Andrew Britton - The American

They arrived in Cape Town at three in the afternoon after traveling almost 8,000 miles, the sun sweltering overhead as Ryan drove their white Nissan X-Trail deep into the heart of the city. Naomi sat in the passenger seat, a large map spread out across her lap as she navigated the way west on the Strand toward the waterfront. Judging from the expression on her face, Ryan knew she was occupied by more than the directions she was giving.

“Come on,” he finally said. “You’re driving me crazy with that look. What are you thinking about?”

She turned in the seat, the concern obvious in her face. “I’m worried about how we’re going to handle Gray. I mean, don’t you think we’re just a bit shorthanded here?”

Ryan shrugged, his attention focused on the road ahead. “He owns one of the largest shipping companies in the country, so he’s obviously an intelligent man. We’ll try to reason with him. I highly doubt he wants to face extradition; it’s a tough sell, but I’m sure the State Department will make the request if Brenneman makes a point of it. I don’t see the South Africans trying to get in the way, do you?”

“I guess not,” she said. “What if he doesn’t listen to reason? Turn here.”

Ryan swung the jeep around a corner, swearing under his breath as he narrowly missed sideswiping a smaller vehicle. He was still adjusting to driving on the left side of the road. “I don’t think that far ahead,” he finally replied, turning to give her a small smile.

They were driving slowly down the narrow streets of the Victoria and Albert Waterfront, known to the locals simply as the V amp;A. As one of the Cape’s premier tourist attractions, the streets were lined with expensive stores and their patrons, sunburnt tourists trudging along the sidewalks as they struggled under a common load of cameras, daypacks, and shopping bags. The Waterfront had been restored in the late-1980s, and although many of the buildings had been modernized, some still bore the remnants of Victorian industrial architecture left over from years of British rule. Overall, Naomi thought the effect was quite pleasing as the jeep crested a low hill and the sparkling waters of Table Bay came into view.

“Slow down,” Naomi said. She looked back down at her map. “Take a right here.”

Ryan turned onto the next street. They were moving away from the bustling center of the commercial district and into the industrial area. The change was subtle at first, marked only by the diminishing number of people on the streets. It wasn’t long, though, before towering warehouses of red brick and cracked gray cement completely replaced the exclusive restaurants and boutiques of the commercial sector.

“What are we looking for?” he asked.

She consulted her map once more and nodded slightly toward one of many identical structures. “That,” she said. Parked outside of the warehouse was a silver late-model E class Mercedes.

“Kind of telling, isn’t it?” Ryan said. “There can’t be too many of those around.” He looked for guards secreted in the alleys bordering each side of the warehouse, but none was visible. “Do you see anything?” he asked her.

Naomi shook her head, and Ryan accelerated down the street.

“What do you-”

“Hold on a second, I’m thinking,” he said. Although the street was well behind them now, the shapes and orientations of the buildings were held perfectly in his mind as he thought about what he would need to begin a loose surveillance… It was some time before he realized he still had an audience.

“Sorry, Naomi. What were you saying?”

“It’s not important,” she said. “I’m more interested in what you were just thinking.”

He sighed heavily as they moved back through the streets bordering Table Bay. “I was thinking that it can’t be that simple. For a known arms dealer, he doesn’t seem to take a lot of precautions. That’s not realistic, though; he has to have protection, and that means an unknown number of armed guards inside the warehouse, plus some kind of alarm system. The best way is to hit him in transit, but that would never fly with Harper — we’re supposed to do this without making a lot of noise.”

Naomi didn’t respond for a while, the darkening waters of the bay holding her attention as Ryan drove back into the commercial district, the well-lit storefronts passing by on the right, with an impressive view of the water on the left. She absently watched navigation lights move up and down as a number of ships bobbed on the gentle swells of the Atlantic. “Maybe it is that simple,” she said on reflection.

“What do you mean?”

“Gray beat the government at their own game — he was caught red-handed and still managed to stay out of jail. Now he’s even richer than before. He might just be arrogant enough to think that he’s beyond their reach.”

“It’s a thought,” he said. “But we have to be sure.” His eyes involuntarily moved to Naomi’s throat, and he suppressed a shudder at what might have been. “I think we’ve already taken enough chances.”

She didn’t respond as Ryan pulled their rented Nissan into the Victoria and Albert Hotel’s parking lot. They checked in and opted for a light meal on the patio overlooking the bay. Although both were exhausted, they did not refuse when the waiter brought out a wine list along with the menu.

The meal was excellent, and made all the more so by the sweeping view of the bay below. It seemed as though the water would have gone on forever were it not contained by the fiery red of the sky and the flat tableau of Mount Table held in silhouette against the fading sun.

Conversation was uneasy at first, but after a while Ryan began to overcome his initial distaste for Naomi Kharmai. He knew that it was partly her looks and partly the wine, but he found himself gradually warming to her as the night wore on. When he thought about the smirk on her face outside the Kennedy-Warren, he considered her lightning reflexes in the bar in Norfolk. When he recalled her lack of gratitude, the memory was quickly followed by an image of salt-stained cheeks and a hurried swipe at warm tears in a brightly lit hotel room. Despite the contradictions running through his mind, he couldn’t help but hold her liquid green eyes when they met his across the table.

Long after the meal was done, the waiter brought them a second bottle of Bordeaux. Naomi drank one glass very fast, then savored another. They spoke about the flight over, and their first impressions of the African continent. As the light receded over the warm stones of the patio, they found themselves talking about their early years in the Agency, although Ryan was more interested in her years in general.

“I know it’s impolite to ask,” he said with a boyish grin, “but how old are you, anyway?”

“You don’t have any cards to play,” she responded with a smile of her own. “I already know how old you are.”

“That’s true,” he conceded. “You seem to know a lot.”

“That’s why I’m here instead of my little cubicle at Tyson’s Corner,” she said, her eyebrows arching wickedly. “The director thought one of us should know something.”

He laughed as he lifted the bottle to pour them both another glass.

“And how old is your fiancee?”

“Her age for yours.”

An amused expression came over her face as she set down her glass and considered. “Okay,” she said, “I’ll just have to trust you on this one. I’m twenty-nine. Your turn.”

“Twenty-nine?”

Her smile faltered. “Thirty. But, God, twenty-nine sounds so much younger, doesn’t it?”

He laughed again and held up his end of the bargain. “Katie’s twenty-four. I know that makes me sound bad, but — well, I don’t really have anything to say in my defense. She was my student, which only makes it worse, I guess.”