Chapter 16

Wolvenkopft Manor. Ash’s study.

A thousand thoughts flashed through my mind, tumbling over each other like a deck of cards in a shuffle. Most of them were questions — hypotheticals that felt a little too plausible. What if Alan Anderson wasn’t the mastermind everyone believed him to be? What if he was just another pawn, maybe even a willing one, caught in something far more sinister?

The tip-off Anton Smalberger got about the ship and its cargo — everyone assumed it was the usual grotesque trade: trafficked kids destined for the sex trade. But what if that wasn’t the whole truth? What if those boys and girls were being funnelled not into brothels, but into something worse? What if they were being trained — as suicide bombers?

And what if this guy — Nadir Khassoun — was the real spider in the centre of the web? A man using the gangs in Cape Town as his net, Anderson as his courier, and Dubai as the pivot point to push these kids into training camps somewhere in the Middle East. It was a horrifying idea ... but not one I could ignore. And the big question: did Anderson even know? Was he neck-deep, or just another greedy bastard who didn’t bother asking what was really inside his containers?

I glanced at Ash, who was busy tapping through something on his phone.

“What’s the connection between Anderson and this Nadir Khassoun you mentioned?” I asked, keeping my tone level. “How do the mining rights deals factor into this? And where exactly are these concessions located?”

Ash looked up and gave me that sharp, knowing look of his — the kind that made you feel like your questions were two steps behind his answers. “Angola,” he said. “It’s the third-largest producer of diamonds in Africa. Only about forty percent of the diamond-rich territory has been explored, but corruption, human rights violations, and good old-fashioned smuggling have scared off a lot of foreign investment.”

I nodded slowly, letting it sink in.

“That’s where Anderson and Khassoun come in,” Ash continued. “They play the role of saviours. Investors. They grease the right palms, promise infrastructure, jobs, all the buzzwords. But what we’re certain of — well, as certain as we can be without holding the receipts — is that one of the two bankrolls these so-called ventures. In return, the authorities turn a blind eye to the real cargo going out.”

“Human beings, diamonds, and weapons,” I said, the words tasting like acid.

“Exactly. Kids. Young. Malleable. Disposable. Shipped out like livestock and trained for ... well, you know. Weapons to arm the terrorists, and diamonds to bankroll the enterprises.”

“But how do they get their money back? I mean, if they’re spending millions to set this up — someone’s got to be footing the bill.”

Ash exhaled through his nose, like he’d been waiting for me to ask that. “That’s the weird part. We don’t know how they finance it. No paper trail. No wire transfers, no banks, nothing. As far as the records show, the Anderson Shipping Line is just another company fulfilling normal freighter contracts. Regular commercial cargo agreements. But I believe that the funds come from Khassoun’s charity network. People donate to a worthy cause, not knowing what they donate for. They read about a little war somewhere that is not worth a sideline in your newspapers, while contemplating their next Tax-deductible donation. Not knowing, or even caring where the funds end up. The diamonds going out somehow finance the operations. But how we don’t know.”

“But that means someone’s paying for the shipment. Someone’s signing off on it.”

“True,” he said. “But every time we get close to that ‘someone’, the trail goes cold. Names change, companies dissolve, addresses vanish. Smoke and mirrors. What is one or two ‘free’ containers in a ship full of 10000 to 12000 containers?”

“Average capacity of a normal container ship is 15000 units. There are ships that can take up to 24000 units of the 20-foot-long containers. Less if it is the 40-foot containers, or a mixed load.” I replied.

“There you go. You could give two or three containers a free ride and still make a profit on the full load,” Ash remarked. “Look here in this book. It shows the container capacity of each class of ship. The ‘Ever Ace’ and the ‘Ever Alot’ are part of a class of ships known as very large container ships or ultra large container vessels, ships so large they can barely pass through the locks of the Panama Canal. Anderson’s ship is an entry level VLCs at 11000 to 15000 units.”

I thought back to the container that was intercepted the other night aboard the ASL Ocean Star. It had caused quite a stir, especially once they found the ventilation system connected to it.

“I get your point. But tell me, who was listed as the consignee for that specific cargo container?” I asked.

Ash looked at me for a second before answering. “A company in Beirut. Energy Agricultural Solutions.”

I frowned. “And the container was destined for Dubai?”

“Yeah.”

“So what are you saying, Ash?”

“I’m saying that EAS in Beirut was the listed importer. But that doesn’t mean they were going to receive the container. They were just the agents on the paperwork. Anderson Shipping Line was the courier. Beyond that ... the trail goes murky. It is common practice that a Shipping Agent is based in one country, but move cargo between other ports than their home port.”

I stared at the floor for a moment, piecing it together. “So what you’re not saying is that the container could’ve been emptied along the route. Mozambique, Tanzania, Kenya, Somalia, Yemen — even Oman. Anywhere with a quiet dock and the right handshake.”

“Bingo,” Ash said. “My bet is Somalia, or Yemen. Both are close to the target areas. From there, it’s a short hop to the camps. You know in 2014, Hamas trained over thirteen thousand students from grades ten to twelve in paramilitary skills?”

“Yeah,” I said. “They call it the Pioneers of Liberation program.”

Ash raised an eyebrow. “So, you’re not slacking off on your trade, then?”

I snorted. “Trade? I’m a journalist. I just ... read a lot and know things. And what are you implying with that comment about my ‘so-called trade’?”

Ash smirked. “I’m the head of the FLO. I also know things. Like the fact you spent time at Little Creek in the U.S. Navy’s playground. I know you were trained in hand-to-hand combat, tactical shooting, explosives, diving, underwater demolition, navigation ... need I continue? Oh, and your call sign? ‘Scrooge.’ As in Scrooge McDuck.”

I said nothing. He wasn’t wrong.

Ash leaned back slightly. “Relax, Roy. I’m not here to out you. I just require you to remember that I know who I’m talking to. I know which rules you’re willing to bend.”

“This you, being reassuring?”

“No. Just setting the record straight.”

He stood up, brushing the dust off his jeans. “Anyway. Let’s go see what the wee-men are up to. Can’t leave two minds like that alone for long. Mayhem and world domination will be on the cards before we know it. Besides, one is a red head!”

I let out a long breath and pushed to my feet. “Yeah. Let’s go. We can finish this talk later and really dig into the nitty-gritty.”

Ash gave a short nod and walked ahead. I followed him, the wheels in my mind still turning, the pieces of the puzzle still refusing to fall into place.

But we were getting closer.

And someone — Anderson, Khassoun, or both — was going to slip. They always do. I count on it.

What are Fiona and Angie up to?

When Ash and Roy left, Angie and Fiona settled on the patio bench, their shoulders lightly brushing as they leaned back into the quiet of the evening. The fire in the stone-built barbecue had long since died down, leaving only a soft, pulsing glow of embers that occasionally flared with the faintest crackle — like the fire was reminiscing about its earlier glory.

Above them, the wind whispered gently through the canopy of old oak trees surrounding the manor house. The trees rustled with a soft, dry sound — like silk skirts brushing over stone floors — stirring the brittle brown leaves still clinging to the branches. Marcescence, that curious trait of certain trees holding onto their dead foliage through winter, gave the trees a solemn, stoic character. It was as if they were waiting for permission from spring to let go.

In the Cape Winelands, these oaks weren’t indigenous, but they were as much a part of the landscape as the vineyards themselves — stitched into the scenery like familiar old friends. Wherever you found a wine estate, you’d find oak trees standing guard, and somewhere nearby, a whitewashed Cape Dutch gabled house with thick walls and green-shuttered windows would be basking in the timelessness of it all.

But here in Cape Town it is not uncommon to find that some oak trees DO shed their leaves during the rainy winter season, and these magnificent trees will stand with naked branches reaching for the sky. And on the surrounding ground, you will find a carpet of brown leaves covering the landscape.

“Your oak trees are beautiful,” Fiona said softly, pulling her cardigan a little tighter around her shoulders.

“Thank you, Fiona.” Angie smiled, her tone as warm as the dying embers. “Some of these trees are over a century old. The ones down in the valley at Groot Constantia are even older. They were planted to protect the vines from the southeaster that comes tearing down like a freight train in summer.”

“Yeah, and Stellenbosch is full of them,” Fiona mused, her eyes scanning the dark outlines of the trees.

“That’s why they call it the Oak City,” Angie chuckled. “Or ‘Eike Stad’ in the original Afrikaans or Dutch.”

“And Pretoria is the Jacaranda City,” Fiona added.

A gentle silence settled over them — companionable, not awkward. The kind of silence where thoughts could breathe.

“You grew up in Namibia, Angie?” Fiona asked, her voice quieter now, more thoughtful.

“Yeah. In Swakopmund,” Angie replied, her gaze fixed somewhere in the glowing ashes. “But I got my degrees here at UCT.”

“Don’t you miss Nam?”

“Sometimes ... But Ash and I go back whenever we can. It’s a part of me I never want to lose, besides not only are mom and dad still there, but we have some business interest there as well.”

Fiona hesitated before asking, “Can I ask you something personal?”

“You can.”

“Did you meet Ash here or in Nam?”

“We met in Namibia,” Angie said, a fond little smile pulling at her lips. “At first, I thought he was intruding on something private — he can come off a bit gruff, you know — but I soon realized he was just doing his job. And he was sincere. It didn’t take long in the desert for me to realize we were cut from the same cloth. He was looking out for me – protecting me – and soon a friendship formed that grew into something good.”

“And you just ... knew?” Fiona asked.

Angie nodded. “Ash is twenty years older than me, but age didn’t matter. The way he looked out for me, especially when things got rough out there in the dunes ... I just knew. I made up my mind — he was the one.”

Fiona exhaled slowly, almost wistfully. “Lucky you.”

Angie turned slightly to study her friend’s profile. “You’re thinking about Roy, aren’t you?”

Fiona gave a reluctant nod. “Yeah...”

Angie’s voice softened. “You can’t go wrong with Roy. He’s as solid as a rock. And you and me — well, we do know our rocks.”

Fiona chuckled, but it was quiet and laced with hesitation. “Yeah, we do ... But I guess I’m just not sure. I don’t know if he feels the same way.”

Fiona glanced down at the embers glowing in the stone barbecue pit. Their soft red light pulsed like the last heartbeat of the fire, fading but still warm. She drew her jacket a little tighter around herself, not so much against the cold, but to steady the strange flutter in her chest. If she said nothing, if she played it safe again — would she be sitting by another fire someday, wondering what might’ve been?

Was this what falling for someone felt like? Not fireworks or grand declarations — but the gentle ache of wanting to be near them, to matter what?

Angie gave her a look, one eyebrow raised. “Are you serious? Fiona, open your eyes. The man is smitten. He watches you like you’re the only person in the room. Always.”

“You think?”

“I know. I’ve seen it today, and it’s not just the way he looks at you. It’s the way he listens when you talk. The way he positions himself near you without even realizing it. That man’s halfway gone already.”

Fiona smiled, but her fingers fiddled with the edge of her sleeve. “Maybe ... It’s just, you know, when you’ve been through a few false starts, it’s hard to tell what’s real.”

Angie reached over and squeezed her hand. “This is real. You’re just scared to take the leap.”

“Maybe,” Fiona murmured. “Perhaps I’m just scared of getting hurt again. Roy’s quiet, steady. I don’t want to misread him.”

“You’re not. Trust me. He’s just being respectful. Careful. He knows you’re worth taking his time with. And you know what else?”

“What?”

Angie grinned mischievously. “It’s winter, Fiona. Nobody wants to be alone in winter. Remember, life is a journey, not a destination. Make the most of it!”

Fiona was about to reply when Angie leaned closer, her voice low and conspiratorial. “One room or two?”

Fiona felt the heat rise to her cheeks. She laughed, a soft and slightly embarrassed sound. “It’s winter,” she repeated, brushing her hair behind her ear. “But two rooms will do.”

And inwardly Fiona thought: “What if I don’t try? What if I never find out?”

“Okay girl,” Angie grinned. “Take your time.”

And just as Fiona was about to recover her composure, the sound of footsteps crunching over the gravel announced the return of the men. The moment between the two women folded itself up and tucked neatly away like a secret, but it lingered — like the scent of wood smoke in their hair and the warmth of the embers still glowing behind them.

A guest room at Wolvenkopft Manor.

I stood just inside the threshold of the guest room, letting my eyes adjust to the low, amber light spilling from an ornate chandelier overhead. The room smelled faintly of beeswax polish and old linen; a comforting scent that whispered of centuries past. I had to pause, just to take it all in.

The room was high-ceilinged, with heavy exposed beams above — stout, dark wood that looked like it had been hacked out of the mountain itself a few hundred years ago. The thick, whitewashed walls bowed slightly, as if bearing the weight of the years with quiet pride. Outside, the windows showed only blackness now — ink-dark sky and the faint outline of trees shifting in the breeze. The tall, arched sash windows were framed by floor-length velvet curtains in a deep, dusky green, drawn halfway shut. A few lights glimmered down in the Constantia valley, and higher up, the flat silhouette of Wolvenkopft Mountain loomed against the star-strewn sky like the profile of something ancient and watchful.

The bed dominated the far end of the room — an opulent four-poster, carved in rich walnut, with barley-twist columns supporting a canopy draped in gauzy cream fabric. The mattress looked sinfully thick, piled with crisp white linen, downy pillows, and a folded quilt embroidered with wild Cape fynbos in subtle, earthy thread work. At the foot of the bed sat a velvet chaise lounge in a faded claret hue, its shape sinuous and indulgent, as if waiting for someone to drape themselves across it with a brandy in hand.

The furniture was unmistakably Louis XIV — opulent, gilded, and unapologetically French. A tall armoire stood against the left-hand wall, its mirror-panelled doors framed in scrollwork and acanthus leaves, the brass fittings warm with age. A matching writing desk sat nearby, its leather inlay worn smooth, and a porcelain inkwell perched on the edge like it had been expecting a letter from Versailles. Above it, a portrait of a noblewoman in powdered wig and blue satin gown watched the room with distant, unreadable eyes.