Stone decided to interrupt Lange’s questioning of Sandra, which resembled first encounter bar talk. “How far do we have to drive?”
“We go west on the Motor Main Road, cross the bridge to Aberdeen, and then we’re almost to the café. Don’t expect too much from the kitchen.”
“Dirk,” Stone said, “I forgot to ask. Do you meet often with Jacob?”
The response came at once and in a flat, deliberate tone. “He didn’t tell you?”
Stone looked out the side window. Lange knew what was and was not appropriate when asking about intelligence relationships. Obviously, the man had training. Question: Was he an active member of the South African service or just a runner?
“Jacob only indicated he trusted you,” Stone said. “He was also concerned enough about your information to tell me to contact you.”
“And you, Mr. Finbarr Costanza, is it? What is your relationship with Jacob?”
Well done, you big prick. “A sporadic one over a long time. Do you expect him to drop by?”
“We both know he pops in and out unexpectedly.”
Sandra heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Not to change the subject, but this café we’re going to. Is it a local hangout?”
“It is an expat hangout. A very pleasant place,” Lange said, his broad smile returned. “It overlooks Man of War Bay, and you can sit and have a cool drink under the palm trees. An escape from reality.”
On arriving, Stone had to agree with Lange’s assessment. The café sat on the semicircular blue water bay alongside other eating establishments and small resorts that resembled American motels. A far cry from the hovels and trash-laden streets they had passed, this district had a feel of forced relaxation, ever cautious of the possible encroachment of Africa’s primitive disorder.
They parked in the café’s car lot behind the single-story metal-roofed building. Lange led them through the main entrance that adjoined the noisy kitchen. Once out on the terrace, he was proved correct — the breeze cooled the soft air and Stone looked out on a scene that could be duplicated at any tropical seaside spot in the world. An invitation to sit and relax and forget where one lived.
Stone and Sandra ordered cool fruit drinks, Lange a beer. The menu resembled one found in an English pub. Again, Lange cautioned them not to expect haute cuisine. They were early, so few tables were occupied.
After the waiter brought the drinks, Sandra leaned toward Lange. “Did the police issue a report on that woman who washed ashore?”
Lange shook his head. “Like I told … Finbarr, the police issue few reports in this town.”
“This woman, Ronda, was South African,” she pressed. “Did your embassy make an inquiry?”
“Yes, after they examined the body.” Lange looked around to make sure no one was near. “They found a small hollow depression in back of the neck, just below where it meets the skull. The spinal cord was cut, they surmise from an ice pick-type weapon.”
“They dumped her in the bay,” Stone said. “Hope she was dead at the time.”
Lange stiffened. “She was quite a decent person.”
“I’m sure she was,” Sandra said, giving Stone an admonishing look for his insensitive remark.
Across the way a chair fell over, and they saw four bearded men, each wearing black untucked short-sleeved shirts. Lange touched Stone’s arm and Sandra, catching the sign, raised her camera concealed in a sunglass case. After a moment, Stone felt assured they had gotten photographs of Nabeel Asuty and his companions, copies of which were now being transmitted by the radio in the case to a satellite overhead. Next, to help the Counterterrorism Center back in Langley do a search on Asuty, they needed a car tag number and, if lucky, Asuty’s credit card number.
Their meals came as advertised by Lange. Everyone carefully inspected the food, hoping it wasn’t bushmeat. From across the restaurant, Stone was the first to pick up Nabeel’s interest in their table.
“It must be me they’re looking at,” Lange said. “They know I was acquainted with Ronda.”
Stone started to say they were giving them all a once-over when Nabeel rose, said something to his associates, and marched toward their table. The man was in his early forties, taller and better built than Stone had pictured. No dandy, he had an arrogant stride.
“Mr. Lange,” Nabeel Asuty said in a contrived, unctuous voice. “So unfortunate about our mutual friend Ronda. Boating can be dangerous in these waters.”
“Really, Mr. Asuty,” Lange said, looking him up and down. “I didn’t realize someone who lived in a desert knew anything about boating.”
Stone was impressed by Lange’s toughness, characteristic of the grit many native-born whites in Africa had.
“One must be careful here in Freetown, Mr. Lange.”
Stone gave a purposely false guffaw. “Good God. This man is right out of a very bad grade B movie. Do you practice your routine in front of a mirror before you skip out in public?”
Asuty’s face froze, but his right hand twitched. He reached into his shirt pocket for his sunglasses and put them on.
Stone turned to Sandra, who stared at him with a “What the …” look, then at Lange, who grinned at everyone.
Finally, Nabeel’s back straightened, revealing the outline of a gun tucked in his belt. His head bobbled ever so slightly. “Mr. Lange. You should inform your guest that this is not as safe a place as the French Riviera.” With that he turned on his heels and returned to his table.
“Why, Hayden?” Sandra asked. “Why did you antagonize the man?”
“I wanted to piss him off. Wanted to have him lose his cool to see if he knew me, or about me. He does.” Stone downed his drink. “The only person who got away in the South of France operation was the Saudi, Abdul Wahab, who undoubtedly carries a grudge. I’d wager this Nabeel Asuty works for Wahab.”
“Very well done, Hayden,” Lange laughed. “Good logical reasoning. I bet you were good in your day.”
Stone’s gray eyes hardened. “The day’s not over, pal.”
Sandra frowned at Lange. “Where does that put us?” She slowly answered her own question. “That puts us on the track of a terrorist operation with some good leads.”
“We still need a license plate and maybe a credit card number,” Stone said.
“As for the credit card, I’ll get it,” Lange offered. “I know the girl at the register. Oh. I’ll get Asuty’s glass for fingerprints.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Stone said. Fingerprints? This guy is a pro. “I’m headed for the restroom.” Stone rose and winked at Sandra. “Wonder if Nabeel knows anything about poisonous snakes in Liberia.”
To reach the toilet facilities, Stone had to exit the restaurant’s main entrance and walk around the parking lot to a shed attached to the side of the building. He dreaded using public privies in this area of the world and only used them if he had no choice. This one met his expectations. Dark, stiflingly hot, and cramped. The rank odors emitted a unique toxic bouquet.
The door would not completely shut, but he intended to make his visit as quick as possible. Instead of a urinal, Stone discovered at the far end of the room a hole in the floor. He squirmed past a stained water basin and a toilet bowl without a seat, trying not to touch either. Unzipping, he looked up at the ceiling at a collection of cobwebs. From the fresh ones hung spiders of varying colors and sizes.
The door behind him banged open. Stone looked around and saw the silhouettes of two men. “I’m about finished,” he called, turning back and pushing to empty his bladder.
As he pulled up his zipper, he realized the two men had entered the room. Spinning around, he recognized them as two of Nabeel’s thugs. The first man, carrying a gun, lunged at him. Stone went into defensive stance and kneed him in the gut. He groaned and lurched forward, swinging his automatic pistol at Stone’s head.