“Where did you see them last?” she asked.
“Two blocks from here.” He pulled out a phone. “Pardon, while I make a call to my partner.” He talked with a fellow operative and flipped the phone closed. “Nabeel and his boys will pass by in a jiff.”
Down below, only a few people sauntered by, most holding something to eat or drink. Directly across from the window, not twenty yards away, two bearded men stood in the stern of a motorboat that needed a fresh coat of paint. They were watching the passersby intently.
“There they are,” Lange said. “Uh. Oh. What’s that all about?” He took his phone from his pocket and spoke to his contact.
Sandra saw five men coming from the left, appearing to head for the boat where the two bearded men waited. One of the five men was Farley Durrell. Something was wrong — Asuty held Farley’s right arm, a large thuggish-looking man with a prominent bald spot grasped the other. He was being taken for a reluctant boat ride.
She heard Lange’s phone click shut. “That fellow down there is in a bit of a bind. Doesn’t look Middle Eastern.”
“He’s Polish-American. One of ours. He’s in deep shit.”
Now Lange yanked the blinds apart. “I have only one chap to assist. Don’t know if the three of us have the time. Could call the Harbor Police—”
“Forget it. Help me open the window.” She pulled out her gun. “Just a few inches.”
“What?”
“No time. He must have blown his cover. He’s a dead man if we don’t do something now.” She watched the group below prepare to board. One of the two waiting men went forward in the boat and started the engines. White diesel smoke rose from the stern.
“We can’t start a firefight with all these tourists here!” Lange clutched her arm. She pulled free.
“Only one shot is necessary,” Sandra said, amazed at what she was about to do. “I’m shooting Farley.”
“Good God! You people will take out one of your own?”
Sandra knelt, rested the Glock on the windowsill to steady her aim, judged the distance, held her breath, and fired. She watched the bullet tear a chunk of cloth from Farley Durrell’s right pant leg. “Not kill him. Just shoot him in the leg.”
“Good shot! Can’t believe my bloody eyes.”
Down along the walkway, people scattered at the sound of the shot. Asuty’s men drew their weapons and looked in all directions except up at them. Farley Durrell had fallen, but rose and hobbled away from the group. Two of Asuty’s men jumped into the boat. Police whistles sounded from both directions. A siren wailed.
“We best be out of here,” Lange urged. “Good thing you didn’t unpack.” He hurried over to the couch and threw her clothes into the open suitcase. “I’ll check the bath for any of your belongings.”
Sandra watched Farley, who had distanced himself from Asuty’s thugs, stumble into the arms of a large redheaded policewoman, who held him upright. She grimaced. “Typical Farley.”
“Where to, maat?” Lange called.
“Stone’s room. Downstairs at the other end of the hotel.” Sandra shut the window and closed her suitcase. Where was Stone when she needed him? With some old squeeze?
At the seaside villa of Abdul Wahab, the butler, Dingane, observed the girl dust Lady Beatrice’s grand piano with haphazard flips of her wrist. She stared off to some distant place. Dreaming into the eyes of her new boyfriend, Dingane surmised.
He startled her, speaking in Fanagalo, the half Zulu, half pidgin English spoken in the mines where her parents lived. “If the mistress of the house, Lady Beatrice, catches you slacking, lazy girl, it’s the end. Hand me that.” He took the feather duster from her and demonstrated how she should use it. He thrust it back. “Now do it correctly.”
The girl returned to her task, now chastened. Dingane continued on his rounds of the villa, assuring that the staff was not shirking its duties. His wife remained in bed this morning. She said her stomach had cramps, blaming the tokoloshe, ground-hugging night gremlins. “He visited last night when I slept, I’m sure,” she moaned. “Build me a bed of bricks to stay off the floor to keep him away.”
He berated her for bringing up old myths, reminding her they were Christians. However, this afternoon he would arrange to get bricks from his cousin, who worked at the villa down the road. Building a traditional brick bed was preferable to her going to that old hag witch doctor.
He paused in the foyer, inspected the floor for dirt and the two Greek marble busts for dust. None. He stopped and sighed. His family had become a strain. Lady Beatrice had arranged a scholarship for their son, but the boy was more interested in playing his igopogo, the oil can guitar contraption favored by the South African bands. The young men in this new South Africa had many temptations. He was the only child who lived after his beloved wife’s six pregnancies, and Dingane knew they spoiled him. He must watch his son, or he would become a tsotsis, a young gangster roaming the streets.
Noise from outside interrupted his thoughts. From behind the carved oak door, he heard a car stop in front of the house and two doors open and slam shut. A hard knock on the door immediately followed. Must be rude visitors for madame’s husband. He looked in the TV monitor covering the outside entrance and saw that despicable man, Nabeel Asuty, with another ugly Middle Easterner. Both men looked around nervously as if they were fleeing from someone or thing. Dingane took his time opening the door.
“I want to speak with Abdul Wahab,” Nabeel said, not looking at Dingane. “I must see him.”
Dingane arched his back, as he had seen the British butlers do in old films, and said, using his best English diction, “I shall see if the master is receiving guests.” As he turned to go to the sitting room, he noted with humor the man’s face contort with anger.
He found Abdul Wahab and Lady Beatrice sitting on the opposite sides of the room, both reading portions of The Star, the Cape Town daily newspaper. Beatrice lifted her eyes and asked who was at the door. When told, she shouted at Wahab. “Damn it to hell, Abdul. I told you to keep those swarthy buggers out of my home.” Wahab rushed from the room.
She called after Dingane. “Keep an eye on them.”
He nodded and went back to the foyer where Wahab was leading an agitated Nabeel to the library. The other man, who had a prominent bald spot, remained standing. Dingane motioned for him to sit. The man scowled and sat roughly into a chair. Dingane couldn’t help thinking how inappropriate it was that the delicate French armchair should host the backsides of such a crude person. Intending to keep a watch on him, Dingane busied himself sorting the morning mail on the table.
“Ureed ma’,” the man shouted in Arabic.
Dingane feigned ignorance, but knew the man had asked for water.
The order came again as if he, Dingane, was the inferior, only there to do this man’s bidding. Again, Dingane acted as if he didn’t understand, and the man rose, making a cupping motion with his hands. At this, Dingane’s wife appeared.
“My dear. How do you feel?” he asked in Zulu.
She made various faces that said she felt better, but not much better, and glowering at the visitor, asked in Zulu, “What is this pig doing here?”
“Fouling the place,” Dingane said. “He has ordered water.”
“Shall I get it while you wait here with him?”
“Yes. Take your time. Make it warm and dirty it.”
Dingane leaned on the opposite wall and motioned to the man that his water would come. The man looked away, not bothering to conceal the pistol in his belt. Perspiration ran down his neck.