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  “But—”

  “No buts,” he said and shoved Moolman’s chair back, almost pushing him over.

  There was a soft rap on the door. “In,” Neil called.

  Alexa ambled inside then softly closed the door behind her. She leaned back against the door, studying both men silently, a faint smile on her lips. She walked up to Moolman, brushing the side of his face lightly with the back of her hand. “Sorry about your nose,” she said, sounding like she meant it.

  Moolman rubbed the side of his nose then pulled a tissue from his nostril and tossed it in the trash. “That’s OK.”

  Alexa leaned over him the same way Neil had a couple of seconds earlier. The man flinched.

  “No, it’s not OK. I went over the top.”

  “OK, lady. I accept your apology,” Moolman said, cowering back in his chair.

  “I’m not apologizing. I’m simply saying that I went over the top. But can I ask you a favor, Inspector?” Alexa asked, leaning even closer until their noses almost touched.

  Moolman put his thumb in his collar and pulled his shirt from his neck, unable to pull his eyes away from hers. “Why, certainly.”

  “Please do not interfere the next time I interrogate a suspect.”

  Moolman swallowed then nodded. “No problem.”

  Alexa smiled, gave him a peck on the cheek, then stood up straight. “Glad that’s sorted out.” She turned to Neil, tucking her bangs behind an ear. “Now, what did the suspect tell you when I left?” she asked, sliding a chair toward the table.

  “What did he tell us?” Moolman asked, surprise on his face.

  “Yes,” Alexa said. “I assume you played the good cop?”

  “I did,” Neil said. “Moolman was temporarily, let’s say, debilitated.”

  She nodded and bit her lower lip. Shit, she was beautiful. Serene. The calm after the storm.

  Neil chuckled. “I couldn’t stop the guy from talking even if I wanted to.” He handed her a sheet of paper. “A transcript from the recording.”

  Alexa scanned the page then looked up with a sweet smile. “Summarize it, Sergeant.”

  Moolman had recovered and was sitting up straight in his chair, seemingly interested in what Neil had to say.

  “The guy works for PEP as a security guard.”

  “What else?”

  “His name is Andy Peterson.”

  “Shit, Neil, don’t let me get over there and beat it out of you.”

  Neil smiled. “OK, OK. He was supposed to guard the pipeline that led from the PEP fracking site up to Mueller’s Dam. Some people had been sabotaging the water pipes.”

  Alexa frowned. “Why would they sabotage the pipes?”

  Moolman cleared his throat. “Many people are not in favor of PEP exploring for gas. Damage to the environment, toxins in the water, you know, that kind of greeny beany stuff.” He sat up in his chair, looking a tad more comfortable now. “Also, they hold many patents on the drilling technologies used. PEP is afraid of industrial espionage; it has happened that someone broke in before.”

  “What happened?” Alexa asked.

  “Someone managed to get into the plant and almost had access to the computer network, but the security guards caught him before he could get any information.”

  Neil nodded. “Take a wild guess who Peterson’s boss is.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Dr. Hannes Petzer.”

  Alexa turned to Moolman. “Jake’s father?”

  “I think so.” Moolman punched a number into his phone. “Let’s find out.”

  A short, animated discussion ensued, and Moolman pressed the disconnect button a minute later. “Well, he sounds pissed off.”

  Neil stood up. “Why? They shot first. We could arrest him for obstruction of justice.”

  Moolman shrugged. “Well, he’s on his way. I guess we’ll tell that to him personally.”

  Hannes Petzer arrived half an hour later and marched into Moolman’s office. “Where is he?” he asked without greeting.

  Alexa stood up. “You mean Andy Peterson?”

  “Yes, where’s he?”

  “Locked up. He tried to shoot us,” Alexa said.

  “Bullshit,” Hannes roared. “They were provoked. As they always are. It’s high time the riffraff in these damn villages were taught a lesson,” he said then pursed his lips.

  Alexa walked up to him. “You ordered them to shoot at the ‘riffraff,’ Doctor?”

  “Yes, but . . .” he stammered, then stomped the floor with his foot. “My men were provoked.”

  Alexa stuck a finger in Petzer’s face. “They followed us. They rammed into our vehicle. They fired the first shots.”

  Petzer’s jaw clenched together. “They wouldn’t have, that would be disobeying orders.” He looked around the room. “Where are the other men?”

  “Dead.”

  Alexa noticed Hannes Petzer’s eyebrows raise slightly. He didn’t seem too concerned. “I guess they got what they had coming to them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If they were disobeying my direct orders, and if they truly did take the law into their own hands like you’re claiming, I guess they got what they deserved.”

  Neil stood up. “That is quite a turnaround, Doctor. First you tell them to shoot the riffraff, now they’re dead because they were acting on their own.”

  Petzer shrugged.

  “You gave them orders not to shoot on sight?” Neil asked.

  Petzer nodded. “Like I said, they were not supposed to shoot anyone, only frighten them away.”

  “You sure they understood those orders?”

  Petzer sighed. “Of course.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Look, you’re wasting my time. I’ve posted bail for Andy. He’s free to go.”

  Neil frowned. “How the hell did you did you manage that?”

  Petzer shrugged. “I know someone who knows someone.” He flicked open a page and produced it with a flourish. “Here’s the release paper. Now where is my man?”

  “I thought you were the doctor up at the mine?” Alexa said.

  “I am.”

  “So why’s he calling you his boss?”

  Petzer smirked then turned to face Alexa. “Not that it’s any of your business, Inspector, but I also have an MBA from Harvard. PEP uses me in a strategic managerial capacity as well.”

  Alexa strolled up to Petzer then stabbed a finger in his chest. “It is our business, Doctor. Three men are dead, and your men attacked agents from Interpol. I could arrest you now for obstruction of justice.”

  Petzer winced then rubbed his chest tenderly.

  “But I won’t, not this time. Tell your men to stay out of our way.”

  Petzer grunted, “Whatever,” then walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Alexa looked at Neil, a quizzical expression on her face.

  Neil laughed. “What a nice man.”

  Petzer sat behind the steering wheel of his German sedan, tapping his fingers on the wheel. He had stopped in front of a ten-foot high security gate topped with barbed wire. A signboard bearing PEP’s escutcheon, two springbuck locking horns, was fastened to the gate. Below it a bold sign proclaimed that trespassers would be prosecuted. The “prosecuted” was scratched out with a felt-tip pen and the word “shot” was written above it.

  Petzer opened a window and lit a cigarette. He needed a couple of moments to process the information. A warm, dry breeze drifted into the car. It smelled like stale dust. The vast, rocky Karoo landscape stretched for miles around them.

  First they attack the patrol boat, and now this. The guards were getting out of control, buoyed by their sense of self-importance, by the assurances that they could do what they wanted without fear of recrimination. Sure, everyone was afraid that if the competition learned their secrets, that would be the death knell to their work, but the men were attracting the wrong kind of attention.

  Peterson sat on the backseat looking terrified. Petzer glanced at
his rearview mirror. The man was catatonic; he hadn’t said a word since he had been released from jail. Usually he never shut up. He probably knew what was coming.

  “What did you tell them?” Petzer asked, blowing smoke from his nostrils.

  The man stammered. “What you told me to say if we got caught, Doc.”

  “That’s all?”

  “I told them my name, I said we were working for PEP, patrolling the water pipes.”

  “Why did you shoot at them, Peterson? You people are acting like it’s the damn Wild West out here, shooting at Interpol agents and lobbing grenades into patrol boats.”

  “They were acting suspicious, boss. They stopped at the line then got out of their vehicles. They were armed, the same way the previous crowd was.”

  Petzer let out an exasperated sigh. “The ‘previous crowd,’ as you so aptly call them, were bunny huggers and local farmers. They had posters, for God’s sake.”

  Andy nodded vigorously. “That’s why we thought these guys were the real deal. Spies. They pointed their weapons at us, no questions asked.”

  “They said you slammed into their car.”

  “We had no choice, boss, we didn’t want them to escape.”

  Petzer shook his head. “You guys take this job much too seriously.”

  Andy snorted. “That’s not what the Boss says. He says we suck at this job.”

  Petzer clicked a button on his remote then drove through the gate. He waited until it slid closed behind the vehicle then he turned around to face Andy. “That’s what the Boss tells me as well,” Petzer said with a smirk. He flicked open his glove box and pulled out a pistol. The shot reverberated through the vehicle as he shot Andy between the eyes. “And I don’t want him to think that I do too.”

  “OK, thanks, Neil,” Bruce said and disconnected the call. He massaged the back of his neck then sat down and put his feet up on the ottoman. Earlier that morning he had received a call from Chief Inspector Dawid Moolman, and the man was fuming. He wanted Alexa off the case.

  Alexa had phoned Bruce last night, detailing what had happened during the interrogation. She was frustrated and wanted to get the prisoner to talk. They were running out of time and could only detain the man for twenty-four hours, and they were getting nothing out of him.

  Alexa felt that a dramatic show of force was the only way to get him to open up. So she played the bad cop. She admitted that she had gone overboard a bit, but they got all the info they needed from the man, and Bruce felt that Alexa had done the right thing.

  Sometimes extreme measures were needed. They didn’t have time to play around when lives were at stake; Interpol wasn’t a place for sissies. He only wished that more of his agents would approach their obligations with the same intent.

  He chuckled. Unfortunately, Moolman got caught in the middle.

  He phoned Neil to confirm Alexa’s story, and what he told Bruce corroborated what Alexa had told him. She usually put things mildly. “Frustrated” to her meant “pissed off and ready to blow.”

  He needed to resolve the situation between Alexa and Moolman amicably. He was sure as hell not going to take Alexa off the case, and up to this point in the investigation, Moolman had done nothing to engender any form of faith in his ability to solve this case.

  Nope, Alexa was getting things done, as she always did. But he needed Moolman’s knowledge of the locals; he knew a lot of people.

  He sat up and made the calls. Alexa, Neil, and Moolman were to take the weekend off. Together. Bruce would be the mediator. Hopefully it would smooth things over and calm frayed nerves. Moolman protested. Alexa didn’t argue. Neil laughed so loud Bruce had to hold the phone away from his ear.

  Bruce stood up and packed an overnight bag and threw it over his shoulder. It was going to be an interesting weekend.

  It was an eventful day. Bruce collected Alexa and Neil at their hotel and drove with them to Stellenbosch, a university town in the Cape Winelands. Moolman would meet them at Spier, a well-known vineyard catering to overseas tourists. Greetings between Moolman and Alexa were civil, and Bruce was glad that the man was mature enough not to mention the incident or stay sour.

  They did what all tourists to the Cape Winelands did—they drove the majestic wine route and visited the vineyards. They tasted some of South Africa’s best wines and bought too many cases to take home with them. Later that afternoon they became hungry, and Bruce decided to take them to a vineyard that Laiveaux had recommended.

  So at four o’clock in the afternoon they finally ended up at Sterlig Farm, a Dutch name meaning “starlight.” It had a renowned eatery serving French cuisine. They were all quite tipsy, and Moolman seemed rather drunk, having not shirked his duties of imbibing on the abundant amounts of free wine.

  And then the fun started. They walked through the foyer, laughing and joking. The receptionist pointed them to the restaurant. They sat in the lovely gardens underneath huge oak trees, surrounded by vineyards and chattering birds. Moolman saw someone he knew, excused himself, and waddled over to another table.

  “Let’s go for a swim,” Bruce said, pulling off his shirt. He wrapped a towel around his waist, peeled off his pants and pulled on his swimming trunks.

  Neil did the same, but Alexa decided to join them next to the pool and bake in the afternoon sun.

  Bruce and Neil dove in, splashing and fooling around. The day had been a great success; it seemed like relations had been mended again and bonds strengthened.

  Moolman was sitting at a table close to the pool, talking to a black guy in a suit. Two ogres with dark suits, dark glasses, and wires behind their ears stood next to the table, their hands folded in front of them.

  Neil swam toward Bruce. “It was good of you to spend some time with us, especially Alexa. She needed this,” he said.

  Bruce liked Neil; he was a good kid. He had a good sense of humor and he loved to tease.

  Bruce smiled. “The only reason I brought you along was to increase my chances with the ladies.”

  Neil flexed his pecs. “Yes, I am quite a chick magnet.”

  Bruce laughed and splashed water in Neil’s face. “No man, that’s not what I meant. Having someone as ugly as you with me makes me look a lot more attractive.”

  Neil guffawed. “At least I’m not old.”

  “At least I’m not ugly.”

  “At least I can dress nicely. Tomorrow you’ll still be old.”

  Bruce grabbed Neil around the neck then dunked him, but Neil pulled him down and swam with him to the deeper end of the pool then lifted Bruce up and tossed him into the air. The water splashed and waves sloshed over the edge of the pool.

  Bruce waded to Neil, shaking the water from his hair, preparing himself for a grappling contest. “Hey, Chuck Norris, you’re not supposed to do that to an older man.”

  “Call me ugly, but please don’t call me Chuck Norris,” Neil laughed then jumped toward Bruce.

  “Hey, you two!” a shrill voice shouted from the side of the pool.

  The black guy that Moolman had been talking to now stood at the edge of the pool, waving an angry finger at them. “You splashed me.” He was short and his jacket was too big for him.

  Bruce waved an apology then turned to face Neil, but the guy didn’t go away.

  “Get out right now!” he shouted, stomping his feet. Moolman stood next to the guy, his hands in his pockets, swaying slightly from side to side. He had an amused expression on his face.

  “Hey man, no need to raise the roof, I said I’m sorry,” Bruce said.

  “Do you know who I am?” the pip-squeak shouted.

  Bruce glanced at Neil. “Chucky Norris?” Neil asked with a giggle.

  They both burst out laughing.

  Two big guys flanked the pip-squeak. “Get out and apologize to Minister Dlamini,” the one guy said in a booming voice. He opened the side of his jacket to reveal a holstered weapon.

  Bruce waded to the side of the pool and climbed out, Neil following him. The g
uards stood back as the water splashed on the ground. “Sorry, I didn’t get your name,” Neil said, holding out a dripping hand.

  The guy scrunched his nose, like Neil had a nasty smell about him. “I am Minister Patrice Dlamini, minister in the presidency and our president’s right-hand man,” he said in an officious tone.

  “Well, pleased to make your acquaintance,” Bruce said. “By the way, we knew you weren’t Chuck Norris,” he said, and they burst out laughing again.

  “Are you deaf?” he asked them. “Did you hear who I am?”

  Had this guy’s voice even broken? He sounded like a castrato on estrogen.

  “Pip-squeak Dlamini,” Neil said, chuckling.

  Bruce tried to hold it in, but then he burst out laughing. He felt the buzz in his head. Dammit, the wine wasn’t helping at all.

  He saw Alexa stand up and saunter over. Nothing like a bit of female charm to take the edge off some over-boiling testosterone levels. Or estrogen, Bruce wasn’t awfully sure.

  “Now, now, boys, calm down and play nicely,” she said as she stood next to Bruce.

  “Who’s your boy?” Dlamini said.

  Alexa held up her hands defensively. “That’s not what I meant, I was only saying—”

  He looked back toward his entourage then continued in a condescending tone. “Obviously these beach bums do not know who I am,” he told Moolman.

  One of the guards sniggered.

  Moolman shrugged then swayed some more, his eyelids droopy. He said something unintelligible.

  Dlamini stood in front of Bruce, looking up, his hands on his hips. “Now what are we going to do to resolve this matter?” he asked with a derisive smile.

  Bruce shrugged. “I don’t know, you tell me, Chucky.”

  Alexa yanked his arm and Neil bellowed. “Chucky?”

  The guy stepped back and swung a right at Bruce’s face. He didn’t reach. He was hysterical. “Who is Chucky?” He swung again. Bruce caught his hand this time.

  “You are, little man.”

  “Dad, stop,” Alexa said and pulled the man’s hand free.