“I’ll try to find my phone,” Sandra said, groaning as she raised herself. “I ditched it before surrendering. Do you mind?”
“Take this torch, miss,” Bull said, handing her a flashlight. “Watch out for the creatures.”
Stone offered to go with her, and they walked carefully toward the spot where she had hidden. In short time they found her phone and the Glock she had left there.
“Hide it under your shirt,” Stone said. “Our friend Bull would more likely suspect me of having it.”
“Really?”
“Sweetheart, you know me better than to be chauvinistic, but Bull’s world is a few years behind.”
“Don’t give me that ‘Sweetheart’ shit.”
“Sandra. Did you notice the friction between Abdul Wahab and his man Asuty?”
“Yeah. Trouble in paradise.”
“Might have saved our lives.”
“And how about that Bull and his buddy Van Wartt?” Sandra whispered as they neared Bull and Lange.
“Lucky for us Bull has a mind of his own.”
When they came up to the two Afrikaners, it was apparent they had established some sort of bond. The two men conversed as they walked to the Land Rover. At the same time, Lange motioned for Stone and Sandra to follow. They passed the burning hulk of railcar throwing a trail of sparks to the star-crowded sky.
Sandra phoned Colonel Frederick. “Colonel, I have some news. Asuty has taken off flying north with the nuclear bomb in an unmarked C-119.” Pause. “We couldn’t stop him … We were captured—” She stopped and swirled around toward the boxcar fire. Stone saw from her body movements that Frederick was doing all the talking and from her nervous “Yeses” and “Rights” that he was pissed. At one point she suggested he talk with Stone, but when Sandra threw up her free hand, Stone knew he was not going to speak with him.
The conversation ended with her saying she’d wait for further instructions. She whispered to Stone, “Frederick was only an hour from landing here. He’s decided to return to the staging area. Someone will come and pick us up. I think he said early morning.” She put her phone in her pocket. Touching his shoulder, she added, “He suggested I tell you something.”
“Oh?”
“Retire.”
Bull Rhyton’s homestead was a mile away from the town of Bruin Karas and a quarter mile off the paved road. Dinner consisted of leftover breakfast putu porridge, venison sausage, and fresh oven-baked biscuits, hard on the outside, soft inside. Bull passed around jerky, called biltong.
Mrs. Rhyton, a stout woman with graying hair and weather-worn features, did not conceal her dislike for the Americans, but Stone watched Bull pull her aside and point to Sandra. She bent over and touched her bruised face, and tenderly led her toward the bedroom. In between tut-tuts, Stone heard her tell Sandra she had medicines for the cuts. The children, barefoot and bronzed, wandered through the kitchen, and even the youngest, not much over six years old, wasn’t hesitant to look Stone straight in the eye.
At the kitchen table huddled over their meals, Dirk Lange and Bull spoke in low tones peppered with ja-nee, the non-committal Afrikaner phrase for “yes, no,” and used when nothing else comes to mind. Stone took his plate out to the front porch open to the sky. He sat on a wooden crate and gazed up, remembering Sandra’s words on how dark it got in places like this, in the middle of nowhere. Dark it was, except for stars so many and so bright that it was impossible for him to make out their constellations. The moon’s mountain ranges etched its brilliant surface.
Hayden Stone knew his impatience had led to a bad decision. He should have stayed with his group and not approached the boxcar. It had been a trap and he fell into it — like a greenhorn. The blame for the terrorists escaping with the bomb rested on his shoulders. Colonel Frederick had reason to be disgusted. He had screwed up before, but never with such potential consequences.
Bad situations had been turned around in the past. He’d do so again, he was certain. Still. Flying somewhere over the vastness of Africa, jihadists had a nuclear weapon and planned to use it against the West. Maybe if the gods were on the right side that relic of an airplane wouldn’t make it to its destination.
Bull came out the screen door and sat next to him. He held two mason jars with clear liquid. “I gave your comrades pain pills. Do you want one?”
“No. Thank you.” Stone looked down at the drinks.
Bull huffed. “You were the one who took the worst beating. Maybe this is more to your liking.” He handed Stone a jar. “Not a very fancy glass for an American.”
“This is how we drink our moonshine back home.” Stone took a good gulp and, as expected, felt the burning slide down his throat. “Nice and mild.”
Bull grunted.
“If you knew where that plane was headed, would you tell me?”
“I wouldn’t tell you.”
Therefore, Bull would tell Dirk, not me the Yank. “Would Van Wartt tell me?”
“Dawie van Wartt doesn’t talk to your kind.” Bull leaned his elbows on his knees. “Dawie is happy to be rid of the whole mess.”
“Did you hear Abdul Wahab mention where Asuty was headed?”
“Wahab. Now there’s a slippery devil. I don’t think you’d have a problem getting the information from him. For the right price.”
There it was again. The black-and-white image of Abdul Wahab as an adversary fogged. Stone took another drink and let the alcohol seep down into his body, dulling the pain.
Bull said as he got up, “Guess you have to ask Nabeel Asuty where the bomb is.”
“When I meet Asuty again, a conversation is not on the agenda.”
The next day, Stone waited on the side of the red-dirt runway, taking in the sweet liquid of an African morning. Sandra’s phone buzzed. From the speaker Stone heard a familiar voice he hadn’t expected — Jacob, his Mossad friend. Minutes later a large helicopter made a wide sweep around the airfield. The three miniature motorcycles and the equipment that Asuty’s jihadists hadn’t pilfered were staged for loading. As if not to have guilty knowledge, Stone turned away when Lange handed one of the Browning rifles to Bull. A token of appreciation from Lange for saving their lives.
Stone watched Bull’s nephew, Corneliu, whisper to his uncle. Bull came up to Stone. “My nephew says the same copter landed here some days ago. People who were in it got out and inspected the boxcar.”
The helicopter landed, blowing dust and gravel over everyone. Stone watched Jacob hop out the door. He wasn’t smiling.
Over the noise of the rotors winding down, Jacob yelled, “You fucked up, Stone. Big time.”
“Any idea where the jihadists are?” Stone asked.
Jacob now had a coughing spell and motioned for them to move away from swirling dust. Given his cough, Stone was surprised to see that Jacob looked healthier than the last time they had met.
“They were heading north,” Jacob said. “I suspect toward Libya.”
“They’d have to stop for fuel a couple of times,” Stone said. “Probably near Luanda, Angola first.”
The pilot cut the engines and dust sank silently around them. Stone had a few questions for Jacob — first, what Frederick was up to.
“He’s in Windhoek with the two planes. He’s waiting to get a fix on the C-119 carrying the bomb,” Jacob said. “Your satellites lost contact with it.”
Stone thought a moment. “My guess is Asuty brought in a nuclear engineer, and he discovered the bomb was leaking radiation. Somehow they masked or patched the bomb, or whatever those nuclear people do. Our satellites probably can’t detect any emission signatures.” He watched the miniature motorcycles being loaded aboard the helicopter. “Where are we going?”