Free Pinnacle Event by Richard A. Clarke Page B

Very nice place.” He had not known what to expect, but the clean, modern airport, the quick ride to this beach resort, the sleek hotel, all made him feel more like he was in Malibu than in South Africa. “What local beer do you recommend?”
    â€œWell, most people will have Windhoek, maybe their Tafel, but if you be asking me what I would drink on expense account, I would go micro,” Cammil explained as he reached for a beer mug. “Best microbrewery now be Robson’s East Coast. You like a pale ale, try theirs.”
    â€œWell, that’s what I’ll be having then.”
    Cammil poured it perfectly, almost to the point of overflowing, but not quite. Then he excused himself. “I be right back, if anyone else show up, you tell them, I be right back.”
    Ray liked the idea of being alone in a bar again, as he was when he closed up at Skinny Legs. He looked out at the ocean, dark as night beyond the beach. He thought a nice run on the sand and a dip in the waves would be a good way to start the day in the morning, before he got a taxi into downtown Cape Town to meet his hosts, the local security service.
    â€œIs the bartender here?” It was a woman who was seated behind him in a wingback chair by the fire. He hadn’t noticed her before.
    â€œNo,” Ray said, turning and smiling. “He’ll be right back.”
    â€œThat’s what the termite asked,” she said.
    â€œI beg your pardon?” Ray said, shaking his head at the striking, tall woman in the chair. As he walked toward her, he realized he was staring at her long legs. “I didn’t get that.”
    â€œMost people don’t. Termite walks into a bar and asks, ‘Is the bartender here?’” she said. “Here, have a seat with me by the fire, Mr. Bowman.”
    The jet lag, the strangeness of the last few days, the incongruity of him being in Cape Town, and now a beautiful woman who knew who he was. “My name is Brad Radford,” he said, sitting in the chair opposite her.
    â€œNo, that is the name on your passport, but you are Raymond J. Bowman” she said in an accent he could not place, a formal, precise, lilting, slightly pinched English. “And you like Cohibas. So there is one here for you. After all, Traders is the best cigar bar in Cape Town. That is why I booked you into the hotel here. That and the fact that it is a little bit out of town.”
    He shook his head in surprise, then laughed. “You are my host?” Ray asked, sniffing the Cohiba.
    â€œMbali Hlanganani, at your service, sir.” She reached a long bare arm across the drinks table. “Forgive my rudeness. I wanted to meet you at the airport, but the day went long so I thought I would come out and share a drink with you.”
    Cammil had returned and was standing by their seats.
    â€œMbali, sorry for the delay. I had to go downstairs to find your Pinotage. Here you go. The L’Avenir ’99 from Stellenbosch.”
    â€œThank you, Cammil, and thank you for closing the bar tonight for us.” She sloshed the purple liquid in the glass and then delicately sniffed the air above it. “Perfect.”
    â€œMondays are slow,” the barkeep admitted.
    â€œWe’ll still pay the usual for closing the bar,” she smiled back at him.
    â€œYou’re a regular?” Ray asked.
    â€œI live nearby. Small place near the beach my father bought for me. I could never afford it on a civil servant’s salary, but he has done very well for himself in Durban, part owner of a food store chain with some Indian gentlemen. Durban has always been a place where the races got along, not like Joburg and Pretoria.”
    â€œSo you’re from Durban?”
    â€œYes, well, KwaZulu. We were Inkatha up there,” she said after sipping the wine. “So my family was not ANC.”
    â€œAnd yet you are the Director of the Special Security Services Office. A Zulu? How did