Free The African Contract by Arthur Kerns

two of their officers, and everyone knew those people had long memories. Eventually, Wahab would be receptive to his plan. However, he, Van Wartt, had no wish to tarry.
    The two left the library and returned to the entertainment area with the other guests, quite a few of whom had found seats on the new couches and chairs imported from Italy. The sun had set and the city lights twinkled in the soft azure dusk. Through the glass doors, the deep ridges of the craggy mammoth, Table Mountain, had darkened.
    â€œLook, Abdul. That brown-haired chap in the Italian suit. The one with the moustache. That’s the American ambassador. Standing over there staring out the window at Lord knows what. He is down from Pretoria.” He chuckled. “And while the fool is drifting off in some other world, next to him is one of the finest feminine morsels in our city.”
    â€œMy. Who is that attractive woman?”
    â€œPatience St. John Smythe. An official with the Cape Town city government. Well connected. Especially bright and unattached.”
    â€œQuite intriguing. A member of the English tribe to complete your multicultural gathering?”
    â€œMy, Abdul. You are learning fast about your new country.”
    Deep within, US Ambassador Marshall Bunting felt an excitement. He certainly did enjoy taking in the accent of this woman speaking to him. She spoke with that peculiar combination of inflections that comes from speaking British English, Afrikaans, and one or more of the native dialects. He also noted her perfume, light and woodsy. He remembered a similar fragrance one night in Paris a year ago.
    However, that strange-looking bird perched on the olive tree branch at the far end of the terrace intrigued him.
    â€œAmbassador,” the woman said, touching his sleeve. “We want to thank you for all your help bringing that art exhibit in from the Washington National Gallery.”
    â€œYou must thank my cultural attaché. He’s a wonder.”
    â€œI know, but you have been very supportive with the exhibit last month and also with our AIDS conference.” She sighed. “Some of the people in my government don’t realize what a problem the AIDS virus is.”
    Bunting turned and studied Ms. St. John Smythe. Age shy of thirty-five, not much younger than he. Hair very black, hanging loose, not too short. She had the ivory complexion of many women from the British Isles. A brush of light freckles across her nose made her face interesting. There was a distant air in her manner, yet she didn’t withdraw when he moved close.
    â€œI noticed you watching that bird out there,” she said. “You’re known as an ornithologist.”
    â€œNo. I’m just a birder.”
    â€œI hear that you have two bird species named after you.”
    â€œYes,” Bunting said with a grin. “A swallow and a tern. I’m quite proud of that.”
    â€œMay I ask? Are you accompanied tonight?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œOh, so you are not … attached?” Following Bunting’s eyes, she began to look around. “Pardon. Didn’t mean to be so—”
    â€œNot at all. Hmm. No, I’m not attached, but I am looking for my drink.”
    Patience hailed the woman carrying a tray of wine glasses, took one, and handed it to Bunting.
    â€œThank you. And you?”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œAttached?”
    â€œNot seriously.”
    Both sipped their drinks. She asked him what species of bird sat in the tree.
    â€œThat’s the problem,” he said. “It has all the markings of a golden-breasted bunting. They’re not usually found here. They live up north, and in East Africa.” He shrugged. “Cape buntings are the birds found here.”
    â€œCan’t see it all that well. Lost one of my contacts coming in tonight, but we’re talking about birds with your name. They’re not named after you, are they?”
    He laughed. “No,