“I know. Colonel Frederick from the director’s office briefed me about Ambassador Bunting. Seems Frederick and Bunting worked together in the past. Sounded almost like Bunting was one of us. Who knows? With his connections, the ambassador may someday be the Director of Central Intelligence.” Fleming adjusted a family picture on his desk. “I have a meeting with him this afternoon.” He rose, walked around his desk, and took the armchair closest to Houston. “What happened to the bird, you know, the drone?”
“Damndest thing,” Houston said. “It was on its way back to the control post when a damn hawk attacked it. Swooped down in flight and struck it hard. The drone ended up in someone’s swimming pool.”
“Did we get it back?”
“Yeah, but not without a little, err, incident.”
Fleming waited for Houston to continue.
“We sent a new officer over the fence to get it.” Houston waved his hands around. “Well, to make a long story short, our guy goes in the pool, he dives down to the bottom to retrieve the bird, and when he surfaces, he’s looking into the barrel of a shotgun held by the irate homeowner.” Houston ran his hands through his hair. “Luckily, we had another officer standing by with her wits about her. She runs up to the fence and asks the man holding the gun if her model airplane was broken. She sweet talks the owner of the house, who grabs the bird from our guy climbing out of the pool. Our gal is, shall we say, attractive, and she establishes a rapport with the guy, we get the bird back, and all ends happily.”
Fleming sighed and appeared to be in thought, which made Houston nervous — had he explained too much about the disaster that could have happened?
“Do we have another bird … drone, that is?”
“Should have one operational tomorrow.”
“So, our technical coverage of Van Wartt in Cape Town is presently down.” Without waiting for a response, Fleming continued, “We’ll have to rely on human sources. How are we down in the Cape for assets?”
“Thin.”
“The station is getting a new operative. He should be arriving in Cape Town as we speak.” Fleming sighed. “Hayden Stone is his name.”
“Do you know anything about him? Is he good? Controllable?”
“Yes and yes to the first two questions.” Fleming went back to his desk. “As to the third question, Mr. Stone has a tendency to wander on his own. He’s former FBI.” Fleming did an eye roll. “Wait. I take that back. Three months ago he worked for me in the South of France. More apt, he was assigned to me when I was in Paris. Mr. Stone is hard to control to say the least, but his instincts are spot on, if you know what I mean. You must have heard about the shoot-out in Villefranche and then the termination of that terrorist in Montpelier? Stone was instrumental in both actions.”
“We can always use good people,” Houston said. “But back to Van Wartt. We still have a wiretap and random physical surveillance on him. He’s been in contact with Abdul Wahab. Something fishy going on there.”
Fleming sat with his hands lifted to his chin as if in prayer. “The agency has unfinished business with Mr. Abdul Wahab. Are we on Wahab? Is he being covered?”
“At the time, indirectly. The other service, actually two other services have coverage of Wahab. The locals, and we only get from them what they think will keep us happy, and the other service.”
“And the other service is who?”
“The Canadians.”
“You’re shitting me. I’ll be damned.” Fleming smiled. “God, at last someone we can trust.” Fleming crossed his legs and examined the crease in his trousers. “What’s your read on the relationship between Van Wartt and Abdul Wahab?”
Houston let a moment pass, then answered carefully, “Their connection might be commercial, in some way.” He knew Fleming wouldn’t be satisfied with this response.
“I was stationed in Paris when Abdul Wahab operated down on the Riviera. His people murdered two of our officers. Killed, we believe on his orders.”
“Are there plans to take him out?”
“Nope, and if you want to discuss it, we have to go into the bubble.”
They both remained silent for a few moments. “Now what about our ambassador and his love … that is, his extra-curricular activities,” Fleming asked.
Houston squirmed in his seat. “Again, boss, we should discuss that in a secure environment, like the bubble. The situation you’ll find quite interesting.”
Chapter Sixteen
Outside Hayden Stone’s hotel window, the morning sunlight washed over boats tied up at the Victoria Wharf. In the distance Table Mountain loomed over the tops of high-rise buildings floating above a soft haze. He had slept well, comfortable in the fact that the agency still valued his services. The potential danger he faced made his mind as sharp and clear as this bright winter morning by the sea. He still had to find out the full story behind the mission. It had to be good.
When he arrived at the hotel the night before, he refused the first room offered and asked for one on the second floor. If somehow he had appeared on the SASS intelligence watch list, they would have a bugged room waiting for him. This change of room would complicate matters for them, but again the entire hotel might be pre-wired.
His stomach growled and he debated whether to have breakfast at the restaurant downstairs or find a place along the wharf. He decided on the latter. He placed some intricate traps in his room, including the obligatory single hair over the lock of his suitcase, which any respectable intelligence service would find and replace after they had gone through his belongings. He turned on the TV, put the DO NOT DISTURB sign on his door handle, and departed. Outside he walked along the quay toward the shops and small eateries.
Already tourists and visitors began to filter into the area. Stone wore European-style shoes, trousers, and a long-sleeved shirt to blend in with his fellow strollers. He put on his Italian sunglasses and changed his gait by placing his hands behind his back and assuming a leisurely shuffle. Just another tourist taking in the sights.
Stone’s orders were to be available for any approach. He reasoned that the most likely would come from Jacob or Dirk Lange, but he had to be alert for an encounter with henchmen of Nabeel Asuty or Abdul Wahab. Operational protocol called for the local CIA base to place countersurveillance while he wandered about. Stone hoped his faith was not misplaced.
It took less than an hour for Stone to cover the whole Victoria Wharf waterfront. As he meandered, he made phone calls on the non-attributable cell phone provided to him on arrival at the airport. He had also received a pistol, not a Colt .45, but a .40 caliber Sig Sauer P226. Unfortunately, he had little luck in reaching his old contacts. One had moved to Australia, another was in prison, and a third had died mysteriously. He remembered one other, a woman named St. John Smythe. He’d try her later.
Still hungry, he decided on a small storefront eatery where he took a seat looking out on the people passing by. The coffee was weak, but the egg concoction wrapped in phyllo dough was satisfying enough. In the back of the restaurant a jazz piece by Dave Brubeck played on a dusty tape machine. After an hour sitting at the table and drinking a second cup of bad coffee, he started to become an object of interest for the two bored Portuguese waiters. Settling his bill, he was heading back to his hotel when he spotted him.
A hundred yards away, Jacob, wearing expensive leisure clothes, rose from a café table under a blue-striped umbrella. The Mossad officer threw coins on the table and, tapping a rolled-up newspaper in his right hand three distinct times, indicated it was safe to make contact. He turned away from Stone and headed toward the far end of the waterfront complex. Stone followed at a discreet distance.