put on a short chemise “To keep my shoulders warm,” she told him after their last lovemaking.
The wind accompanying the steady downpour rattled one of the sliding doors, and Stone, in that state of half awake, debated whether he should rise and check the latch. He waited a few moments, it rattled again, this time louder, and he slipped from under the covers and made his way to the door. It was secure.
He looked out at the gray winter storm coming off the South Atlantic. In the last minutes it had gained strength. He returned to the warmth on the sheet where he had been sleeping and eased closer to Lucinda. She stirred, stretched without opening her eyes, reached over, and squeezed his thigh. As if reassured he hadn’t left her, she went back to a hushed slumber. His face touching her back, his fingers roamed over her soft skin from waist to bottom and settled on her smooth buttocks.
Stone floated in a comfortable haze, allowing his mind to drift back to the events of the night before. He had picked up Lucinda here at Patience’s apartment in the Newlands, a district south of Cape Town’s that spread along the base of Table Mountain. They drove to a bistro Patience had recommended and gone to the trouble to make a reservation. Stone found the décor woody and dark, but in a way welcoming after coming in from the cold evening air. The lighting as well as the atmosphere was subdued. Most of the patrons consisted of young professional Cape Towners, and thankfully the noise and music level was low enough for conversation.
From the moment she’d entered the car, Lucinda had been concerned with Stone’s bruised face. After they were seated in the restaurant, she continued, “Is the rest of your body … discolored and cut?”
He told her it was, and now reminded of his injuries began to feel the aches that come as the body repaired itself. “I’ll live,” he joked.
She took a deep serious breath and placed her hand on his. “You wonder why I came down here to see you?”
He told her he hadn’t expected to ever see her again, but he was glad she had come.
“Last May we parted on bad terms. I told you I never wanted to see you again.” She shrugged. “Of course, I was upset about how things went … with us, with my palace wrecked by those Arabs. I blamed you, but our mutual friend, Inspector Maurice Colmont, told me that the French intelligence learned that it was the Arabs who were responsible. Not you.”
Stone considered it a stroke of luck that the waiter came for their order, giving him time to rethink his initial impulse to admit part of the responsibility. In fact, he had led a commando team into the palace, and they had done most of the shooting and damage. Oh well.
Lucinda leaned forward and asked if he minded her ordering for both of them. “Patience gave me some hints on the food here,” she said, looking pleased.
Tonight her auburn hair was pulled back and fastened with a silver filigree clasp. It looked Egyptian, probably a family heirloom. Her face, a mix Italian and Coptic-Egyptian blood, exuded an exoticism in the candlelight. Using the candle to read the menu, her green eyes studied the selections, and with authority she ordered the guinea fowl paupiette and smoked breast with wild rice and Kalahari truffles for him. For herself she chose the blue wildebeest with braised red cabbage, turnip puree, and red currant jus.
“Have you ever seen a wildebeest?” Stone asked. “They don’t look very mouthwatering. They’re quite ugly.”
“Out on the plains, lions find them most appetizing,” she said. “Besides, tonight I feel adventuresome.”
Stone suggested a bottle of red wine, she agreed, and he chose a Stellenbosch Shiraz.
“I am fortunate that the Saudi prince who rented my palace agreed to pay for the damages.” She sighed. “It turns out he is quite the gentleman. To change the subject, the reason why I am here is because I want to tell you that I still … love you.” She let out a deep breath as if in relief. “I always have loved you. However, sometimes, the way you act, I don’t trust you. I’m not sure you still love me.”
“I always loved you. It’s just that you scare me.”
Her eyebrow arched.
“In many ways you’re almost, well, unattainable.”
“I know. But you’re the only man I know who can—” she thought a moment, and then laughed. “Attain me.”
Their dinners arrived. The portions were modest, which pleased Stone, as the meal was rich in flavor, satisfying his appetite after only a few mouthfuls. The wine was adequate. He kept looking at Lucinda, wondering how it would be to live with her, permanently.
After the waiter removed their plates, both declined dessert but decided to share a cheese plate. “We were talking about the Saudi prince who reimbursed you for the damage to your place. His son-in-law, Abdul Wahab, lives here,” Stone said. “He’s behind the terrorist plot I tried to stop.”
“That cochon, that pig was the reason I agreed to rent the palace to those Arabs. Maurice Colmont told me that Wahab is on the French police wanted list. He can’t return to France.”
“He also may have outlived his welcome here.”
Lucinda touched his face. “Was he responsible for this?”
“Indirectly.” Stone thought a moment. “Ironic, I’m alive and so are my colleagues because Wahab prevented the other terrorists from killing us.”
“Where are your colleagues? Where is, what is her name, Sandra?”
“Yes, Sandra. Neither one came out as well as me. Both are in bad shape.”
“Is this mission over?” Lucinda asked.
“No, it’s not. However, my part in the operation may be over.”
Lucinda looked puzzled.
“I screwed up. Botched the case,” Stone said. “Gus Frederick, who you met at Ambassador Bunting’s funct
ion, has lost confidence in me.”
“So you will be leaving Cape Town?” She placed a blue cheese on a cracker.
“I should know tomorrow. By the way, do you have Colmont’s telephone number? I’d like to call him and ask a favor.”
After dinner they drove back to the apartment. The moment Lucinda led Stone into the flat, he knew from the modern Italian décor that this was Patience’s home. Her signature was everywhere. He had little time to admire the furnishings, as Lucinda had taken his hand and pulled him to her bedroom.
Again rain hit hard on the glass doors, bringing Stone out of his semi-dream. The sheet tightened over his body and he sensed Lucinda stir, throw off the blanket, and go to the bathroom. The wind pounded against the glass, and even though daybreak had arrived, the sky remained gloomy. After a while, she slipped back in bed and snuggled close.
Stone let himself drift again into that world of partial consciousness. Lucinda appeared in the dream, but as the girl he first met long ago in Nice, France. Her hair was shorter, her figure trim, and her white blouse brought out her tan from hours sailing on her father’s ketch. The boat’s name was La Claire, and the two of them sailed the dark Mediterranean.
The dream shifted to a dinner dance during the Christmas holiday season. She in a long black gown, he in his naval officer’s uniform. They danced very close. Later that night she sneaked into his bedroom and they made love for the first time.
Startled, Stone was awake and back in the present. Lucinda yanked off the covers and sat on top of him. She held a mug of hot coffee in her hand, the rich aroma rising with the steam.
“Good morning, my dear,” she said. “What first? Coffee or me?”
“No contest,” he said, taking the cup from her hand and placing it on the nightstand.
Slowly and dramatically, she lifted her white satin chemise over her head and discarded it. She came down hard, kissing and biting his neck. She laughed and tightened her legs around his body. He had no idea where her body would twist next, but intended to enjoy the ride.