“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.
“Look, Abdul. That brown-haired chap in the Italian suit. The one with the moustache. That’s the American ambassador. Standing over there staring out the window at Lord knows what. He is down from Pretoria.” He chuckled. “And while the fool is drifting off in some other world, next to him is one of the finest feminine morsels in our city.”
“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—”