Cape Town—August 12, 2002
Abdul Wahab, shielded from the wind in the protected veranda, glared out over the choppy sea. The winter August wind brought the temperature down below sixty degrees Fahrenheit. He turned up the collar of his Harris Tweed jacket and leaned back in the white wicker chair. Next to him, on the table, rested his leather-bound copy of the Koran and a dog-eared copy of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales in Middle English.
The butler, Dingane, a handsome man with streaks of gray in his close-cropped hair, laid down a Limoges tea service next to him. A chocolate-coated biscotto lay next to the cup and saucer. Without asking, he poured his employer a cup of Ceylon tea. Wahab enjoyed the English custom of afternoon tea, although he preferred having it, like now, during late morning.
The home, built into a steep mountain slope, overlooked the expansive shoreline of Bantry Bay lined with white beach houses. A relaxing view, yet somehow he found it boring. His wife Beatrice had purchased the home a while back, while married to that American tycoon from Silicon Valley. Absentmindedly, he stroked his neatly trimmed moustache and goatee. He had to admit, Cape Town was pleasant, but it lacked the panache of the French Riviera.
Thinking about the Riviera made him uncomfortable. Only a few months ago, he had to flee Villefranche before the French authorities arrested him for importing narcotics. His father-in-law, a Saudi prince, had for all practical purposes disowned him. Of course he, Wahab, for that matter, had all but abandoned the prince’s daughter to a mental asylum near Jeddah. There was the matter of his connections with the terrorist groups—the brothers no longer viewed him as reliable. And of course the CIA. Had they connected the death of their two people on the Riviera to him?
All these problems because of one man: Hayden Stone. Now that same man had come to Africa, and Wahab’s first attempt to even the score had failed. Whoever talked him into that snake stunt in Monrovia? That weasel, Nabeel Asuty. Then he sends four fools to Monrovia to kill him. Idiot.
Behind him the glass door slid open and his wife, Lady Beatrice, marched out. She wore a beige twill suit over a pink blouse. A matching scarf covered her hair.
“Dear Abdul. Don’t tell me you are sitting here moping.”
“Just having tea, my dear. And a cigarette.” He pulled out his silver cigarette case.
“Don’t light up now. That awful Egyptian is in the reception area waiting to speak with you.” She went to the railing and looked back and forth across the landscape. Turning back to him, he said, “Really, you shouldn’t invite that type to our home. For God’s sake, join a club in town to entertain people like that.”
“A good idea,” he said, starting to rise. “Where are you off to?”
“The museum. I’m meeting with women from the National Gallery.”
Next to the marble pedestal displaying a bust of Apollo, Nabeel Asuty sat in a gray cushioned accent chair, legs crossed, dangling his right shoe, a knockoff Gucci. Dingane hovered about the reception area, keeping an eye on him. Wahab approached and extended a cordial greeting. Nabeel rose and presented a saccharine smile. Wahab thought the man’s obsequiousness complimented his coarse facial features.
“Nabeel, my friend, let me show you to the garage.”
A dark shadow crossed Nabeel’s eyes. Wahab knew him to be touchy on matters of courtesy. Could it be his humble origins? Quickly, he followed up by saying, “I have purchased a new toy I want to show off.” He whispered, “Much more private out there.”
The saccharine smile returned.
Wahab led him along the driveway to the detached garage that overlooked a fifty-foot drop to another home.
“You live well, Abdul Wahab.”
In Arabic, he responded, “God is good.” They entered the garage, and he pointed to a green Jaguar XK-150 roadster. “A beauty, no?”
Nabeel agreed, walked up to the car, and sat on the front bumper. “May I smoke?”
“I’d rather you not.” Wahab tensed to the man’s impudence. “And if you don’t mind, do not sit on the car.” Nabeel rose and walked to the closed garage door and stared out at the ocean below. “What news do you bring?” Wahab asked.
Nabeel made a display of changing his attitude to one of cordiality. “My friend, our brothers in Sierra Leone are an undisciplined lot. They talk jihad, but are more interested in dealing in diamonds and gold.”
“And there are other problems, yes?”
“Yes. This American, Hayden Stone, is a nuisance. Have you ever met him?”
“I have seen him … and met him.” In Afghanistan and on the Riviera.
“In Freetown, I met him in a café and learned that he is arrogant. I sent two of our people to handle him.” Nabeel glowered.
Wahab shook his head slowly. “They are now enjoying Paradise. No?”
Nabeel looked down at his feet.
“And in Monrovia, the snake made a mistake and bit the wrong man. Then you send four of your men to kill him and that ends badly. And Mr. Stone lives on. He appears too much for you.”
Wahab watched Nabeel stiffen as he walked up to his Jaguar, took out his handkerchief, and wiped down the front bumper where Nabeel had sat. “I have a complicated task before me. This task, if accomplished, will far surpass Osama bin Laden’s 9/11 glorious victory. Our world will cheer our work, and they will write poems that will be recited for centuries.” Wahab laughed to himself. If he continued on this vein, the rich, poetic Arabic language he was speaking would soon take him off in irrelevant directions.
He cleared his throat and brought himself back to business. “I need assistance from competent people to carry out this mission.”
“You need not worry about me, Wahab.” Nabeel smirked.
“I do when you murder your lovers. The ones you tell too much in the heat of passion. While smoking hashish. Especially when those lovers are Afrikaners.”
Nabeel froze. His body appeared to shrink within his suit. The eyes pleaded.
“Yes, I know what goes on in Freetown,” Wahab said in a low tone. “Now go back there. Await orders, and come up with a sound plan to kill Hayden Stone. Rather, come up with a number of plans. Contact me before you do anything.”
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Elizabeth Kerr knocked on the door twice, and then stepped from the quiet corridor into a noisy room filled with people in motion. Twenty-four hours before, top officials on the seventh floor at CIA headquarters had given their imprimatur to form this ad hoc working group to address the problem in Namibia. The group’s team leader, John Matterhorn, an older man with thinning brown hair and wire-rimmed eyeglasses, came up to her.
“Good to see you, Elizabeth. Come with me. We’ll find a corner and talk a bit.”
She knew John and his wife, who was also a CIA case officer. Kerr’s family and his were old friends. He had recommended Elizabeth to an acquaintance for employment at NIMA, the National Imagery and Mapping Agency located in the suburbs of Northern Virginia. Another case of Washington beltway networking in the intelligence community.
“I got the word to report here this morning,” she said, looking around at the controlled turmoil. Some of the staff chattered happily as they lugged computers and pushed file cabinets around the room. Others slowly arranged desks and chairs, pausing at times to assess their fellow workers. Elizabeth surmised the happy ones were glad to be assigned to the group; the others looked as if they wished they were back at their old jobs.
“Bit hectic for now,” John said. “But in a day or so, things will be running smoothly. Always does.” Pushing two chairs together, he motioned for her to sit. “You’re responsible for all this.” He waved his hand. “Good work on finding that nuclear thermal source. The director is very, very interested in this project.”
“John. One problem. I can’t be here all the time. My organization insists that we keep monitoring the target from our location. Anything we pick up will be transmitted or carried here.”
He pushed his glasses back on his nose. She knew what he was thinking. Her people would not allow CIA to have control of their equipment or their sources and methods. Agencies in Washington, DC, didn’t survive lending their techniques to other agencies, even for a short term. Rarely were they returned.
“I understand. In that case you’ll be travelling back and forth a lot. I want you to know the success of this program rests a great deal on your shoulders. Any new developments out there in the Kalahari?”
Elizabeth opened her briefcase. “Here are some photos you’ll find interesting. They were taken about two weeks ago, ten o’clock in the morning Namibia time.” John studied the overhead photographs taken of a boxcar sitting on a railroad siding in the desert. Two figures stood nearby next to an ATV. He flipped through the pictures quickly, stopping to closely examine one in particular.
“Is this their helicopter?” Without waiting for an answer, he asked, “French make?”
“It’s an older Aerospatiale SA 330. Called a Puma.” She pointed. “See, they stowed the ATV in it.”
“How many people, all together?”
“We saw four men standing around the helicopter. Two drove in an ATV to the site but didn’t stay at the boxcar for long. They took some readings with what we think was a Geiger counter and hurried off.”
John pointed to a spot some distance from the boxcar. “Who are these two figures over there?”
She paged through the photographs John held and pulled one out. “Here’s a closer shot. Two young men or boys were watching from behind a bush. Appeared to be hiding. Afterward, they walked toward the nearby town of Bruin Karas.”
“Which direction did the helicopter take?”
“North toward Angola. That’s when … we lost our window.” Kerr hesitated. “The satellite had to be switched to a target in Iraq.”
“You’re kidding! Who the hell ordered that?”
“A request from you people. The CIA.”
“I see. Any idea who the four were?”
“All four were male,” Kerr said. “Caucasian or light skinned. Dressed European fashion. That’s all.”
John sat back, silent. Elizabeth thought she saw his mind working. This would be the first time she had seen him engaged professionally. In the past they had been together only socially for dinners or at the Tuckahoe Tennis Club.
He picked up the stack of photos and snapped through the sheets while he talked. “This is some form of nuclear device. Large, not suitcase size, which we all worry about.” He paused at one photo showing the two men at the boxcar. “South Africa had a nuclear weapons program a while back when they controlled Namibia.” He restacked the photographs on the desk. “Lord knows how many of these things are floating around the world.”
“I’ll get a cable out to the chief of station in Luanda. Don’t know how good our Angolan sources are, but we’ll try to come up with their identities. Did you get any markings or numbers on the that helicopter?”
She handed him a sheet of paper.
“Good. We’ll get this out right away.” He looked around the room. “That is once we get the computers up and running. Namibia is another story. That’s a one-case officer post, and she’s back stateside for surgery. The COS in Embassy Pretoria is covering that post, which may work to our benefit.”
The noise level increased in the room as people jostled one another, avoiding bumping into the incoming office furniture. John suggested they go to the ground-floor cafeteria between the new and old office buildings and have a cup of coffee.
Seated in the glass-enclosed dining area, Elizabeth Kerr let her coffee cool and looked around. Even though it was between normal breakfast and lunch hours, the spacious area was busy, attesting to the fact that the CIA operated around the clock and on irregular shifts. Outside the windows, she saw the lawn sculpture in the open courtyard. The artist had placed a lengthy coded message on the four copper plates. The artwork had been the subject of numerous articles in magazines and the Washington Post. “Anyone break that cipher out there?” She pointed.
John shook his head. “Break the Kryptos? Not that I know,” he said without looking, his mind apparently on something else.
She felt her cup and decided it cool enough to sip. John took his time to say something he seemed hesitant to say.
Finally, he said, “Afghanistan is sucking up a lot of our resources. We’re having success there, but not for long, I’m afraid.” He looked at her. “The White House wants to go into Iraq. We’ve begun redirecting our resources.”
Kerr laughed. “Let the good times roll.”
John didn’t smile. “With all the focus on the Middle East, there’s a question: How can we address other issues when they come up. Like this bomb, for instance.” He set his coffee aside. “We need to take possession of this weapon or neutralize it. Quickly. Before some terrorist group gets hold of it.”
“Send in a SEAL team plus a HAZMAT team from the Department of Energy for protection against any radiation.”
John shook his head again. “Not so simple. It’ll take time to put teams on the ground and organize an extraction process. We need time. That’s why they sent Gus to South Africa.” He apparently saw her quizzical look. “Colonel Gustave Frederick from the director’s executive staff. He’s headed there to work with the COS in Cape Town.”
“Those men who came in on the helicopter,” Elizabeth asked. “Think they’re members of a terrorist group?”
“Hard to tell. Don’t think terrorist groups have the kind of network to use helicopters …” He stopped. “But their cousins managed to hijack four commercial airliners; still, I think the word has somehow gotten out about this thing sitting in the desert, there for the taking.”
“The French? It was a French helicopter.”
John shrugged.
“The Iraqis, Iranians, Libyans? Any one of the crazies out there.”
“Either someone who wants to use it against somebody,” John said, “or someone who wants to prevent it being used against them. Doesn’t matter. We must get it first.” He shook his head. “And the thing is leaking radiation, for God’s sake!”
They drank their coffees for a while. Elizabeth asked, “What kind of resource does this colonel of yours have down there in South Africa?”
“The COS is Charles Fleming. Base chief is M. R. D. Houston. Gus also has Sandra Harrington. All top-notch people. They better be, and they better move quickly.” All at once, John straightened in his chair and grinned.
“What?”
“Colonel Frederick also has an ace in the hole. A fellow by the name of Hayden Stone.”