Cape Town—August 18, 2002
Hayden Stone watched Sandra fidget and fret while driving the rental car. They had just left the city and were heading for a conference called by the ambassador. The meeting was to be held at the official ambassador’s residence, a distance from center city in a treed suburb. The ambassador promised a braai afterward. Since COS Fleming didn’t want them staying at Victoria Wharf after the shooting incident, the two would then head for the safe house.
Fleming had phoned and advised that Ambassador Bunting wanted the meeting at three o’clock in order to hash out issues that had come to his attention. One issue on the agenda was Sandra’s putting a bullet in Farley Durrell’s leg. True, she had saved Farley from being murdered by Nabeel Asuty and his thugs and should be commended by her superiors for quick thinking, if not flair for improvising, but both knew their bureaucracy would view the action outside the norm. As very “sticky.” Administrative criticism could be expected.
Shifting her weight and hitting the wheel with both hands, Sandra let out a long groan. “This mission sucks! Nothing has gone right. I want to go back to Paris.”
“Pull over. I’ll drive,” Stone said, and surprisingly she pulled off onto a dirt shoulder. Stone hoped he’d have the good sense to remain silent and allow her to talk, tell him her concerns.
The surrounding neighborhood consisted of elegant homes placed on expansive lots. Traffic had been almost nonexistent since leaving the city, but as they exited and walked around the car to change positions, a black SUV approached from the other direction, slowed, and stopped opposite them.
The moment the SUV’s windows lowered, Stone, standing in the open, yelled, “Take cover!”
His Sig Sauer was out at the same time gun barrels emerged from the front and rear windows of the SUV. Bullets whizzed by Stone’s head and slammed into the car. The windshield shattered behind him.
Stone ducked behind the open driver’s door, using it as a shield. He returned fire.
Crouching in front of the grille, Sandra began shooting with a controlled two-shot sequence. By now the front window of the rental was gone. The attackers’ rounds penetrated the car door Stone used for cover. Gun empty, he needed the other magazine inside the pocket of his coat, which was lying on the car seat.
He dove headlong into the car and squirmed over to the passenger side. Finding the spare magazine in his coat, he scrambled out the other side.
Sandra had shifted position from the front of the car to the trunk area and was in the midst of reloading. The SUV crept along the road, maintaining rapid fire. Reloaded, Stone bent down next to Sandra and steadied his pistol with both hands. He aimed and fired at the SUV’s tailgate window. The window fell apart, revealing a bearded man in sunglasses.
Stone lined his sights and eased off two rounds. The man’s sunglasses flew from his face, and his gun dropped out of the vehicle. The driver accelerated, peeling rubber from the SUV’s rear tires.
The two watched the vehicle disappear. Out of breath, they leaned on the car’s trunk. She said, “Good thing they left. I’m out of ammo.”
Examining his Sig Sauer, Stone said, “Not a bad weapon. Fairly accurate. I nailed one of them.”
“By my count, there were two more. One looked like Nabeel Asuty.”
They straightened and looked around. No movement came from the nearby homes. Either they were accustomed to gunfire in their neighborhood, or were wise enough to stay indoors when shootings occurred.
“I’ll phone for help,” Sandra said. “This car isn’t going anywhere. A bullet must have hit a hose in the engine compartment. Hear the hissing?”
In less than ten minutes, a car arrived from the ambassador’s residence. Owen, dreadlocks flopping, who the two had met at the safe house the previous night, jumped out. After assuring neither required medical attention, he inspected the rental car. “The rental company won’t like this, but then carjackings aren’t unusual here.” He ordered them into his car. “We have to get out of here in case they return.”
They retrieved their luggage from the trunk while Owen checked the inside of the car for any belongings. Before getting into the car, Stone ran over and with his handkerchief picked up the pistol that had dropped out of the SUV. He came back and asked, “Shouldn’t we gather up our brass?”
Owen looked puzzled.
“The brass. The expended cartridges lying on the ground.” After Stone had said it, the absurdity of the question hit him. “Guess we shouldn’t be worried about the crime scene.” Handing the pistol to him, Stone said, “Here’s one of their guns. We may get a make on a fingerprint.”
They drove away at a normal speed. Owen asked Stone, sitting in the backseat, to check behind them for any suspicious cars, and he began a dry-cleaning run along the back roads to the ambassador’s home.
Sandra spoke up. “I’ll bet Nabeel Asuty’s pissed.”
“Stupid move on his part,” Stone said. “Makes me wonder why he did it, and if they are the terrorists who want the bomb, why are they still here in Cape Town?”