“Coming on quite well. We’ll have about seventy guests, and the household staff is getting things organized. I’ll be back from Pretoria the day before the event.”
“Anything special I should do for you?”
“Not really. I passed your name and telephone number on to my secretary, and of course I’ll be in touch with you during the week. I really appreciate your help.”
For the first time since arriving, she appeared to relax. As the drinks came, the Italian ambassador ambled by with his wife, acknowledging Bunting with a wink. Nothing like being seen in public with a beautiful woman.
As the maître d’ led the Italians to their table, he turned back to Patience. “I’m glad we met at the Van Wartts’ party. It was a rather interesting affair, don’t you think?”
She nodded, and as if pondering the question, asked, “How so?”
“I don’t know. Quite a varied group in attendance. Do you know that fellow Abdul Wahab?”
“Oh, that dreadful man married to Lady Beatrice. He has two wives. Can you imagine?”
“How does Lady Beatrice handle that?”
Patience shrugged. She remained close to him, and he caught whiffs of her perfume. The same scent she had worn at the Van Wartts’ party. For a brief second, he imagined how it would be to unbutton her blouse and, quickly, unsnap her bra and massage what had to be luscious breasts. The skin matching her ivory complexion.
“This Abdul Wahab,” he continued. “He and Dawid van Wartt are close friends?”
She placed her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand. Controlled now, looking as if she was waiting for his next question, her eyes became vivid blue.
“You’re probably thinking I’m trying to pump you … for information.”
Gradually the warmth returned to her face. She picked up on the double entendre, straightened, and said, “Shall I order for both of us?”
They had the same seafood main course. The linefish catch of the day, something foreign to Bunting, was well prepared, moist and with a unique meaty texture. In the distance, the setting sun spotlighted Table Mountain, and the city lights started to flicker. While debating dessert, Patience again leaned toward him, motioning that he should do likewise.
“You’re going to tell me a secret, aren’t you,” he said, his hand touching hers.
“Wahab is being watched by the government.”
“I see.”
“He arrived recently and has been using all his contacts in an effort to remain in Cape Town. There are important people here who sympathize with his political views. Van Wartt is a risk taker when it comes to business, and somehow he and Wahab have something cooking.”
“That’s very interesting.”
“I’ll skip dessert and have a cappuccino,” she said.
“Me too.” He was still whispering. “I know you sail, but perchance do you play tennis?”
“I’m very good at sports.”
Chapter Twelve
Abdul Wahab, shielded from the wind in the protected veranda, glared out over the choppy sea. The winter August wind brought the temperature down below sixty degrees Fahrenheit. He turned up the collar of his Harris Tweed jacket and leaned back in the white wicker chair. Next to him, on the table, rested his leather-bound copy of the Koran and a dog-eared copy of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales in Middle English.
The butler, Dingane, a handsome man with streaks of gray in his close-cropped hair, laid down a Limoges tea service next to him. A chocolate-coated biscotto lay next to the cup and saucer. Without asking, he poured his employer a cup of Ceylon tea. Wahab enjoyed the English custom of afternoon tea, although he preferred having it, like now, during late morning.
The home, built into a steep mountain slope, overlooked the expansive shoreline of Bantry Bay lined with white beach houses. A relaxing view, yet somehow he found it boring. His wife Beatrice had purchased the home a while back, while married to that American tycoon from Silicon Valley. Absentmindedly, he stroked his neatly trimmed moustache and goatee. He had to admit, Cape Town was pleasant, but it lacked the panache of the French Riviera.
Thinking about the Riviera made him uncomfortable. Only a few months ago, he had to flee Villefranche before the French authorities arrested him for importing narcotics. His father-in-law, a Saudi prince, had for all practical purposes disowned him. Of course he, Wahab, for that matter, had all but abandoned the prince’s daughter to a mental asylum near Jeddah. There was the matter of his connections with the terrorist groups — the brothers no longer viewed him as reliable. And of course the CIA. Had they connected the death of their two people on the Riviera to him?
All these problems because of one man: Hayden Stone. Now that same man had come to Africa, and Wahab’s first attempt to even the score had failed. Whoever talked him into that snake stunt in Monrovia? That weasel, Nabeel Asuty. Then he sends four fools to Monrovia to kill him. Idiot.
Behind him the glass door slid open and his wife, Lady Beatrice, marched out. She wore a beige twill suit over a pink blouse. A matching scarf covered her hair.
“Dear Abdul. Don’t tell me you are sitting here moping.”
“Just having tea, my dear. And a cigarette.” He pulled out his silver cigarette case.
“Don’t light up now. That awful Egyptian is in the reception area waiting to speak with you.” She went to the railing and looked back and forth across the landscape. Turning back to him, he said, “Really, you shouldn’t invite that type to our home. For God’s sake, join a club in town to entertain people like that.”
“A good idea,” he said, starting to rise. “Where are you off to?”
“The museum. I’m meeting with women from the National Gallery.”
Next to the marble pedestal displaying a bust of Apollo, Nabeel Asuty sat in a gray cushioned accent chair, legs crossed, dangling his right shoe, a knockoff Gucci. Dingane hovered about the reception area, keeping an eye on him. Wahab approached and extended a cordial greeting. Nabeel rose and presented a saccharine smile. Wahab thought the man’s obsequiousness complimented his coarse facial features.
“Nabeel, my friend, let me show you to the garage.”
A dark shadow crossed Nabeel’s eyes. Wahab knew him to be touchy on matters of courtesy. Could it be his humble origins? Quickly, he followed up by saying, “I have purchased a new toy I want to show off.” He whispered, “Much more private out there.”
The saccharine smile returned.
Wahab led him along the driveway to the detached garage that overlooked a fifty-foot drop to another home.
“You live well, Abdul Wahab.”
In Arabic, he responded, “God is good.” They entered the garage, and he pointed to a green Jaguar XK-150 roadster. “A beauty, no?”
Nabeel agreed, walked up to the car, and sat on the front bumper. “May I smoke?”
“I’d rather you not.” Wahab tensed to the man’s impudence. “And if you don’t mind, do not sit on the car.” Nabeel rose and walked to the closed garage door and stared out at the ocean below. “What news do you bring?” Wahab asked.
Nabeel made a display of changing his attitude to one of cordiality. “My friend, our brothers in Sierra Leone are an undisciplined lot. They talk jihad, but are more interested in dealing in diamonds and gold.”
“And there are other problems, yes?”
“Yes. This American, Hayden Stone, is a nuisance. Have you ever met him?”
“I have seen him … and met him.” In Afghanistan and on the Riviera.
“In Freetown, I met him in a café and learned that he is arrogant. I sent two of our people to handle him.” Nabeel glowered.