Chapter 27

Adrian’s Bungalow, Skukuza, Kruger National Park.

When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.

“Maya Levin ... Maya The Bee...”

The words seemed to hang in the air. For a moment, nobody moved. Outside, the Bushveld continued with its morning routine. Birds called from the trees. Somewhere in the distance a hornbill announced itself with its distinctive croaking call. A vehicle rolled slowly along one of the camp roads. Life went on as normal. Inside the bungalow, however, the world had just tilted sideways.

Every eye turned toward Kait. She remained standing beside the lounge table, coffee mug still in hand. Her gaze wasn’t focused on any of us. It was fixed somewhere far away, as if she were looking through the walls and across years of memories.

Nadia recovered first. “What?” she asked. The single word carried equal parts confusion and disbelief. “You know this Mossad woman?”

Kait lowered her mug slowly. “Yes.”

That was it. No explanation. No hesitation. Just a simple yes. As though she had admitted to knowing a neighbour from down the street. The simplicity of the answer somehow made it worse.

Darya stared at her. “Wait a minute.” She folded her arms. “And how exactly does Kait Fourie—television personality, game ranger, field guide, conservation ambassador, professional thorn-tree magnet—know somebody working as a spy for Mossad?”

Normally that last part would have earned a laugh. Nobody laughed.

Kait remained silent. I could see her weighing options. Calculating. Trying to decide whether to keep the door closed or finally open it.

A knot formed in my stomach. Over the past few weeks there had been moments. Small moments. Things that hadn’t quite made sense. Things I had noticed and then dismissed. The way she occasionally seemed to know things she shouldn’t know.

The ability to read people almost instantly. The way she had handled dangerous situations with a calmness that went beyond simple courage. At the time I had explained it away. Now those memories were lining up in my head like pieces of a puzzle.

“Kait...” I said carefully. My voice sounded strange even to me. “I think you’d better explain yourself.”

She looked at me. For a second I saw something I hadn’t expected. Not fear. Regret. Then she sighed. A long, tired sigh. The kind someone makes when carrying a secret for far too long.

“I know her because...” She stopped. The silence stretched. I could actually hear the coffee machine cooling behind her. Then she finished the sentence. “She’s my handler.”

Nobody reacted. Not immediately. The statement was too absurd for my brain to process. Then Kait delivered the second punch. “I’m working as a field intelligence gatherer for Mossad.”

I sat down. Not because I wanted to. Because my legs suddenly decided they no longer trusted the rest of me. The couch caught me before gravity could complete the job.

Across from me, Nadia blinked twice. Darya simply stared. The room fell completely silent.

Then, unexpectedly, Nadia smiled. A moment later Darya did the same. Not amused smiles. The kind people wear when reality has become so ridiculous that laughter feels like the only sane response.

Nadia shook her head. “And to think I thought you were just a pretty face on television.” She pointed at Kait. “You just blew me completely out of the water.”

Darya let out a low whistle. “Forget out of the water. She just sank the entire fleet.”

Nobody disagreed. I certainly didn’t. I said nothing. I simply stared at Kait. We all did. Trying to process the nuclear device she had casually detonated in the middle of an otherwise peaceful Bushveld morning.

The woman standing in front of us was suddenly both familiar and completely unfamiliar. She was still Kait. Still the woman who laughed too loudly at bad jokes. Still the woman who could identify birds by sound alone. Still the woman who somehow attracted trouble the way a magnet attracts steel filings.

Yet she wasn’t. Not entirely. Because sitting alongside all of that was a truth none of us had expected. Kait Fourie wasn’t simply a television personality. She wasn’t simply a guide. She wasn’t simply a conservationist. She was an intelligence asset. A spy.

And judging by how casually she had admitted it, not a particularly inexperienced one.

The realisation settled over the room like a heavy fog. Kait looked at each of us in turn. Perhaps she saw the shock. Perhaps she saw the dozens of questions already forming. Whatever she saw made her smile faintly.

“I think I’d better get us all fresh coffee.”

Nobody argued. She set down her mug and walked toward the kitchenette.

“And while I’m doing that,” she continued, “I’ll explain everything.”

The coffee machine sputtered to life. The familiar aroma of fresh coffee soon began filling the room. It felt strangely normal. Almost absurdly normal considering what had just happened.

“Make mine with a spot of vodka in it,” Nadia muttered.

“Likewise,” Darya sighed. I couldn’t blame them.

As I watched Kait moving around the kitchenette, measuring coffee and filling mugs as if she hadn’t just revealed herself to be connected to one of the world’s most effective intelligence services, a hundred memories suddenly resurfaced. And one by one they began fitting together.

The unexplained knowledge. The contacts. The timing. The instincts. The secrets. All those little doubts I’d quietly buried over the weeks. All those questions I never quite found answers for. Every one of them was suddenly falling into place. And what unsettled me most wasn’t that the answers existed. It was that Kait looked completely at ease now that the secret was finally out. As though the burden had shifted from her shoulders and landed squarely on ours.

I had spent weeks believing I knew exactly who Kait Fourie was. Sitting there with the smell of fresh coffee filling the bungalow, I realised I had only known part of the story.

A few minutes later, Kait returned carrying a tray laden with fresh coffee mugs.

Under normal circumstances, I would probably have smiled at the sight.

Even after revealing herself as a Mossad intelligence asset, she still moved with that same effortless professionalism she brought to everything she did.

Old habits. Years of television work. Years of hospitality and tourism training.

She collected the empty mugs from the right side of each person with practised efficiency before placing fresh mugs before us from the left.

The movement was almost automatic. Precise. Elegant. The kind of thing most people never noticed. I noticed it because I couldn’t stop looking at her. Couldn’t stop trying to reconcile the woman I’d fallen in love with against the stranger who now sat before me.

The aroma of fresh coffee filled the bungalow. Nobody touched their cups immediately. The mood had changed too much for that.

Kait finally took her own mug and joined us around the lounge coffee table. She lowered herself carefully into the seat beside me. Close enough for me to feel her presence. Far enough away to feel like a thousand kilometres.

For several moments she stared into her coffee. Gathering her thoughts. Then she spoke. “It all began when I was still at university completing my Master’s degree.”

Her voice had become calmer now. Measured. Almost detached. The voice of somebody recounting events rather than reliving them.

“We had one of those recruitment events where major companies came to scout graduating students.” She smiled faintly.

“The usual promises. Career opportunities. Leadership development. International placements. The future wrapped up in shiny brochures.” Nobody interrupted.

“I’d just completed a presentation regarding my research methodology.” She took a sip of coffee.

“When it was over, I was approached by a woman.”

“What kind of woman?” Nadia asked.

Kait’s eyes drifted toward the window as if she were seeing the memory unfold.

“About thirty. Maybe a little older. Red hair. Casual clothing. Nothing remarkable about her.” She laughed softly. “Which was probably the remarkable thing.”

Nadia nodded knowingly. “Professionals rarely look professional.”

“Exactly.” Kait set down her mug.

“She started asking questions about my research. Not the actual subject matter. The process.”

That immediately caught my attention. “The process? Why did that matter?” I asked.

“How I approached information. How I identified patterns. How I verified conclusions. How I dealt with incomplete data.”