“Water it down for me.” She turned off the heat to the frying pan and tossed a few slices of onion in with the beef. “What's your take on Mr. Dirk Lange?”
“Not what I was expecting. You know, the typical tough guy soldier of fortune. Understand, he's no marshmallow, but he has a human side. Seems to be bright and knowledgeable about what's happening in this neck of the woods.”
“I believe it, since he's South African. Is he trustworthy?”
“I suppose. After all, a hard-nosed character like Jacob deals with him, and Jonathan and he have a good relationship ⦔
“Not good enough. What's your gut instinct?”
Stone poured whiskey into the two glasses. It was good to have her cool, no-nonsense thinking back. “For one, he doesn't trust me. I'm sure he thinks I'm agency, and we don't know the whole story of his relationship with that CIA gal.”
“I think we know. He was banging our CIA staffer, and the station made it uncomfortable for both of them.” She clicked Stone's glass and sipped her whiskey. “Did you get a feeling that he's been trained? That he's a pro?”
“He's trusted to some extent by Jacob, so he floats in those circles.”
Sandra looked hard. “Again, do you trust him?”
“Not yet.”
They sat and started eating. She had tossed a light tomato sauce with the pasta, and the whiff of garlic pleasantly added to the taste. Stone saw her appetite had improved.
Laying down her fork, she sat back and looked into space. “So, tomorrow we three go to this outdoor café and look for this Nabeel.” Continuing as if going down a list, “The dead South African presumably was murdered by Nabeel because she knew too much about some planned terrorist operation. What happened to her body?” She turned to Stone, who shrugged.
Sandra was right. He should have picked up on that. Lange only said the police hadn't been interested. “The South African Embassy would have made an inquiry,” Stone said. “Maybe Craig can find out.”
“It's logical to assume that we're dealing with a group of terrorists who have a plan to make a big splash. Like spreading a plague in the US, or poisoning city water supplies. We have to know who we're dealing with, what their backgrounds, educations are.”
Stone studied Sandra's face, the sharp outline of her chin and the bright green eyes that, when in thought, appeared to dance with ideas.
“What?” Sandra frowned.
Catching himself, he said, “Nothing. Just thinking about what you said.”
“About what?”
“Oh, about ⦠everything.” Stone tried to appear busy twirling the pasta around his fork. “It's good to have you back.”
She returned to her meal and after a moment, out of the corner of his eye, Stone caught a quizzical glance.
Freetown, Sierra LeoneâAugust 11, 2002
After fueling up the truck at the embassy maintenance compound, Stone and Sandra picked up Dirk Lange, waiting patiently outside his office building. Lange suggested he take the wheel. “Driving through town from here to Cape Sierra Leone can be tricky for a visitor.”
Stone got out of the car and walked around and took the passenger seat. Sandra moved to the middle and introduced herself. After a bit of banter between the two, Lange circled the miniscule square showcasing Freetown's landmark Cotton Tree. He drove southwest on Siaka Stevens Street. Stone noted a change in Lange's demeanor. With smiles and a mellow voice, his attention focused fully on Sandra.
“First time here on the continent?” Lange asked.
“Been to Africa, but never Freetown.” Before he could ask another personal question, she said, “And you? How long have you lived here?”
Lange took a moment to answer. “You don't know?” He flashed a boyish grin.
“Just checking to be sure you're the same guy I heard about.”
“I've been here off and on for a number of years. First, working for a British-owned security company, now I'm in the mining business.” He pointed to the run-down neighborhood of shanties and hollowed-out houses they passed. “You wouldn't think this country is enormously wealthy in minerals, now would you?”
“You also do charity work?” she asked.
“Keeps me busy.” He honked at a pedestrian who had stepped in front of the car carrying a live chicken by its feet. “Have no family except my parents back in Jo'burg. How about you?”
Stone decided to interrupt Lange's questioning of Sandra, which resembled first encounter bar talk. “How far do we have to drive?”
“We go west on the Motor Main Road, cross the bridge to Aberdeen, and then we're almost to the café. Don't expect too much from the kitchen.”
“Dirk,” Stone said, “I forgot to ask. Do you meet often with Jacob?”
The response came at once and in a flat, deliberate tone. “He didn't tell you?”
Stone looked out the side window. Lange knew what was and was not appropriate when asking about intelligence relationships. Obviously, the man had training. Question: Was he an active member of the South African service or just a runner?
“Jacob only indicated he trusted you,” Stone said. “He was also concerned enough about your information to tell me to contact you.”
“And you, Mr. Finbarr Costanza, is it? What is your relationship with Jacob?”
Well done, you big prick.
“A sporadic one over a long time. Do you expect him to drop by?”
“We both know he pops in and out unexpectedly.”
Sandra heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Not to change the subject, but this café we're going to. Is it a local hangout?”
“It is an expat hangout. A very pleasant place,” Lange said, his broad smile returned. “It overlooks Man of War Bay, and you can sit and have a cool drink under the palm trees. An escape from reality.”
On arriving, Stone had to agree with Lange's assessment. The café sat on the semicircular blue water bay alongside other eating establishments and small resorts that resembled American motels. A far cry from the hovels and trash-laden streets they had passed, this district had a feel of forced relaxation, ever cautious of the possible encroachment of Africa's primitive disorder.
They parked in the café's car lot behind the single-story metal-roofed building. Lange led them through the main entrance that adjoined the noisy kitchen. Once out on the terrace, he was proved correctâthe breeze cooled the soft air and Stone looked out on a scene that could be duplicated at any tropical seaside spot in the world. An invitation to sit and relax and forget where one lived.
Stone and Sandra ordered cool fruit drinks, Lange a beer. The menu resembled one found in an English pub. Again, Lange cautioned them not to expect haute cuisine. They were early, so few tables were occupied.
After the waiter brought the drinks, Sandra leaned toward Lange. “Did the police issue a report on that woman who washed ashore?”
Lange shook his head. “Like I told ⦠Finbarr, the police issue few reports in this town.”
“This woman, Ronda, was South African,” she pressed. “Did your embassy make an inquiry?”
“Yes, after they examined the body.” Lange looked around to make sure no one was near. “They found a small hollow depression in back of the neck, just below where it meets the skull. The spinal cord was cut, they surmise from an ice pick-type weapon.”
“They dumped her in the bay,” Stone said. “Hope she was dead at the time.”
Lange stiffened. “She was quite a decent person.”
“I'm sure she was,” Sandra said, giving Stone an admonishing look for his insensitive remark.
Across the way a chair fell over, and they saw four bearded men, each wearing black untucked short-sleeved shirts. Lange touched Stone's arm and Sandra, catching the sign, raised her camera concealed in a sunglass case. After a moment, Stone felt assured they had gotten photographs of Nabeel Asuty and his companions, copies of which were now being transmitted by the radio in the case to a satellite overhead. Next, to help the Counterterrorism Center back in Langley do a search on Asuty, they needed a car tag number and, if lucky, Asuty's credit card number.
Their meals came as advertised by Lange. Everyone carefully inspected the food, hoping it wasn't bushmeat. From across the restaurant, Stone was the first to pick up Nabeel's interest in their table.
“It must be me they're looking at,” Lange said. “They know I was acquainted with Ronda.”
Stone started to say they were giving them all a once-over when Nabeel rose, said something to his associates, and marched toward their table. The man was in his early forties, taller and better built than Stone had pictured. No dandy, he had an arrogant stride.
“Mr. Lange,” Nabeel Asuty said in a contrived, unctuous voice. “So unfortunate about our mutual friend Ronda. Boating can be dangerous in these waters.”
“Really, Mr. Asuty,” Lange said, looking him up and down. “I didn't realize someone who lived in a desert knew anything about boating.”
Stone was impressed by Lange's toughness, characteristic of the grit many native-born whites in Africa had.
“One must be careful here in Freetown, Mr. Lange.”
Stone gave a purposely false guffaw. “Good God. This man is right out of a very bad grade B movie. Do you practice your routine in front of a mirror before you skip out in public?”
Asuty's face froze, but his right hand twitched. He reached into his shirt pocket for his sunglasses and put them on.
Stone turned to Sandra, who stared at him with a “What the ⦔ look, then at Lange, who grinned at everyone.
Finally, Nabeel's back straightened, revealing the outline of a gun tucked in his belt. His head bobbled ever so slightly. “Mr. Lange. You should inform your guest that this is not as safe a place as the French Riviera.” With that he turned on his heels and returned to his table.
“Why, Hayden?” Sandra asked. “Why did you antagonize the man?”
“I wanted to piss him off. Wanted to have him lose his cool to see if he knew me, or about me. He does.” Stone downed his drink. “The only person who got away in the South of France operation was the Saudi, Abdul Wahab, who undoubtedly carries a grudge. I'd wager this Nabeel Asuty works for Wahab.”
“Very well done,
Hayden
,” Lange laughed. “Good logical reasoning. I bet you were good in your day.”
Stone's gray eyes hardened. “The day's not over, pal.”
Sandra frowned at Lange. “Where does that put us?” She slowly answered her own question. “That puts us on the track of a terrorist operation with some good leads.”
“We still need a license plate and maybe a credit card number,” Stone said.
“As for the credit card, I'll get it,” Lange offered. “I know the girl at the register. Oh. I'll get Asuty's glass for fingerprints.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Stone said.
Fingerprints? This guy is a pro.
“I'm headed for the restroom.” Stone rose and winked at Sandra. “Wonder if Nabeel knows anything about poisonous snakes in Liberia.”
To reach the toilet facilities, Stone had to exit the restaurant's main entrance and walk around the parking lot to a shed attached to the side of the building. He dreaded using public privies in this area of the world and only used them if he had no choice. This one met his expectations. Dark, stiflingly hot, and cramped. The rank odors emitted a unique toxic bouquet.
The door would not completely shut, but he intended to make his visit as quick as possible. Instead of a urinal, Stone discovered at the far end of the room a hole in the floor. He squirmed past a stained water basin and a toilet bowl without a seat, trying not to touch either. Unzipping, he looked up at the ceiling at a collection of cobwebs. From the fresh ones hung spiders of varying colors and sizes.
The door behind him banged open. Stone looked around and saw the silhouettes of two men. “I'm about finished,” he called, turning back and pushing to empty his bladder.
As he pulled up his zipper, he realized the two men had entered the room. Spinning around, he recognized them as two of Nabeel's thugs. The first man, carrying a gun, lunged at him. Stone went into defensive stance and kneed him in the gut. He groaned and lurched forward, swinging his automatic pistol at Stone's head.
Stone grabbed his wrist and tried to grasp the barrel of the gun. Slammed against the wall, Stone pushed him away with his leg, but now the second man came from the side and slugged Stone.
Cornered, Stone's only chance was to take away the first man's gun as the muzzle of the automatic came toward Stone's face.
Stone hollered. The second man growled in Arabic, “Shut him up!” Stone spit in the first man's eyes, surprising him. The first man stumbled back over the broken toilet bowl, and as he regained his footing, Stone closed his hand over the barrel and stunned him with a sharp head-butt. The man's nose crunched.
Now Stone had a solid grip on the automatic and was taking it away when the second man slashed at Stone with a knife. Stone ducked, and with his left hand struck the first man's throat with a karate chop, crushing his larynx. Clutching his throat, the man collapsed over the toilet bowl and the gun dropped. The second man now held the knife close to Stone's eye.
The blade inched closer. As it touched the eyelid, a muscular blond-haired arm wrapped tightly around the second man's neck. The hand holding the knife lost strength. The man's face reddened, bubbles formed on his mouth, and his eyes bulged. Stone wrenched the knife from his hand. At the same time Dirk Lange snapped the man's neck.
On the floor, the first man, gasping for air from the broken larynx, picked up his automatic. He aimed it at Stone's groin, but he pushed aside the gun and placed two shots from his Colt into the man's chest. The sound reverberated within the small room as the man flew backward.
Stone and Lange waited, expecting to hear shouts or calls from outside. Only faint music came from the restaurant.
After a moment, Lange went to the door and searched the area. “No one here. I saw these two follow you here to the loo,” Lange said. “I heard you shout. Figured you needed help.”
“Thanks. You came just in time.” Stone bent down at the basin and, using the fetid water from the tap, washed his face. “What do you suggest we do with the bodies?”
“There's a large rubbish bin outside,” Lange said. “We'll dump them there.”
Lange's sudden cold demeanor surprised Stone. The fact the man wasn't breathing hard impressed him. Strong mind. Tough body. “Let's empty their pockets first,” Stone said.
They found cash, passports, and various shaped keys, which Stone said he'd examine later. It took both of them to drag the bodies one by one from the bathroom to the dumpster. Finished, Stone said, “Let's get out of here.” Then stopped. “Where's Sandra?”
“Took the truck and followed Nabeel when he left. She'll ring you on your cell.”
“We have to get out of here.”
Lange tossed over two wallets taken from the men's pockets and fingered the collection of keys in his hand. “We can use their Mercedes,” he said, pushing the release button for the car door. A short beep came from the direction of the parking lot. They headed toward a row of parked Mercedes. Lange pressed the button again, and the horn of a black sedan sounded.
“Hop in. We'll drive somewhere where we can wait for Sandra to call,” Stone said. “Do you know someplace by the sea? I'm sweating like a pig.”
Under palm trees bent by the ocean breeze, they looked over the Iraqi passports of the dead men and, seeing nothing of immediate interest, searched the car. Stone draped a cloth over the license tag to conceal it from passing traffic. The trunk provided a few surprises: two AK-47s, three Russian-made automatic pistols, and a canvas sack containing what Stone recognized as a C4 plastic explosive.
Lange shook his head. “What on earth were they thinking, carrying this around in their car?”
A truck passed and Stone slammed down the trunk lid. He leaned on the car, and, enjoying the cool breeze, looked up at fat storm clouds forming on the horizon. “Maybe they were on the way to a delivery. That would explain the two cars.” He pulled out his cell phone. “I should call Sandra.”
Sandra Harrington maintained a discrete distance behind Nabeel Asuty's car as she had been taught at the agency's surveillance school in Virginia. Nabeel traveled through congested neighborhoods similar to the ones she had passed through that morning. It was easy to follow the Honda as it slowed and occasionally halted for pedestrians and animals.
Even with the heat, Sandra kept the windows only partially open. Thieves were expert in reaching in and making fast grabs for purses and jewelry. As she passed the shops and dingy two-story houses, the sounds and smells of West Africa hit her sensesâmusic, much of it Western pop, smoke from the charcoal stoves, shouted sales pitches, wafts from overflowing cesspools, laughter, fragrance from an unseen flower, singing.