Had she detected a note of disapproval on Stone’s part when she joked around with Lange? What was that about? Was he jealous?
Sandra caught movement below and raised her binoculars, scoping the complex. Men filed out the back door onto the terrace. They sauntered around the pool; a few moved to the edge of the terrace, taking in the view of the city. No women, just men talking in small groups with many hand gestures. Most had beards and a few wore thobes, ankle-length robes. As she scanned the group, she spied Nabeel. He had donned one of the ivory-colored billowy thobes and glided from one group to another. Again, the flying hand gestures.
While panning, she stopped on a man’s face. A face she knew, but didn’t belong in this scene. Whether in denial or just confused, the person’s identity didn’t register at first. Then she realized who the man was, standing by the pool, in sunglasses, in deep conversation with Nabeel Asuty.
Her former partner, Farley Durrell.
Chapter Eleven
At the morning “country team meeting,” Ambassador Marshall Bunting sat to the right of Whitmore, his consul general for Cape Town. Bunting allowed Whitmore the position of honor at the table. Rightly so, for it was his post, and the fussy little man had earned one of State’s posh assignments through years of dedicated service in many of the hellholes of the world.
The staff assembled around the table inside “the bubble,” a Plexiglas compartment designed in the 1960s as an anti-eavesdropping device. American security professionals had questioned its effectiveness from the beginning, but it did provide some protection from sound and voice emanation. The contraption was useless against a technical attack, a method the South African intelligence service, one of the best in the world, certainly used. The nation’s science capablitiies were first-rate, having performed the world’s first heart transplant and having tested a nuclear weapon over the southern sea near Antarctica. American counterintelligence knew South Africa’s intelligence organization would be no less accomplished. In addition it wasn’t a particularly friendly one.
A few moments into the meeting, one of the junior counselors brought up a personnel problem, setting out the sexual proclivities of a young staffer. The CIA Base Chief M. R. D. Houston, in his early thirties with a short haircut that emphasized his jug ears, squirmed in his seat. An enemy agent overhearing this conversation could use the information as blackmail to target the unfortunate American being discussed. The information would be leverage to turn the young staffer into a spy for the South Africans and the United States.
Bunting spoke up. “Perhaps this matter should be discussed one-on-one, don’t you think, Consul General?”
Flustered, Whitmore agreed and moved on to another topic. The meeting continued for a half hour. As they adjourned, Bunting asked Houston to remain behind. When the room had cleared, he pushed a three-by-five card across the table with the writing:
WHERE CAN WE TALK IN PRIVATE?
Houston nodded. “Let’s go for a ride.”
They drove in Houston’s car, a battered green Land Rover Defender, through crowded Cape Town toward the bay. After fifteen minutes Houston found a parking space near the lighthouse off Beach Road. The two got out and strolled along the waterfront. Bunting took in the deep blue ocean, rough with white caps, and off to his left, Table Mountain. The air sparkled.
“That’s called Three Anchor Bay.” Houston pointed down the coast. “I guess they named it so because it takes three anchors to hold your ship in place.” He surveyed the area, and apparently comfortable with their surroundings, finally said, “I believe this is a place where we can safely talk, Mr. Ambassador.”
Bunting wasted no time getting to the point. “Mr. Houston. I attended a soirée the other evening at the residence of one Dawid van Wartt.”
“Yes, sir,” Houston murmured.
“I observed out the window, perched in a tree, a drone in the shape of a bird. Remarkably realistic, I might add.” Bunting stopped to let what he said settle in and continued. “One of yours, Mr. Houston?”
He stammered and shook his head. “It wasn’t my operation.” Houston looked directly into Bunting’s eyes. “I only know about it because the team flew in from Washington and hit me for hotel accommodations. They arrived two weeks ago. I’m not in the loop.”
“I trust your boss, the station chief in Pretoria, is aware of what’s happening on his turf.”
Houston nodded.
“For two weeks this operation has been going on?”
No answer at first, then a nod.
“The target is …” Bunting pretended to hesitate before asking, “Me?”
“Good God, no. Not you, sir!” he blurted. “That Arab fellow. What’s his name? Wahab something.”
Bunting tried to remember the people he had met at the party. The name Wahab didn’t ring a bell. “What does he look like?”
“About our height, a little less than six feet. Fortyish. Well groomed and dressed. Trimmed black beard.”
M. R. D. Houston knew enough about the operation that he was certain of the target’s description. Bunting let the young man fidget. Finally, he asked, “This Wahab is important if you’re spending all these resources on him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why is he so important?”
“Well, sir …” Houston took a deep breath. “You’ll get this from the station chief, so …”
“I’ll act surprised when I talk with your boss. Please, go on.”
“A couple of months ago, Wahab was involved in the death of two case officers on the French Riviera.”
“I see,” Bunting said. He started walking back to the Land Rover. “I return to Pretoria tomorrow afternoon. Tell your boss I want to meet with him on this matter.”
“Yes, Mr. Ambassador.”
As they climbed into the vehicle, Bunting looked at his watch. It was close to noon. He wondered if his colleague, Colonel Gustave Frederick, had arrived in his spacious seventh-floor office at Langley. A call to him was in order. Did he have a hand in this operation?
Ambassador Bunting chose a table within the enclosed patio area set off from the main dining room. Dusk was in the process of bringing its shadows and warm colors onto the waterfront of Cape Town’s Victoria and Alfred complex. He readjusted his silverware setting, placed the blue linen napkin on his lap, and sipped his ice water. He would wait to order his cocktail until Patience arrived.
She fluttered in, looked around, saw him, and hurried to his table. She reminded him of one of those English schoolgirls: bright, fresh, earnest. Her motions at times were birdlike. Is this what had attracted him?
“Sorry I’m a bit late. Last minute details at the office. Traffic.”
He rose and pushed in her chair. “No problem. Care for a drink?”
“A wine. Riesling, please.”
He ordered a South African vintage for her, and for himself, a negroni cocktail. She wore a charcoal pinstriped business suit. Skirt cut to the knee. She had a curl to her hair, and her eyes were deep blue.
“So,” she said. “How are the arrangements for the reception coming along?”
She had agreed to help him host a dinner at the official ambassador’s residence the following week. The US Embassy had two ambassador’s residences: the main one in Pretoria, the other in Cape Town.