“That is a mouthful, isn’t it? Please, it’s Patience.”
“Patience. Next week I’m giving a reception here in Cape Town at our mission’s residence. It’s for a visiting congressional delegation. I have no … that is, would you consider helping me host the event?”
“I’ll check my calendar, but I’m sure I’m free.” She touched the lapel of his blazer. “Do you like to sail? My family belongs to the yacht club here.”
“Yes, I do. Haven’t had an opportunity to do any sailing here, though. Your bay looks challenging. Can get a bit rough.”
“You must join us sometime. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble, coming from San Francisco. I understand the bay there can get tricky.”
“Right.” So. She’s done her homework. Her arms have the firmness of an athlete. Probably a tennis player. My stay at this posting might prove interesting.
“There goes your bird.” She pointed.
He turned and watched it glide off, but not the way he expected it would. Something about the bird’s movements, or lack of certain movements. Something else, the shape of the bird in flight, was peculiar.
It hit him. During his outbriefs in Washington, DC, prior to his posting to South Africa, the Defense Department sent him and two other outgoing ambassadors to an Air Force base in the desert outside of Las Vegas. Their hosts provided them a “show and tell” of the latest military gadgetry. The motivation of the office that ran the military attaché program was to garner favor for their attachés attached to the embassies.
Bunting recalled that it was an enjoyable trip. His friend Valery had accompanied him, and the morning he was to take his classified trip to the airbase, after a very long night partying, he awoke with a throbbing headache and Valery’s naked body entwined in his arms. Lying there, he was certain that the night before he had said something to her about wanting to make their relationship a permanent one. He felt ill.
When he finished showering, he found Valery dressed, packed, seated straight in the desk chair, and smoking a cigarette. She asked him to be silent and informed him their relationship was not going in the direction she had envisioned, that he was taking things much too seriously, and that she couldn’t possibly handle anything approaching a commitment. She rose, said she was flying to Boston that morning, and said to keep in touch.
Leaving, she blew him a kiss from the door.
He recalled his headache immediately disappearing, and cheerfully ordering a full room service breakfast with a double Bloody Mary.
The briefing at the airbase consisted of PowerPoint presentations on the military’s latest and most expensive toys. After a buffet luncheon, he and the other two ambassadors were taken to a vault. There around a large conference table, an affable scientist from one of the Defense research agencies, wearing a Drexel University lacrosse sweatshirt, showed them a number of exotic gadgets.
One particular item had caught Bunting’s interest. It was among a collection of drones, unmanned aircraft used for surveillance. Some had five-foot wingspans, some looked like miniature helicopters, and one resembled a saucer. As the scientist brought one after the other out to display, the drones became smaller and smaller. At last, after adjusting his eyeglasses that had slipped down his nose, the man presented his piece de résistance, lifting it and letting it fly about the room.
The bird-shaped drone was the size, shape, and color of the bunting that had just flown from the Van Wartts’ olive tree. Identical.
“Ambassador?” Patience placed her hand on his shoulder.
“Oh. I didn’t mean to be rude. Just remembered something,” he explained. “I think I’m off. Can I give you a lift home?”
“Thanks. I drove.”
“I’ll call tomorrow.”
“Do.”
Ambassador Bunting paid his respects to the van Wartts and outside found his driver waiting for him by the embassy’s armored BMW sedan. Riding down the winding road toward the sparkling lights of the city, he made a mental note to speak with his CIA base chief at the Cape Town consulate first thing in the morning. Why wasn’t he informed of the surveillance, especially since he had announced his daily schedule at the huddle that morning? Unless, of course, it wasn’t their drone. Maybe the Russians? Doubtful. Reports were their intel operations were in chaos. Israelis? Possible. Nevertheless, he would get an explanation.
At the same time, he’d get the base chief to do a background trace on Patience St. John Smythe. He did so hope that she wasn’t too good to be true.
Chapter Nine
At nine in the morning, Hayden Stone phoned York Export Ltd. and asked Mr. Amadu, the office manager, to speak with Dirk Lange. Amadu asked the nature of his call, and Stone reminded him of his visit to the office the day before.
“Oh yes. Mr. Costanza, I believe. The travel writer.”
“The same.”
“I took the liberty of making inquiries for Mr. Lange and could not find your name posted on any of the bibliographies.”
“Is Mr. Lange available? If so, put him on.”
After a pause and without further comment, Amadu transferred him to his boss. When Lange answered the phone, Stone detected a slight Afrikaner inflection to the otherwise clipped English accent.
“Good Morning, Mr. Lange. The name’s Finbarr Costanza. I’m a writer, and a mutual friend suggested I give you a ring.”
“And who would that be?”
Stone provided the parole, the password provided by Jacob, to confirm his identity. “A fellow from London said you knew a lot about the forest elephants.”
After a silence, Lange asked, “Are you interested in the herds in the Gola Forest North or the Gola East?”
“Both are of interest for my story.”
“Let us meet for lunch at the Hill Station Club. The history of the club might be of use for your story,” he said, and as an afterthought asked, “What do you look like?”
“White. Dark hair. No facial hair,” Stone said. “Oh. I’ll be wearing a khaki safari jacket.”
“Of course you will.”
Stone drove the small Toyota pickup from the city into the hilly, forested district that overlooked the bay. The meeting with Lange was scheduled for one in the afternoon. As he drove on the narrow lane through the tropical forest, a soft rain fell and the windshield wipers slapped a hypnotic rhythm. Each time the car passed over a rut in the road, the right bumper, the victim of a past collision, clanged against the car’s frame.
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.