Since Craig appeared in a cooperative mood, Stone offered, “I suggested to Lange that I’d contact him for a follow-up. What do you think?”
Craig looked off as if in thought. “Why don’t you and Sandra stay on for a bit? Contact the source tomorrow and see if this Nabeel can be located. We need a face on this guy.” Craig returned to scribbling on the bottom of the draft. “I’m making that suggestion to headquarters.”
Stone said he’d get hold of Lange and head for the café on Lumley Beach Road. Craig continued his scribbling. “My people will ramp up coverage of the mosque and try to come up with corroborating evidence,” he muttered. Stone knew he was dismissed when Craig lifted the phone and told his assistant to send in one of his case officers for a briefing.
A mixture of cooking aromas greeted Stone as he walked in the second-floor apartment. Sandra Harrington stood at the sink draining pasta in a colander. Her demeanor appeared a lot more chipper than when he left for the embassy that morning.
“We’re having spaghetti,” she said. “My stomach and head feel a lot better.”
The place settings were laid out on the wooden dining table, something cooked in a covered pot, and a short baguette of bread lay on the counter ready to be sliced.
“What, no candles?” Stone asked.
“Not tonight,” she said. “But I did get some ground beef and some sort of squash from the commissary here on the compound.”
Stone told her she looked a lot better. The color had returned to her face. Her blouse and shorts looked as if they had been washed and ironed that day. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she had put on earrings. His eyes lingered on her legs, tanned and firm.
“So, how did the interview go with Lange?” she asked.
He related the details of the meeting with Lange and Craig’s reaction. She turned from browning the ground beef and gave him a look. “Craig knows more than he’s letting on.”
“I agree.” He walked to the counter, cut a slice of Gouda cheese, and put it on two crackers. He handed one to Sandra. “But he wants us to stay and run with it, for how long I don’t know.”
She studied the cracker. “Imagine getting fresh cheese in this country. The embassy’s administrative office must be well run.”
“I’m meeting with Lange tomorrow around lunchtime to see if we can get a read on this Nabeel character. Are you ready to go back to work?”
“You bet. And how about you? What happened to the guy who was itching to fly home?” She grinned. “The thrill of the chase got you?”
“Maybe I didn’t want to head home as much as lay over in Paris, but to answer your question, something about this case has sparked my interest. Luke Craig knows more than he’s willing to let on. That’s to be expected.” He thought for a moment. “Jacob told me in Monrovia that he’s concerned enough that I should contact Dirk Lange, who in turn says this Nabeel character probably had a South African killed to keep her quiet about some big plan to attack the West. Another Twin Towers-type attack. And this guy Dirk Lange turns out to be … interesting.” Stone saw his Irish whiskey bottle and two glasses sitting next to the refrigerator. “Shall we? Or is the stomach too sensitive?”
“Water it down for me.” She turned off the heat to the frying pan and tossed a few slices of onion in with the beef. “What’s your take on Mr. Dirk Lange?”
“Not what I was expecting. You know, the typical tough guy soldier of fortune. Understand, he’s no marshmallow, but he has a human side. Seems to be bright and knowledgeable about what’s happening in this neck of the woods.”
“I believe it, since he’s South African. Is he trustworthy?”
“I suppose. After all, a hard-nosed character like Jacob deals with him, and Jonathan and he have a good relationship …”
“Not good enough. What’s your gut instinct?”
Stone poured whiskey into the two glasses. It was good to have her cool, no-nonsense thinking back. “For one, he doesn’t trust me. I’m sure he thinks I’m agency, and we don’t know the whole story of his relationship with that CIA gal.”
“I think we know. He was banging our CIA staffer, and the station made it uncomfortable for both of them.” She clicked Stone’s glass and sipped her whiskey. “Did you get a feeling that he’s been trained? That he’s a pro?”
“He’s trusted to some extent by Jacob, so he floats in those circles.”
Sandra looked hard. “Again, do you trust him?”
“Not yet.”
They sat and started eating. She had tossed a light tomato sauce with the pasta, and the whiff of garlic pleasantly added to the taste. Stone saw her appetite had improved.
Laying down her fork, she sat back and looked into space. “So, tomorrow we three go to this outdoor café and look for this Nabeel.” Continuing as if going down a list, “The dead South African presumably was murdered by Nabeel because she knew too much about some planned terrorist operation. What happened to her body?” She turned to Stone, who shrugged.
Sandra was right. He should have picked up on that. Lange only said the police hadn’t been interested. “The South African Embassy would have made an inquiry,” Stone said. “Maybe Craig can find out.”
“It’s logical to assume that we’re dealing with a group of terrorists who have a plan to make a big splash. Like spreading a plague in the US, or poisoning city water supplies. We have to know who we’re dealing with, what their backgrounds, educations are.”
Stone studied Sandra’s face, the sharp outline of her chin and the bright green eyes that, when in thought, appeared to dance with ideas.
“What?” Sandra frowned.
Catching himself, he said, “Nothing. Just thinking about what you said.”
“About what?”
“Oh, about … everything.” Stone tried to appear busy twirling the pasta around his fork. “It’s good to have you back.”
She returned to her meal and after a moment, out of the corner of his eye, Stone caught a quizzical glance.
Chapter Ten
After fueling up the truck at the embassy maintenance compound, Stone and Sandra picked up Dirk Lange, waiting patiently outside his office building. Lange suggested he take the wheel. “Driving through town from here to Cape Sierra Leone can be tricky for a visitor.”
Stone got out of the car and walked around and took the passenger seat. Sandra moved to the middle and introduced herself. After a bit of banter between the two, Lange circled the miniscule square showcasing Freetown’s landmark Cotton Tree. He drove southwest on Siaka Stevens Street. Stone noted a change in Lange’s demeanor. With smiles and a mellow voice, his attention focused fully on Sandra.
“First time here on the continent?” Lange asked.
“Been to Africa, but never Freetown.” Before he could ask another personal question, she said, “And you? How long have you lived here?”
Lange took a moment to answer. “You don’t know?” He flashed a boyish grin.
“Just checking to be sure you’re the same guy I heard about.”
“I’ve been here off and on for a number of years. First, working for a British-owned security company, now I’m in the mining business.” He pointed to the run-down neighborhood of shanties and hollowed-out houses they passed. “You wouldn’t think this country is enormously wealthy in minerals, now would you?”
“You also do charity work?” she asked.
“Keeps me busy.” He honked at a pedestrian who had stepped in front of the car carrying a live chicken by its feet. “Have no family except my parents back in Jo’burg. How about you?”