Jonathan closed his eyes. “When I first saw you, my heart leaped. I hoped you had come with news of my son and daughter.”
“I’m sorry, my friend. I wish I had.”
The old man had grown tired, and Stone was about to wave the attendant over when Jonathan went on.
“You know we lived in the district of Kissy. The RUF took away my son to be a soldier. They took away my daughter to do what they do with young ten-year-old girls. Then the RUF violated my beloved wife, and when they were finished with her, put her and my mother and my sisters into our home locked the doors and set it afire. They made me stand there and watch them burn. Already they had, as they said, dropped my arms with a dull axe — it took many chops.”
Stone feared he might say the wrong thing. He placed his right hand on his heart and offered to obtain prosthetics for him.
Jonathan shook his head. “If you do that, they will send me away from here. And to where? A burned-out home and no family? I will wander the streets and someone will steal my new arms.” He waved a stub. “The embassy sends me a stipend. I’m safe here for the time being.”
Stone motioned the attendant to come over. “I must go now. If you want anything, let me know through the embassy. I will help.”
“It is you who needs help, Hayden. I see Mr. Lange once a week, and he is very distraught. A good man like him should not live in fear.”
“Thank you, Jonathan.” Stone rose, realizing that with this warning his friend just may have saved his life.
Stone put his cooking skills to work. Sandra Harrington emerged from her bedroom, not because she felt better, but because she wanted company. She agreed to Stone’s suggestion that she eat something. He cooked white rice and boiled chicken breasts, which didn’t smell appetizing, but he knew she needed bland food.
“So Mr. Lange isn’t in town. When’s he coming back?”
“Tomorrow.” Stone took the chair across the table from her. “Ever hear of a Marsha who worked at the embassy?”
“Sounds vaguely familiar. How were Craig’s people with the countersurveillance?”
“Very professional. I guess he’s good at being a COS.”
Sandra picked at her meal. She asked if he had anything else, and he handed her a slice of white bread.
“Thanks. How about some chocolate?”
“Just what your stomach needs.” Stone poured himself a short Irish whiskey. “Don’t think you should have this.”
“So, this Marsha. Is she an old squeeze of yours?”
“Not mine.” Stone told her about his meeting with Jonathan. He provided the details on Marsha and Dirk Lange.
“The CIA Office of Security probably had a heyday with that.”
“Guess that’s why Mr. Craig has been such a prick. I don’t see how Lange’s dalliance with a case officer is going to affect getting the information we need.”
“Never know. Christ! Hope Craig doesn’t have this place bugged.” Sandra pushed her plate away. “How about a taste of that stuff you’re drinking.”
Stone poured a bit of whiskey into her water glass. As they both drank, he gave her a once-over: unwashed blonde hair, red puffy eyes, sweaty wrinkled robe, and blotchy skin. She wouldn’t be well enough to travel for days. No way would he leave her behind.
“What are you looking at?”
“One gorgeous creature.”
“You’re full of shit. I’m going to bed. Sorry to hear about your friend Jonathan. That upset you a lot, didn’t it?”
“Yeah. It hasn’t all sunk in yet.”
Sandra shuffled to her bedroom. Before closing the door, she called back, “Keep in mind what Jonathan told you about Lange. That South African might have something up his sleeve. Wish I could come with you tomorrow.”
Stone finished off his drink and turned out the lights. He decided to retire early. In his room, he opened the hidden compartment in his suitcase, removed his Colt .45, and wiped it down lightly with gun oil.
Chapter Eight
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.