Under an open wooden pergola within a high-fenced compound, other cheetahs that had been taken in by the sanctuary for rehabilitation lounged and made soft guttural sounds. A staff person in khaki shorts and long-sleeved shirt stood close to Patience and Stone as she stroked the animal’s back. The cat acted as if it was normal to be in close contact with two-legged animals.
Stone had seen a change in Patience the minute they entered the gate. She showed affection for the animal, and the cat displayed easiness with her. Africans, he knew, had a strong attachment to the animals of their continent. Moving closer to Stone, she took his hand.
“Just stroke its back like this,” she said softly. “I think it’s a female.”
“It is, miss,” the uniformed attendant said. “She has been here for close to one year now.”
The vision of a full-grown cheetah taking down a gazelle flashed in Stone’s mind. “What do you feed her?” Stone asked, running his hand along the soft, tawny, black-spotted fur.
Patience moved close and whispered, “American bastards.” She returned her attention to the cat.
Inside a rustic wooden building, not unlike one would find in the American West, the sanctuary’s restaurant served basic South African fare along with wines from the vineyard located on the property. Stone ordered a Cape-style smoor with spinach and jus. She had a salad. They sat outdoors, where the sunlight brought out the sheen in Patience’s hair. Her almost mauve eyes studied Stone and he knew she wanted to talk business.
“Before we start on your inquiries … that is why we’re here, correct?” she said. “You want some sort of information from me, unless you are in Cape Town to resume our relationship, and if you are, you’re too late.”
“That’s getting to the point,” Stone said. “Yes. I hope you can help me, but first, what’s this ‘too late’?”
“I met a man who is, well, special.” Patience looked off. “However, in the beginning stages, you know? Now, what do you want to know? Wait, what are you doing here? The FBI has no jurisdiction here.”
The last time they’d been together, he was in the FBI, working cases in New York City. The two had attended a diplomatic function on the East Side. Her “people”—Stone assumed British MI6, though he could never confirm it — and the FBI were interested in a particular Russian intelligence officer. They had orchestrated a pitch to the Russian to defect, with no success.
“I retired early from the FBI and now I’m sort of doing freelance work.”
“For the right side, I assume.” Her eyebrows had lifted just enough to show she had shifted to professional mode. Well, almost. “Are you and your wife still separated? It’s been a while now since the two of you have gone your own ways.”
“Along with my retirement, we made the separation official.”
She tapped the table with her fingers. “Too late for us.” She said it with finality. “Now, what is it you want?”
As he began, her eyes darkened. “I’m interested in a South African by the name of Dawid van Wartt. We have reason to believe he is in league with Middle East terrorists who want to target the US. Do you know anything about him?”
“Seems all you Yanks are interested in is dear Dawie.” She glared. “Stone. You realize you are asking me to give you information on a fellow South African. There are legal issues here.”
“You’re a lawyer. That shouldn’t bother you, but to reassure you, I’m working with a South African intelligence officer on this.”
“He knows about me?” She looked alarmed.
“No one is aware I’m talking with you. This is between you and me.” He decided to chance it. “You might know him.”
Before he could give her Dirk Lange’s name, she slumped back in the chair and looked skyward. “There goes a Wahlberg’s eagle. Beautiful birds, aren’t they?” She reached for her glasses. When had she started wearing them?
The graceful bird soared then dropped fast behind a tall tree. Mealtime for him.
She saw that Stone picked at his meal. “If that dish is too spicy, you could tame it with a beer.”
Stone indicated his water was fine.
“I remember from New York you’d never drink while on duty like the other agents we worked with. Bureau regulations, you would say. Are you on duty now?”
“Just trying to keep my wits about me.”
“You’re a bit of a stuffed shirt. Won’t change with the times. At least you don’t double knot your shoe laces.” She hesitated, then almost whispered, “I don’t bed married men, like you were back then, but you could have done me the favor of trying harder.”
A family passed by their table; having finished lunch, they headed for the cheetah enclosure. The parents wore short shorts and heavy sweaters favored by Africans. The father had the distinctive Boer moustache. The boy and girl went barefoot like many of the white farmer children in South Africa.
He caught Patience watching him. “Tough lot, aren’t they?”
“I like them.”
“They don’t like you, Yank,” she said. “They blame your kind for the end of apartheid and their way of life.”
They watched the family head for the entrance to the sanctuary.
Patience changed her tone of voice and spoke softly. “Hayden, you must realize you caught me by surprise. I had no idea you were onto Van Wartt. All this is becoming awkward for me. Let me explain.” She moved her chair next to him and whispered, “The love of my life is your ambassador to South Africa. He is also interested in Van Wartt. My people are interested in Van Wartt. One person in the local secret service who I know is interested in him is … Dirk Lange.”
Stone attempted a nonchalant smile. She knew Dirk. Small world. However, he let sink in the fact that her lover was none other than Marshall Bunting, the American ambassador.
“Dirk Lange is a sweet man. Also, very reliable.” She looked him over. “However, dear Dawie on the other hand is a bloody rockspider. You know, not quite what we call a hairyback Afrikaner, but still one of those thickheaded Boers.” She put her glasses away. “No. I’m not generalizing. I have many Afrikaners for friends, but most are quite impossible. And,” she said with emphasis, “it’s not an English — Boer thing.” She smiled. “Perhaps it is.”
“How well do you know him?”
“Attended some mutual functions. Met his wife at the Museum of Art a few times. She’s as bad as he is.” She clicked her tongue twice. “Met him numerous times at the yacht club. Oh, Hayden, do you still sail? No matter. Back to sweet Dawie. He occasionally has hit on me without success, and that sums up the personal contacts. Now for what you Americans say, the nitty-gritty.”
“I wish I’d brought my notepad.”
“None of this is to be written down. Understand?”
“You know how I operate.”
“Checking.” She placed her hands over her mouth. “He’s a member of the Broederbonders. That’s a secret society of apartheid zealots. Under the old regime any senior member of government had to be a member. They also controlled the police, education, broadcasting, and the censor board, everything important.
“Van Wartt’s money and power comes from an engineering firm, some mining, and real estate investments. He holds a general’s commission, but that’s inactive.” She paused to sip her soda. “This is interesting. His status with those Broederbonders is shaky. Reports are his fellow loonies consider him too extreme. Some are beginning to maintain a distance, not completely, mind you. After all, that crowd isn’t on everyone’s dance card and their social circle is thinning.”
“Extreme in what way?”
“Rants in public, especially when he’s in his cups — about settling the score with those who caused the downfall of apartheid. He tried to enlist others in some wild schemes, like computer hack attacks against Wall Street. That didn’t go over big with that crowd, most of whom have their money parked there. Lately, he’s tamed down.” She waited a moment. “One incident that I’m certain has hardened him. Just as the new government took over, a massacre occurred up north. During Sunday service, in one of those Dutch Reformed churches in the farm area, a group of blacks, rebel types, entered and machine-gunned everyone. No one survived.”