In time, the waiter brought the crab salad. Wahab found himself picking through lettuce for the crab morsels. He swallowed the chunks but didn’t enjoy the succulent meat. For what it was worth, he could have been eating the bland African corn porridge, putu, as his mind raced from one perceived obstacle to another. Van Wartt had surprised him with the deadline. It would be difficult to keep.
Wahab laid down his fork. Perhaps it was, as they say, a blessing in disguise. Nabeel was on his way here to Cape Town, and when he arrived he would be told to get six men together. Meantime, to cover his bets he would get in touch with his al Qaeda contact in South Africa. This development would be of interest to them. All this could work.
As for Dawid van Wartt, Wahab must be careful. This man had a bad reputation. Men like him were doubly dangerous if they were under pressure, which he seemed to be.
Noisy gulls outside the window attracted his attention. The wind had picked up again, bringing in a gray cloudbank. Wahab dropped his fork. Nabeel had called and told him he was hurrying here from Freetown.
In addition, Hayden Stone had arrived in Cape Town. This time Wahab would make sure that the man who had caused him so much trouble in the past would be eliminated.
At a little before eight that evening, Hayden Stone approached the front desk of the Mount Nelson Hotel and as the man in the Land Rover had instructed that afternoon, inquired if “Finbarr Costanza” had any messages. After searching through the message folder, the desk clerk handed Stone an envelope.
He waited to open it until he found a quiet place and took the hallway off the main lounge. When he entered a side room he discovered a wedding party in progress. He stopped in the middle of the room next to a round table holding an arrangement of white flowers that towered over his head. The Mount Nelson oozed chic and always seemed a bit over the top, but their martinis were the coldest in town. The barman stored the vodka in a small freezer. He read the message, smiled graciously to the bride and groom, and headed for the bar.
The message inside the envelope had come as a pleasant surprise. MEET ME IN THE PLANET BAR. It was signed “Harrington” in Sandra’s elegant script. He carefully folded the message and slipped it into his inside jacket pocket, smiling. Colonel Frederick had somehow managed to get Sandra off the agency’s bad girl list. Wonder what her old boyfriend Farley Durrell is up to? Would he accompany Nabeel Asuty here to Cape Town?
In the bar he moved toward two empty seats next to the fireplace and saw a blonde seated with her back to him. She stood, retrieved her evening bag from the cocktail table, turned, and walked by him, giving him a slight bump. He caught a whiff of Sandra’s perfume as she passed. In a navy blue pantsuit, she obviously had been watching for him in the wall-to-wall mirror behind the bar.
Acting as if he couldn’t decide whether to stay, he turned and followed her. With a determined stride, she went out a side door, took a path through the lighted gardens, and approached a black sedan waiting in the darkened parking lot. The back door opened and she slipped in. A few seconds later he was sitting next to her in the backseat. Discreetly, she reached over and squeezed his hand and held on for a moment. In the front seat one of the two men said, “We’re on our way,” to a hidden microphone, and the car sped from the hotel grounds and drove south on the M3. Stone knew the road as the Simon van der Stel Freeway or known locally as the Blue Route. They were headed toward the coastal town of Fish Hoek.
The city lights faded behind them. They rode in silence as the CIA officers in the front seat constantly checked each passing car. When the lights of a car shone in the face of the driver — an African-American in Rastafarian attire and dreadlocks — Stone caught his eyes studying him. Evidently, Stone’s reputation had been broadcasted on the agency pipeline. The cowboy was in town.
The driver tilted his head back and asked Sandra, “Is our guest staying overnight?” Rasta man had a distinct Philadelphia Main Line accent. Probably a Bucknell or Penn graduate.
“Yes. We have a lot to talk about.”
Therefore, Stone would be staying in a safe house tonight. He hoped the accommodations weren’t too bad, what with the budget crunch. Who else would be there besides these three in the car? The base chief, no doubt.
Sandra touched his hand again. “Someone will make sure your room back in the hotel looks like it’s been used.” She kept her hand on his. “Like I said, we have a lot to discuss.”
The safe house was a five-room villa facing south overlooking False Bay. A soft breeze brought in the smell of sea foam. The furnishings were basic, but clean. Rasta man, whose name was Owen, had prepared two platters of bobojtie, the Cape Malay dish of lamb, nuts, raisins, and chutney, with a baked egg topping. Its rich aroma filled the dining room as they waited for the arrival of the CIA base chief. The chief of station would also be there, Sandra told him. He had flown in from the embassy in Pretoria for the meeting.
An hour passed and M. R. D. Houston came in with the COS, who to Stone’s surprise and relief, turned out to be Charles Fleming, wearing as usual a bespoke gray suit.
“You left Paris for South Africa?” Stone asked, exchanging warm handshakes. Fleming had been assigned to the Paris station. It had only been months before in the South of France when he, Colonel Gustave Frederick, and Fleming had been involved in a counterterrorist operation.
“My family hasn’t gotten here yet, but, yes, it’s a good move and a very good slot.” Fleming looked over the remnants of the meal on the table. “Looks like you’re all finished eating. Let’s get to work.”
He ushered Stone, Sandra, and Houston into a bedroom at the end of the hallway. Again, sparsely furnished, with only a long table and eight metal fold-up chairs. Cold water bottles stood upright in the center of the table on an old serving plate.
“I just visited Paris,” Stone said. “Didn’t have time to look you up.”
“I knew you were in town. Colonel Frederick told me.” Fleming glanced over to Sandra. “He was busy with a lot of things.”
Sandra coughed. “Yeah. He can work miracles sometimes. That’s why I’m still here.”
“And that’s why I’m still here.” Stone tapped the table. “Now, I suppose you want to know what Jacob had to say.” Stone related the details of his morning meeting, including what appeared to be Jacob’s ill health. “He’s concerned with Abdul Wahab as he should be, but he’s got this South African, Van Wartt, under his claw. Believes he’s the real problem.”
Fleming rubbed his hands together, looked over again at Sandra, and said to her, “Might as well get right down to it.”
She nodded and sipped water from a bottle. She’d lost weight and had circles under her eyes.
Fleming started. “Hayden, this is all supersensitive, but things are moving so fast that … I can’t tell you everything. You know, compartmentalization.”
“You mean I won’t hand over the whole story before the jihadists chop my head off.” Stone pulled out a cigar and asked if anyone objected. Houston, his arms bulging from his dark blue polo shirt, surprised him by also pulling out a cigar. Sandra said she didn’t mind if she could have a drag or two.
“If we all have burnished our macho credentials, can we move on?” Fleming said, his handsome black face creased in a frown. “Stone, let me give you a little history in the South African nuclear weapons program.”
“The what?” Stone handed Sandra his cigar and reached over to the sideboard and got two ashtrays. After taking a long puff, she handed it back.