Free The African Contract by Arthur Kerns Page B

Identical.
    â€œAmbassador?” Patience placed her hand on his shoulder.
    â€œOh. I didn’t mean to be rude. Just remembered something,” he explained. “I think I’m off. Can I give you a lift home?”
    â€œThanks. I drove.”
    â€œI’ll call tomorrow.”
    â€œDo.”
    Ambassador Bunting paid his respects to the van Wartts and outside found his driver waiting for him by the embassy’s armored BMW sedan. Riding down the winding road toward the sparkling lights of the city, he made a mental note to speak with his CIA base chief at the Cape Town consulate first thing in the morning. Why wasn’t he informed of the surveillance, especially since he had announced his daily schedule at the huddle that morning? Unless, of course, it wasn’t their drone. Maybe the Russians? Doubtful. Reports were their intel operations were in chaos. Israelis? Possible. Nevertheless, he would get an explanation.
    At the same time, he’d get the base chief to do a background trace on Patience St. John Smythe. He did so hope that she wasn’t too good to be true.

Chapter Nine
    Freetown, Sierra Leone—August 10, 2002
    At nine in the morning, Hayden Stone phoned York Export Ltd. and asked Mr. Amadu, the office manager, to speak with Dirk Lange. Amadu asked the nature of his call, and Stone reminded him of his visit to the office the day before.
    â€œOh yes. Mr. Costanza, I believe. The travel writer.”
    â€œThe same.”
    â€œI took the liberty of making inquiries for Mr. Lange and could not find your name posted on any of the bibliographies.”
    â€œIs Mr. Lange available? If so, put him on.”
    After a pause and without further comment, Amadu transferred him to his boss. When Lange answered the phone, Stone detected a slight Afrikaner inflection to the otherwise clipped English accent.
    â€œGood Morning, Mr. Lange. The name’s Finbarr Costanza. I’m a writer, and a mutual friend suggested I give you a ring.”
    â€œAnd who would that be?”
    Stone provided the parole, the password provided by Jacob, to confirm his identity. “A fellow from London said you knew a lot about the forest elephants.”
    After a silence, Lange asked, “Are you interested in the herds in the Gola Forest North or the Gola East?”
    â€œBoth are of interest for my story.”
    â€œLet us meet for lunch at the Hill Station Club. The history of the club might be of use for your story,” he said, and as an afterthought asked, “What do you look like?”
    â€œWhite. Dark hair. No facial hair,” Stone said. “Oh. I’ll be wearing a khaki safari jacket.”
    â€œOf course you will.”
    Stone drove the small Toyota pickup from the city into the hilly, forested district that overlooked the bay. The meeting with Lange was scheduled for one in the afternoon. As he drove on the narrow lane through the tropical forest, a soft rain fell and the windshield wipers slapped a hypnotic rhythm. Each time the car passed over a rut in the road, the right bumper, the victim of a past collision, clanged against the car’s frame.
    That morning Sandra had demanded she accompany him on the meet, and at one point became quite adamant, but as they argued, he watched her physically deflate, eyes redden, and finally acquiesce. She trudged to her bedroom.
    The station chief was another matter. After making the appointment with Lange, he had touched base with Craig in his embassy office. He showed a strange disinterest in the meet and said countersurveillance was unnecessary. His dislike for Dirk Lange came out rather loud and clear.
    â€œReally can’t afford spending resources on someone we know to be a small-time player. The guy’s a bum. South Africa’s equivalent to Eurotrash. People like him wind up everywhere there’s a buck to be made. They’re like gypsies.”
    Stone was relieved to not have Craig involved in his