The Last Protector(Clayton White #1)(13)

Oxley had way too much to lose to simply stand back and hope this was going to go away by itself. It wasn’t only a question of his having to answer for his crimes—it had everything to do with the promise he had made to his wife.

Three decades after the end of the apartheid, there were still South African children falling into pit latrines due to the lack of ablution facilities. There were still so many who didn’t have access to land, health care, and water. His wife, Adaliya, had been born in South Africa, and her parents, who had immigrated to the United Kingdom to escape the systemic racism of apartheid, had told him about the hard life they’d had to endure in their home country. Adaliya had sworn to him that one day she’d go back and do her part to change things. Seeing how much it meant to her, Oxley had promised her they would do it together.

How could he help Adaliya make South Africa a better place if he was behind bars? There was no one else but him who had the willingness, the guts, the money, and, soon, the contacts to enact the universal changes needed to give all South Africans access to the same opportunities and essential public services. This would be his legacy for his and Adaliya’s five children.

And maybe, just maybe, it would be redemption for the role he had played in CONQUEST.

All he needed was time. Time to clean up his mess off the Arabian Peninsula. In his mind, Oxley swore again. Why the hell had Hammond allowed his daughter to pursue this?

He turned his attention back to Pierre. There was something about the man that made him mistrustful. Was it possible he was an intelligence officer? Certainly not Russian, but maybe French? Swiss? Or, worst, South African? Shipping activities often provoked national security concerns, and perhaps someone was probing around the pending merger.

Then again, it was entirely possible that circumstances had made him paranoid and that Pierre was exactly who he claimed to be.

“And what tells me you won’t walk away from me if one of my competitors offers you more?” Oxley asked.

Pierre cleared his throat. “Mr. Krantz made it abundantly clear it would be a bad idea to do so,” he said.

Oxley smiled. “Did he, now?”

Abelard Krantz. Oxley’s go-to for everything requiring a violent touch.

“Did Mr. Krantz also explain to you what I expect from my employees and associates?” Oxley asked, inserting a corkscrew into the cork of the sauvignon blanc.

Pierre swallowed hard. Tiny beads of perspiration had formed below his hairline and on his upper lip. “Loyalty,” he answered.

Oxley stopped what he was doing and set his eyes on Pierre.

“That’s right, Pierre,” Oxley said, dropping his voice to a menacing softness. “Total and absolute loyalty. Now, let’s see if you’re capable of it.”





CHAPTER EIGHT


The Ritz-Carlton


San Francisco, California

Willem Van Heerden exhaled a stream of gray smoke and watched it dissipate into the evening air. Strategically positioned so he could cover both the hotel’s entrance and the side street, he scanned the area, taking in the faces of the people coming and going in all directions. Except for the white Sprinter van parked in front of an antiques store one block farther east, in which Van Heerden knew the Secret Service had set up its mobile communications unit, nothing unusual had caught his eye during his long walk around the neighborhood. His target’s black SUV was parked under the hotel’s archway on Stockton Street, and the security vehicle, another black SUV, was idling next to the secondary exit on California Street.

Van Heerden glanced at his watch. It was time to go back in. He took one last drag on his cigarette and tossed the butt into a rain puddle. He hurried across the street, avoiding the slow-moving traffic, and entered the hotel lobby, heading directly toward the elevators. To his left, standing ramrod straight only a few steps away from the main doors, a man Van Heerden easily identified as a Secret Service agent was keeping a watchful eye on the comings and goings within the lobby.

It was a different man than the one who had been standing in the same place when Van Heerden had left the hotel one hour ago, but Van Heerden was convinced he was one of the six agents assigned to his target’s protection detail. The coiled earpiece and the American flag pin on his lapel gave him away. Nonetheless, he committed the man’s face to memory. Just to be absolutely sure an additional agent hadn’t joined the initial group, Van Heerden would compare it to the six mug shots his employer had provided him in his mission brief.

Van Heerden took the elevator to the second floor and walked up to the fourth floor, where his room was located. He didn’t believe he was under surveillance or that the American Secret Service had taken notice of him, but old habits died hard. He didn’t want anyone watching the floor location indicator on the ground level to know on which floor he exited.

Coming out of the staircase, he turned to the right, toward his room halfway down the corridor. Van Heerden removed a key card from his pocket, inserted it into the lock, and turned the door handle. He opened the door slowly, looking down at the carpet inside his hotel room. The thin sheet of see-through plastic he had left there hadn’t moved. Satisfied, Van Heerden removed the DO NOT DISTURB sign and locked the door behind him. Next, he checked his carry-on. The four hard-to-see filaments he had fixed on the suitcase were intact. No one had searched his suitcase. Not that anyone would have found anything incriminating or of great value inside, but if the plastic at the door or the filaments had been disturbed, Van Heerden would have postponed or even called off the operation.