Stone wondered how his friend Colonel Frederick would receive Craig’s situation report. Would he think Stone had let him down? Had he let him down? And what of Dirk Lange’s wisecrack at the café about him being over the hill? A guard who opened the door interrupted his musings. He said a gentleman at the gate wanted to speak with him.
Dirk Lange stood at the guardhouse, and although he appeared poised, perspiration stained his blue dress shirt. “Got a minute, old boy?” His demeanor sought a positive response.
When Stone led him into the clubhouse, Lange looked around and whispered, “Can we speak privately here?”
“For the time being, while we’re alone. Let me get you something to drink.” At the machine, Stone waited for the can to clang down the chute, then offered it to Lange. “Let’s sit.”
Lange looked nervously around the room. Not without a bit of sarcasm, he said, “You chaps have it made here, don’t you.”
“A pleasant place after a day in the salt mines.” Stone waited for him to get to the point. It didn’t take long.
“I’m settling my accounts here in Freetown and leaving tonight by boat for Conakry. My sources tell me that you and I are on the local jihadist kill list. Seems our boy Nabeel doesn’t have much of a sense of humor.” He took a swig of his drink and looked over at the wall. “What are your plans, Hayden?”
“It appears I’ve also lost some of my charm with the locals.”
“Who shot that?” Lange pointed to the large wild boar head mounted on the wall. “Looks like that specimen came from the Atlas Mountains.”
“Beats me. Nice tusks though.”
“Don’t want to end up like that bugger.” Lange crushed the can in his hand. “Just dropped by to say good-bye and, oh, a little tidbit for you. Our mutual friend Jacob advised you should be aware that Nabeel is in business with an influential South African in Cape Town.” He started to rise from the couch. “Don’t know this man’s name, but Jacob indicated he’s up to no good. Has to do with something big aimed at the US or Europe.”
“When did Jacob tell you this?”
“Last night.” Lange started for the door.
“Let me walk you out.” Stone followed him out to the gate. “Funny, Jacob didn’t contact me.”
Lange turned and shook hands with Stone. “He didn’t want to stay in town. Asked that I pass you the message.”
“What’s your final destination, Dirk? South Africa?”
“Eventually. Perhaps, we’ll meet there.”
“Are you seeing Jonathan before you leave?”
“No.” Lange frowned. “I’ve made provisions for him with the doctors out at the camp. Nabeel’s people may follow me, so I don’t want them to know Jonathan’s a friend of mine. I suggest you not go out and see him either.”
Stone nodded and saw Sandra push through the turnstile at the guard gate. Lange’s face brightened for the first time. Seeing them, Sandra stopped. She did not look happy. Lange approached and told her he was leaving Freetown and hoped to see her again someday. She gave him a quick hug and they exchanged more pleasantries. He went out the gate and disappeared.
Sandra said, “We’re heading back home.” She took his arm and led him to the apartment. “I know it’s early, but I need a drink.”
In the apartment Sandra slumped on the couch with the whiskey Stone had handed her. She avoided eye contact. Obviously, her day had been as bad as his. Her meeting with the station chief had not gone well. She would tell him about it when she wanted.
Her voice was raspy. “You’re not joining me in a drink?”
He shook his head.
She did a double take. “Something wrong?”
“Headaches,” Stone said. “Hope I don’t get those weird dreams again.”
“You didn’t have problems after the Marseilles shoot-out.” She thought a moment. “Unless you were keeping it a secret. I recall specifically asking you about that.”
“I know. Maybe it’s the anti-malaria medicine I’m taking. Maybe I’m just tired.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “What’s this about heading back home?”
She sipped her drink, studied the glass, and placed it on the coffee table. “We’ve got to start packing. We’ve been yanked from the job. Our plane leaves tonight for Paris.”
Stone started to ask for the details, but she interrupted. “Bad scene with Mr. Craig. Let’s take a walk around the grounds and have a chat.”
Walking the compound’s pathway under the shade of the palm and banana trees proved pleasant even in the early afternoon heat. A breeze coming in from the sea a half-mile away helped. Sandra walked with her head down, as if intent on not stumbling on imaginary debris scattered on the path, unlikely as the grounds were kept in immaculate condition.
On hearing about their orders to leave, Stone had become resigned to events he considered out of his control. The game was over for him — let someone else pick up the sword.
“I didn’t give you the whole story yesterday,” she said in a low voice. She related the details of her surveillance of Nabeel Asuty the day before — that she followed him to a walled compound in the hills overlooking Freetown. “What I didn’t tell you was I saw Farley in the compound talking with Nabeel.”
“Farley who?”
“Farley Durrell. The guy who double-crossed me.”
“The guy at the airport. Holy shit.”
Sandra stopped walking and wrapped her arms tight against her chest. She took deep breaths. “I had to tell Craig. Afterward, we composed a status report to Langley. Their response this morning was for you and me to leave immediately. That’s why they’re sending a special plane to take us to Paris.”
Stone attempted to craft his words. “I guess it’s good that you saw Farley. Now the agency knows he’s in contact with those people.”
“Ready for the whole story?” Her eyes teared. “Farley is CIA. He’s under non-official cover, a NOC, and not supposed to have any contact with people like me. He was deep cover. I wasn’t allowed to fraternize with him.”
“So? That was a year ago.”
“Someone from Nabeel Asuty’s organization may have noticed that altercation at the airport. The point is I wasn’t supposed to know about him being inside this terrorist organization. They think I’ve jeopardized the mission.”
Stone knew what that meant. A big career hit. Good-bye, interesting foreign assignments. Hello, dead-end job at some warehouse in Fairfax County, Virginia. He tried to think of a positive spin on their situation, but muttered instead, “Looks like we stepped in deep kimchi.”
Trying to laugh, she cried instead. He took her in his arms and she relaxed for a moment, pressing her body to him. She stiffened and pushed away. Now she looked him in the eye for the first time that day. “Time to pack. Craig picks us up at seven tonight.”
The bright moon broke a path on the rough surface of the bay as the embassy’s boat cast off from Freetown. Luke Craig had organized a quick extraction for Stone and Sandra, which included taking them from the city to the landing across the bay where they would meet the armored SUVs. From there they would drive to the airport and board the agency’s jet.
Stone and Sandra stood by the helm, holding on to grips as the Boston Whaler skimmed across the water. Just enough light allowed them to make out the silhouettes of anchored ships on the starboard side, many derelict.
“Nice boat,” Sandra said to the helmsman, a young man with a crew cut and eyeglasses.
“Most of the American posts in this neck of woods have this model boat,” he shouted over the noise of the twin outboard engines. “We have two boats. Part of the emergency evacuation plan. We have enough fuel to make it to Guinea. Another West African rectum mundi.”