“Do you have coffee?” Rhyton asked.
“Come. We’ll go to the galley.”
As Rhyton drank his coffee from a heavy mug, the two stared out the portholes at Cape Town. The hot coffee loosened his tongue. “Bruin Karas remains the same for the most part.”
Van Wartt knew that Bruin Karas had not changed. It would be difficult to call it a town. It was more of a settlement, with two stores, a petrol station, and an eating establishment that also served as a bar. Like all farming or ranch communities, it served as a central place for supplies, relaxation, and gossip. Relatives of Bull Rhyton lived there, and Van Wartt had met them on the occasions when he had visited and inspected the boxcar, sitting off on an unused siding, appearing for all practical purposes abandoned.
Strange. His friend had just hinted that things were not all the same in Bruin Karas.
Seated again in the salon, Van Wartt knew the time had come to get to business. “What is wrong up there?”
“Our friends say it started three, maybe four months ago. When the temperatures were still high.” Rhyton leaned forward. “Around the trein, the boxcar, some young fellows found dead animals.”
Van Wartt raised his hands as if to say, “So?”
“The same boys, one is a nephew, developed rashes, like burns. Their parents want the boxcar moved.”
Van Wartt tapped the arm of his chair with his fingers. “Did you go out to the siding and look at it? Was it broken into?”
“The lock on the door was broken. The boxcar still stands out at the end of the spur. Nothing around for miles. I saw no dead animals around it.” Rhyton paused, thinking. “ Screws were off one of the plates on the bomb. I touched the sides for heat. Nothing.” At this, he inspected his hands.
“This is not good. Must be a leak. A very bad time for this to happen.” Van Wartt thought a moment. “I wonder how much time those children went there. They were probably curious and tried to get inside it.”
“I don’t like any of this anymore. We shouldn’t have this thing. The bomb belongs to the government.”
Van Wartt jumped up. “Good God, man! We don’t have the old government. This is not our government.” He looked up at the ceiling light. “Return it to the kaffirs?”
“We should get it out of there.”
Van Wartt took his seat again. He did his best to look composed. Rhyton mustn’t think this worried him. He spoke in a low voice, “I will push our plan along with this man, Abdul Wahab. I’m sure someone in his group is an expert in these matters. They want to take delivery soon.”
“How will Wahab take possession? Where will he take it?”
“He’s not specific. I didn’t tell him where the device is located,” Van Wartt said with a wave of the hand. Truth to be told, he had no idea if Wahab had the means to move it from the middle of the Namibian Desert to wherever he intended.
“I don’t like this whole matter anymore.”
“What do you say?” Van Wartt yelled. “This is payback to those who have taken away our world. Our way of life!” His fists clenched and he watched Rhyton intently study his face. He breathed hard. “Your people and mine have been here for hundreds of years. The same, no, longer than the Americans have been in their country. Fok hulle!”
“I don’t believe it is God’s will that we kill innocents.” Rhyton stood. “These are evil people we are dealing with.” Now, he spoke softly, “Dawie, my friend, are we sure we are in control of this? I think not. Those devils may turn this thing against us.”
Chapter Seventeen
Following the waiter wearing a short white jacket, Abdul Wahab passed the bar toward the far end of the room. At a window table sat Dawid van Wartt, who had a view of the bay and at the same time could watch the patrons entering the grill. He noted that Van Wartt’s right leg twitched. No doubt, Wahab thought, this was his usual table here at the Bay Yacht Club.
Wahab had intended to be late for their luncheon appointment, just to keep the South African off balance, but as he drove to the club, he wondered if that was wise inasmuch as he wanted Van Wartt to sponsor him for club membership. No matter. Today they had important business to conduct, and the matter of his joining this pretentious establishment could come later.
“Sorry for making you wait, Dawid,” Wahab said. “Traffic and my driving.”
Van Wartt rose. “Ah no, Abdul. I lost track of time looking out at the bay. See. The wind has died and the white caps have disappeared. Just a lovely view.”
Wahab took a seat, told the waiter he wanted some sparkling water, and while looking out at the moored yachts, asked, “One of those is yours?”
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
“The big one.” Van Wartt leaned forward. “Abdul. We have urgent business to conduct. Before this place begins to fill up, let’s settle a few matters.”
Wahab took offense at Van Wartt’s rudeness. Afrikaner or not, he expected to be treated with deference, and why do all these Boers wear the same absurd mustache? “Please, begin,” he said.
“The packet we have talked about is ready for pickup.” Van Wartt spoke softly. “Because of circumstances, the timing of the delivery has become critical. First, have we reached an agreement on price? Second, are your people prepared to take possession?”
Wahab watched him sit back and play with his napkin. His eyes focused on the embroidered anchor emblem on Van Wartt’s blazer. No doubt he would have one of those when he became a member of the club. He detected some sense of urgency on Van Wartt’s part. Why? Did the man suddenly need the money?
He said in a low voice matching Van Wartt’s, “About the price of the merchandise. We talked about ten million dollars—”
“Euros. Ten million euros,” Van Wartt corrected.
This interested Wahab. The man across from him was concerned about the amount of money. Euros were worth more than dollars. He might have some fun. “Dawid. My people tell me that such a sum is not available at this time. They are thinking half that amount. Perhaps at a later time something more would be added.”
For the moment this was true. Since his misadventure on the Riviera, al Qaeda considered him a risk and had placed middlemen between them. He was forced to work with the weasel Nabeel Asuty, who only had his Egyptian contacts, but they knew how to bargain. Not like his Saudi brothers flush with their dollar stockpiles.
Van Wartt’s cold eyes fixed on him and appeared to move off to empty space beyond Wahab. At last, he said, without looking directly at him, “Five million will do. Can you take delivery within a week?”
“A week?”
“Yes. This is the bank number where you forward the funds.” Van Wartt wrote on the cocktail napkin. “I’ll arrange transportation for your pickup of the device. You will need five … no, six men. I suppose one of them will be versed in nuclear technology. We’ll provide the necessary test instruments and equipment.”
“I’ll let you know by tomorrow morning.” Wahab coughed. “Where will my men go?”
“There’s an airfield up north. Driving distance from here. They’ll be flown to the site, and when they take possession we’ll take them to some reasonable destination of your choice.” Van Wartt made to rise from his seat. “You do have a place to take it? Don’t you?”
“We’ll have one.”
“I’ll expect your call. Meanwhile, I have an appointment.” Van Wartt got out of his chair and turned to the waiter who had hastened to his side. “Mr. Wahab will stay and have lunch. Put it on my tab.” Leaning down, he said, “Abdul. Time is of the essence. Oh, the crab salad is especially good.”