OUTCAST Ops: African Firestorm

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Capetown's Atlantic seaboard boasted some of the most expensive real estate in the city, and Camps Bay was a prime example. Sandwiched between Table Mountain and the ocean, the area was characterized by large houses on small, mostly walled plots of land on narrow streets.

Naomi frowned as she stared out the window. "I guess I was expecting something a little more… "

"More what?" Stephen asked from behind the wheel, driving slowly.

"More like home. Large estates with mansions."

"Well, it’s all about location, location, location." Stephen motioned to a grayish, two-story house that was all angles, concrete and glass that took up the entire lot. "We're here."

They parked in the driveway and got out.

"Nice place," Naomi said.

"Well, Nigel's always had a taste for nice things," Stephen said. "He grew up in an affluent family, went to all the best schools."

They walked to the front entrance and knocked. After a minute, the door opened and a tall, muscular African in a white shirt and pants stood there.

"Yes?" he asked in a deep voice.

"We're here to see Mr. Ashcroft," Stephen said. "Is he here?"

"Who is calling?" At second glance, the man had flecks of gray in his hair as well as faint crow's feet in the corner of his eyes, but he still looked a man not to get into a fight with.

"Who is that, Mandlenkosi?" a clipped voice with a British accent called out from behind the African.

"Visitors, sir," Mandlenkosi replied.

"And what are they selling?"

"Nigel!" Stephen called out. "We need your help!"

"The voice sounds familiar but— Wait, Stephen, Stephen Shah?"

"Yes, and I need to talk to you!"

"Mandlenkosi, let them in. Let them in!" Ashcroft's voice brimmed with excitement. "Go ask Busisiwe for tea and those some of those freshly-baked biscuits."

The African smiled at Stephen and Naomi and stepped back, motioning them to come in. They stepped into a foyer that was white with a few African accents, such as dark wooden statues on tall narrow tables, and a Zulu cowhide shield with a pair of short, stabbing spears on one wall. Stairs to the right ran up to a balcony overlooking the foyer.

A slim, neat man with gray head of closely cropped hair and a short Van Dyke strode toward them, a wide smile revealing even, white teeth. He was dressed like Mandlenkosi in white, accentuating his deep tan.

"Stephen, my boy!" he began excitedly. "It's good to see you! It's been what, four years? We haven't seen each other since that little incident with those Stinger missiles and that Russian arms merchant in Morocco!" He took Stephen's hand and pumped it vigorously.

Naomi noticed that the servant had closed the front door, disappearing from the foyer.

"Good to see you, Nigel," Stephen returned pleasantly.

Ashcroft looked at Naomi and his smiled widened. "And who is this enchanting Nubian Princess?"

Naomi cocked an eyebrow, then smiled. "Naomi Washington. You must be Nigel Ashcroft."

Ashcroft took Naomi's hand and kissed the back of it. "Guilty as charged," he said cheerfully.

"Nigel used to be with the British Secret Service until he retired."

Ashcroft shrugged. "Well, semi-retired. I still keep my hand in the game, much to London's displeasure. That and the novels I write."

"You write novels?" Naomi asked.

"Ever hear of Julian Steelwight, International Secret Agent?"

"You write those?"

The Englishman shrugged. "Of course, they're all rubbish, unrealistic, and have absolutely no relationship to real espionage, but I make five times as much off of them then I do from my government pension." He motioned toward the back of the house.

"Come, let's adjoin to the living room. I have a spectacular ocean view."

He led then to a wide, oval-shaped room, with the outside wall composed of tinted glass, revealing the promised view that was only slightly marred by the busy highway just a few feet from the windows. Ashcroft waved Naomi and Stephen to a couch and took an overstuffed chair for himself. He leaned back, still smiling.

"Now, what can I do for the Tea and Biscuit Company?"

Naomi blinked at him. "Excuse me?"

"He means the CIA." Stephen shook his head. "I'm not with them anymore. I'm working for a private contractor these days."

"Oh?" Ashcroft's eyes narrowed. "And what sort of private contractor needs someone of your skills and abilities?"

"One that needs to operate outside normal channels. And we're doing red, white and blue work."

"I see." Ashcroft steepled his fingers. "So what does your Uncle need from this magnificent land?"

"It involves SeaStar Ventures and one of their ships that's been captured by Somali pirates."

Stephen gave his host a brief outline of the last twelve hours. Ashcroft listened, not moving or saying anything. After Stephen was done, Ashcroft nodded, just as Mandlenkosi entered, carrying a try with tea and biscuits. He placed it on a table next to his employer, bowed and left.

Naomi watched him leave, then looked at Ashcroft. "Can your staff be trusted?"

Ashcroft smiled. "Mandlenkosi was the first agent I recruited when I arrived here in South Africa. I ran him for nearly twenty years. I introduced him to the woman who became his wife, Busisiwe. I'm the godfather to all three of their children, and made sure all three graduated from college. One's a medical doctor, one's a lawyer, and the third is a member of the National Assembly. When London decided they didn't need him anymore, I took him and his wife on. They're more my friends than staff."

He picked up the teapot and poured the steaming contents into three teacups. "We have sugar and cream, and the biscuits will melt in your mouth."

Once they were settled back in their seats, Ashcroft sipped his beverage and said, "You mentioned that one of the office attackers spoke English, Afrikaner, and Arabic?"

"Yes," Stephen answered. "We also found cards for a mosque and an Islamic center on several of the bodies." He took a clear plastic baggie from his pocket and handed it to Ashcroft.

The retired agent studied them for a few moments. "I thought so," he muttered, handing them back to Stephen.

"What?" Naomi asked.

"A strong suspicion. Do you have anything else?"

"Just the words 'Die Handelaar'" Stephen replied.

Ashcroft grinned. "'The merchant'? Yes, I know who fits that description. Mandlenkosi!"

The African appeared again, so quickly that he could not have been far away. "Yes, sir?"

"Go up to my office, access the black files, and pull the folder for Kamal Hassan."

"Yes sir." The African left the room once again.

"Kamal Hassan?" Naomi asked.

The retired spy nodded. "The files have all the details, but Kamal Hassan is a businessman with connections across Africa. He was born in Syria, got out one step ahead of Assad's blood-work team, and made it to South Africa and became a naturalized citizen about ten years ago. Officially, he dabbles in a little bit of everything, a friend to everyone, has established himself in the Muslim community, and is considered a success story."

"Unofficially?"

"Unofficially, Kamal Hassan is probably the biggest criminal in the Western Cape. Drugs, weapons, prostitution, and lord knows what else. Those business cards you showed me are fronts for several of Hassan's 'legal' businesses. He has eyes and ears everywhere."

"Has anyone built a case against him?" Stephen asked.

Ashcroft shook his head. "He has enough senior officials in his pockets at any given time that no investigation ever gets started." He took a sip of tea, then continued. "In addition to being a crime lord, Hassan also has ties to different Islamic terrorist groups, including ISIS and the ICA."

"ICA?" Stephen asked.

"Islamic Caliphate Army. It acts as a special force of sorts for ISIS, mostly staffed by people with military backgrounds or experience. Ruthless, competent, and a nasty bunch of arseholes."

"You think Hassan might be involved with the ship's hijacking?"

"It's possible. Hassan has a profitable smuggling business with all sorts of unsavory clients, including Iran, North Korea, Burma, and Pakistan. He doesn't have any ships of his own, so it stands to reason that he has connections with shipping companies."

Naomi stood and put her teacup down. "I'm going to call this in to Dani. She can start tracking down all she can on Hassan."

"You're not liable to find much," Ashcroft warned. "Hassan is a bit paranoid when it comes to computers, so I doubt he has an electronic bread crumb tail for you to follow."

"Won't know until we try," Naomi countered. "Be right back."

When she returned several minutes later, she found Ashcroft telling Stephen about an assignment involving a French pole dancer, three million dollars’ worth of diamonds, and several murderous Egyptians who wanted the stones. The story got wilder with each passing second, climaxing in a race across the roofs of Cairo with the Egyptians in hot pursuit. Finally, with the pole dancer saved, the diamonds retrieved and the Egyptians dead or in prison, Ashcroft explained how he had to fit all that into the report using bureaucratic double-speak. All three of them were left chuckling.

"I talked to Dani," Naomi said, settling down again. "Hassan's name was mentioned by another of our contacts, so it might be a good lead."

Just them Mandlenkosi returned, carrying a file folder and looking concerned. Ashcroft's smile faded. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Someone has the front of the house under surveillance.”

Ashcroft rose. "Where?"

"Across the street, two houses up, on Sedgmore. Blue 2005 BMW X3, two occupants. Hood's up and they're faking car trouble."

"Let's go take a look, if you'll follow me?"

Lead by Ashcroft, all four took the stairs to the second floor and made a right into a large office. The room was mostly dark, with only a small amount of light penetrating through the slats of the floor-to-ceiling Plantation shutters that occupied a quarter of the wall space.

"Stay by the door," Ashcroft directed, then went over to his desk, opened a drawer and took out a pair of binoculars. He moved toward the half-opened shutters, but stopped a couple of feet away and stared out. After a few seconds, he said, "Yes, looks like someone is interested in our happy little home. Stephen, Miss Washington — please come over here and take a look."

They both came over and looked through the binoculars, Naomi going first. The car was right where Mandlenkosi said it was, on a side street just across from Ashcroft's house, with the hood up and one person twiddling with the engine. However, he kept glancing toward the Ashcroft house, too many times for it to be natural.

"Definitely surveillance," Stephen said, handing the binoculars back to Ashcroft. "But on who, us or Nigel?"

"They were not there earlier," Mandlenkosi confirmed.

"I made sure we weren't followed," Stephen said.

Ashcroft raised the binoculars and stared at the car. "They're probably watching me," he said. "I've been used more than once by the South African government on counter-terrorist matters. I think you might be an accident."

"We can't afford to be followed," Stephen said.

"Mandlenkosi," Ashcroft said slowly. "Do you happen to know if the Watt boys are home? I think school's out of session right now."

"Not off the top of my head, but I can find out."

"Please do so." Mandlenkosi nodded and left the office once more.

"Who are the Watt Brothers?" Naomi asked.

"A couple of nice boys. If their home, they'll help us."

"Help us with what?"

"A diversion, my dear. The Watt boys and their friends are very good at creating mayhem."

Jamil Al-Farooq looked up from the BMW's engine and glanced at the house of the target and the unknown car in the driveway. He had already radioed in the car's license plate, and found out it was a rental. He didn't know where Hassan had gotten the information from, and he didn't care. He wasn't paid to think, but he was making good money and he was encouraged to indulge in his penchant for violence. Right now, his orders were to watch the house and follow whoever got into the rental car.

Jamil straightened up to look at his partner, Ishack Adeel, who was sitting in the passenger seat, reading a newspaper. Jamil couldn't hide the expression of anger. Ishack was pretty much useless and Jamil had no idea why Tamrez had put the two of them together. He reached over and tapped on the passenger's side window. Ishack looked up and rolled down the window.

"What?"

Jamil's hand twitched, fighting the urge to pull his pistol from its shoulder holster and shoot Ishack in the face. "I could use some help!" he growled.

Ishack shrugged. "It's only one house. Shouldn’t take both of us."

A group of young teenage boys came straggling down the street. They stopped and looked at the BMW.

"Kif!" one of them said. "You have a problem with your jammie, mister?"

"Just a small one," Jamil said, trying to sound pleasant.

Suddenly, the other boys clustered around Jamil and started asking questions.

"Is that a BMW?"

"What sort of gas mileage does it get?"

"Was it expensive to buy?"

"Why did you get a blue one?"

"Can we see the engine?"

The boys moved toward the front of the car. Jamil rapped hard on Ishack's window and motioned for him to get out. Ishack shot an ugly glare at Jamil, opened the door and exited. They moved to the front of the car, using their bodies to force the boys away. The boys moved slowly, still peppering the two men with questions about the car, their clothes, and even Jamil's shoes.

They were so intent on shooing the boys away from the car that they didn't see another boy crouched behind the BMW. He held a long tube attached to a can and was spraying the can's contents up the car's tailpipe as fast as possible. After thirty seconds, he finished the can and dropped it into a bag he had slung over one shoulder. He rose and ran to join the others, slapping one of his friends in the back.

"Tag!" he yelled. He continued running down the road, turning left at the intersection. With a shout, the rest of the boys ran after him, any interest in the car suddenly forgotten.

Jamil watched them disappear around the corner, then turned to snarl at Ishack. "You watch the house!"

He got back into the car. Ishack glared at him, but went around the front and began looking at the engine. Jamil glanced at his watch and decided to wait another ten minutes before he and Ishack moved to a different observation location.

A few minutes later, Ishack closed the hood and walked to the passenger-side door. Jamil could see two people, a white man and a black woman, getting into the rental car. Jamil started the engine as Ishack climbed into the passenger seat. The engine caught, idled for a few second, then died. Surprised, Jamil tried starting the car again, but this time, it wouldn't even start. The rental car was making a U-turn in the wide driveway when Jamil tried a third time, then a fourth.

The rental car turned left onto the street and drove out of sight. Several more attempts by Jamil failed to start the car. After fifteen minutes, he admitted defeat and produced his cell phone to report his failure.

The study was Hassan's favorite room in the house. It was where he did most of his business, both legal and illegal. The room’s furnishings were a testament to Hassan's wealth, from the antique desk to the 16th century grandfather's clock, to the finely crafted Iranian rugs. Here, Hassan usually felt powerful and secure.

But the presence of Yasir Ilshu in this sanctuary was robbing Hassan of those feelings. Even Tamrez's normally comforting presence was not easing Hassan's worry. The ICA assassin was sitting in one of the chairs in front of Hassan's desk, looking relaxed almost to the point of boredom, although Hassan knew that was an illusion. Ilshu thought he was as corrupt as the rest of the infidels, and if Ilshu was ordered to kill Hassan, he would do so without hesitation.

At the moment, Hassan was listening to Jamil's terse excuses for failing to follow a rental car that had left a home he was watching. The excuse involved something about a pack of boys and expanding foam being squirted into the tailpipe.

After listening for a bit, Hassan shouted into the phone in Arabic, "I am not interested in your excuses, you stupid camel jockey! Car repair costs are coming out of yours and Ishack's wages, and I will make sure that Tamrez gives you and that sand flea Ishack the worse jobs in the organization for the next six months! Is that understood? Now get the car towed and get back here in less than three hours, or don't bother coming back at all!"

He slammed down the retro-looking phone's handset back into its cradle and leaned back.

"Is there a problem?" Ilshu asked.

"Nothing I cannot take care of," Hassan replied calmly. "When do you leave?"

"Plane leaves in four hours."

"You do as you must, but I definitely do not like not knowing who this new player is."

"It doesn't matter," Ilshu said, dismissing the idea with a wave of his hand. "Aswegen is dead, the records are destroyed. They can't do much of anything."

"Much of anything? They killed nearly a dozen of my best recruits!" Hassan retorted. "It will take me months to recruit enough new blood to replace them!"

Ilshu appraised Hassan coolly. "Perhaps you should focus more on quality instead of quantity. Your men were not sufficiently trained. Most of them shot off full clips with one pull of the trigger. They also had no tactical sense, no idea how to work together. Against unarmed sheep, they did fine, but against wolves like those from last night? It was they who were the sheep and they were slaughtered. Very disappointing."

Hassan felt his face become flush. "This group could become a threat!"

"A threat to you, maybe," Ilshu said. He let his eyes drift around the room. "You have plenty to lose."

Hassan's jaw tightened in anticipation of an acerbic response, but before he could speak, the phone rang. He snatched it up.

"Yes?" He listened for a minute, then said, "Keep a watch on the place. I'm sending help. Good job."

He hung up and looked at Tamrez. "They're staying at the Cape Africa Hotel, rooms 418, 419, and 420. Take some men and eliminate the problem. Take a couple alive if possible, but dead is just as good. Search their rooms and bring back any data that might shed light on who these people are."

Tamrez nodded. "Do you want to use any of the recruits?"

"No. Our men only. We're dealing with professionals and we will treat them as such from this point forward." He looked over at Ilshu as he said the last part of the sentence, then back to Tamrez.

"No mistakes and no mercy."

"Yes sir."

After Tamrez left, Hassan leaned back in his chair and stared at Ilshu. "That should take care of the problem."

Ilshu returned the stare with cold eyes of his own.

"I hope so, but don't be so sure.”