As they passed by various shops and exhibits, Stone’s antennas worked overtime. A number of times he saw what he believed were police or intelligence agents — and they probably were, he reasoned. The local authorities were keen on keeping this tourist attraction as free as possible from crime, and they’d be on the lookout for anyone suspicious. He believed he wasn’t their target. He also hoped Jacob, walking in front of him, hadn’t attracted attention.
At the far end of the waterfront, Jacob stopped on the pier, leaned on the railing, and appeared to study the watercraft passing by. From the left a brisk breeze blew in off the Atlantic, and Stone zipped up his jacket. Few strollers had ventured this far from the center of business activity. Stone came up and leaned on the railing a few feet away.
“I believe we’re clean,” Stone said.
Jacob looked over. “I’d like better assurances than that, my friend.”
“Hey. I did the best I could.” Stone waited. “After all, your people probably trained the local service.”
Stone recognized the annoyed look on Jacob’s craggy face. The man had extensive sources in all tribes of the South African community: black, white, mixed races, and Asians. His intelligence organization had tight liaisons with the predecessors of the SASS. However, Jacob appeared uneasy with the domestic intelligence organization, the National Intelligence Service, the South African equivalent of the FBI. The NIS would be very interested in both Stone’s and Jacob’s activities inside South Africa.
Stone spoke without looking at him. “I met Mr. Lange in Freetown. We had a very interesting time together.”
“He told me.”
Both men faced toward the water and talked into the wind.
Stone said, “I understand an old opponent of mine is in town. Abdul Wahab. We had an encounter in France.”
“Yes. I know.”
Jacob’s complexion looked more sallow than it had in Monrovia when they last met. Perhaps it was the chill in the air. Stone knew that Jacob would tell him what he wanted, when he wanted. He had to be patient.
Jacob took a deep breath, turned, and looked around at the people on the pier. Satisfied, he faced back into the wind.
“Our Afrikaner, Dirk Lange, was impressed with you. Thank you for not embarrassing me.”
Stone felt like saying he should shove his backhanded compliments, but again noted Jacob’s unhealthy pallor. A doctor’s visit was in order. However, Stone exercised caution. The only time Jacob showed any warmth to him was years ago at the memorial service for Jacob’s daughter in New York City. In the synagogue he had approached Stone and told him if Stone was to wear a yarmulke, for Christ’s sake wear it properly. Then gently he patted Stone’s shoulder twice. That was it.
Stone let a moment pass. “You look like shit.”
Finally a reaction. He shook his head and released an ever-so-thin smile that vanished as quickly as it came. “I’m concerned.” He coughed and spat over the railing. “Something is in the works and it may be too big for us to handle.”
“I see.” Stone waited a moment. Jacob had good sources in this country. “What can you tell me?”
“I’ll be brief. We can’t stay here long.” Jacob spoke quickly as if reciting from a numbered list. “Mr. Lange can be trusted just so far. He has his own issues. His intelligence service is going through a bit of turmoil. Lange may be looking for new employment.”
A pause. “The changeover from apartheid is bringing party people into the secret service. They are not professionals, just apparatchiks. That is good for us.” Another pause. “Nabeel Asuty is coming in from Freetown to meet with Abdul Wahab. Both men are trouble. Neither has a particular liking for you.” After one more coughing spell, Jacob continued, “Wahab and Dawid van Wartt have established some form of arrangement. This looks to be our major problem.”
“Who’s this Dawid van Wartt?”
“We’ve been here too long. Let’s walk back into the crowd.”
They walked in tandem back to the throng of shoppers and stopped at a storefront tourist shop. Behind dark wood African carvings, a little brightly colored desk flag stood upright in a penholder. It was the old regime’s flag. Jacob handed it to Stone after paying the proprietor in rands.
“Van Wartt is a hard-line Boer. Wealthy. Connected with the intelligence service. High-ranking army officer for a while.” Jacob took the flag back from Stone. “He despises the West, especially your country.”
“So?”
“He’s selling something to the jihadists, something they are very anxious to get their hands on.”
“Sounds like an arms deal.”
“One would think, except for one thing, or two things for that matter. The first is Van Wartt isn’t concerned about the price they’ll pay.”
Stone looked around at the people milling about. “So whatever it is, he wants them to have it. A biological, chemical, or nuclear weapon.”
Jacob tensed and moved away, their meeting over. Stone would have to wait to know the second thing about Van Wartt’s dealings with Wahab and the jihadists. He walked to the entrance of the wharf complex and stopped at the parking lot. As he turned to go back to his hotel, a beat-up Land Rover pulled next to him and the driver, a young man with a set of jug ears, called out the parole, the recognition phrase to identify him as CIA. The young man instructed him to be at the Mount Nelson Hotel promptly at eight that night. The Land Rover sped away and Stone continued on to his hotel.
From the pilothouse of his yacht, Dawid van Wartt watched Bull Rhyton lumber down the wooden pier. A big rock of a man with a “bull neck” and arms that bowed out from his muscular body, he approached the yacht’s gangplank and was stopped by the guard. Van Wartt called down and the guard allowed Rhyton to board.
He led his visitor to the lounge and closed all the doors. Gusts blowing in from Table Bay rattled the hatches and slightly rolled the vintage thirty-meter craft. Rhyton settled himself into an armchair and rubbed his right knee.
“Drink?” Van Wartt asked in Afrikaans. “Perhaps for that knee.”
“Too early.” Rhyton’s red face inspected the inside of the cabin. “Nice.”
“She’s an old craft, but sturdy.” He pointed. “You should have that Communist shrapnel removed. I know a good doctor.”
He shook his head. “Agh.” Bull’s favorite negative expression.
Van Wartt sat across from him and inwardly smiled. At fifty years of age, Bull still resembled an overgrown Boer teenager. His eyes spoke more than his tongue. Twenty-four years ago this man had been his sergeant when, as a new lieutenant, Van Wartt’s airborne unit was called up for the 1978 border raid into Angola. Their unit dropped into a rebel base, killed many Cubans and guerillas, and since, every year on May 4th, celebrated Cassinga Day. Last May, Van Wartt had asked his former sergeant if he would help him with his plan. The man had readily agreed … at first.
“Well, my friend.” Van Wartt said. “How are things up north in the desert?”
“Warmer than here.” The burly man had just driven three days from Bruin Karas, a hamlet sitting across the border in Namibia, South Africa’s former territory of South West Africa. He hadn’t changed his soiled bush clothes.
Van Wartt wished that it wasn’t so early in the morning. A little drink would loosen Rhyton up. He must take his time with the man. A few lazy questions before zeroing in on the subject. “How are our friends up in Bruin Karas?”