Butchery And Bindings

Chapter 1-2

That said, I was sad when I found my capacity for taking in the art hit its usual limit after about two intense hours. I’d learned that I couldn’t absorb more outside of that time frame and had long ago decided it was better to leave a museum than to force myself to take in more than I could handle. That wasn’t fair to me or to the artists.

But we still had plenty to do, and when we decided to take in the aerial view of the city, I found myself breathless in an all-new way. A little boy I knew often said he wished he were a bird so he could fly. This view of Cape Town reminded me why. There is something spectacular about seeing a place from a distance, and disconnecting from the sounds and smells helps me to understand the depth of a place’s story.

Much like in Edinburgh, I was swept up in the city’s blend of natural landscapes and the human-built ones melded onto it. I was swept up in the contrast between Table Mountain and the very modern shapes of our hotel as well as the perfect circle of the stadium near the waterfront...but it was the vastness of the ocean beyond the land that took my breath. I wondered, not for the first or last time, how we could know so little about so massive a part of our world.

At the end of the aerial ride, Aaran said, “I think I need to take the night off. Drink, eat, relax. Anyone else?”

Three heads bobbed in enthusiastic agreement, and we headed back to our hotel and the Granary Café, which the concierge assured us was wonderful. He wasn’t wrong, and between the three fruity drinks I had, the amazing gnocchi we shared as an appetizer, and the tastes I had of everyone’s food except Beattie’s because she had salmon, I was stuffed before dessert. But I didn’t let that stop me from ordering a lychee—spelled litchi there—dessert that left me so content I could have gone to sleep right there at the table.

Aaran and Adaire gently guided me to the elevator while Beattie charged the bill to our room, a privilege of which we’d taken full advantage. And we put our beds to good use that night, in more ways than one.

Despite our late night, we were up early for our Robben Island tour. It was going to be a sobering day, we knew, and we wanted to give the island and the people who had lived and died there our full attention. As our tour taught us, the island had been a place of pain and privilege for over four hundred years. For much of that time it was a forced labor, then was used as we knew it: the maximum-security prison where Nelson Mandela spent his sentence for protesting a*******d.

We spent the morning on the island taking tours of the various buildings, including a Muslim shrine, resting on the grounds in between to look out at the ocean around us when we needed a break from the pain that people had survived there. I hoped with all my heart that the prisoners there took solace from that water view, too. If they hadn’t, I had no idea how they’d survived.

By the time our return ferry to the mainland was boarding, I felt exhausted again. Beattie and I decided to wander the city for a while and then meet the guys for dinner at a local bar. The city was buzzing with people going to and from work and tourists in the streets. Beattie had already inquired at the hotel about where we might get a laid-back shopping experience, and the concierge had pointed us to Cape Quarter.

We spent the afternoon buying gifts for the people we loved, including a gorgeous hand-tooled leather wallet for Uncle Fitz. Beattie and I both bought ourselves necklaces in a great minimalist jewelry maker’s shop called A Bird Named Frank. The piece I purchased was called “Seeing Under Water,” and Beattie’s was “Sticks and Stones.” Both were made of gold and so striking in appearance that we put them on immediately.

Strolling the streets in the late afternoon, I found myself as taken by the place as I had imagined I’d be. The problem was that I was so wrapped up in the atmosphere that I became oblivious to everything but my own experience. So oblivious, in fact, that it was only when Beattie leaned over, took my arm, and whispered, “We are being followed,” that I came back to my wits. And I resented that in a big way, let me tell you.

“Are you serious?” I hissed as I tried to smile at the same time. “For how long? By who?”

“Whom,” Beattie corrected. “A man and a woman. They’re a few hundred feet behind us. I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t seen them lingering outside the shops each time we came out of one this afternoon.”

I wanted so badly to turn around and look, but of course that’s the first rule of spy craft: don’t look. So I kept my gaze casual and took in various shop windows as we passed, pulling Beattie over to a clothing store featuring hand-painted scarves that were profoundly lovely but not really my style. We stood a few moments and pointed out our favorites and then began to walk again. As we did, I glanced back and saw a couple turn from a window and fall in behind us.

“Yellow sun hat and brown linen suit?” I said to Beattie.

“Yep. Might be time to call Aaran,” she said as she took out her phone. “Hi, Love,” she said a little loudly. “Yes, we’re fine. Just taking in the sights, enjoying the people watching in Cape Quarter.” She put slightly more stress on the words people watching. “Indeed, very close to us. Shall we meet you?”

The meeting place set, Beattie hung up. “They’re just up the street at a little bar. Fancy a drink?”

I smiled and said, “You know it.” I meant it, too. I was so weary already. So very weary.

“At least we had three days of touring before we got back into this mess,” I said, trying to convince myself more than anyone. We entered the bar and saw the guys at the back. “Brown suit, yellow hat,” I said as I sat down. Clearly, I was confident the men would know what I meant. Either that or I was already exhausted.

“Thanks for the call,” Aaran said. “We’ve had our own company for the past two hours. White and pink dress and her friend.” He tilted his head just slightly toward the bar.

Just then, our own tails sat down at a table near the windows and ordered drinks. “Did you talk to Boone?” I asked.

“Yep. He’s on his way,” Adaire said. “With Frank and Ivan.”

Our drinks arrived and I took a long sip of my beer before sitting back and trying to look casual, trying not to stare at the people who were also trying not to stare at us. “So, what do we think?” I said. “They noticed our amazing hotness and couldn’t help themselves? We are dressed so badly that they’re filming us for their YouTube channels? We’re about to be invited onto a South African game show?”

“More like you’re being targeted because you’re Americans and staying at The Silo,” A familiar voice said from behind my shoulder before he pushed his way onto the bench beside me. “I wondered how long it would take before they’d find you.”

Aaran scowled. “So this sight-seeing jag wasn’t just a bit of generosity on your part after all.”

Boone shrugged. “You’re always on the clock when you’re with me, ole chap,” he said.

I winced at the insincerity of his tone in that colloquialism. “That wasn’t our agreement,” I said just before I finished my beer.

“No, it was. I told you I wasn’t going to talk with you about work for three days, and I have honored my end of the deal. I didn’t say, however, that you wouldn’t be working. It seems like you have done everything perfectly.” Boone’s voice was smooth as glass, and I had to resist the urge to slam my empty pint glass down on his fingers. He infuriated me to no end.

Beattie sighed. “So you might as well fill us in, then.” She ran a finger over the thin strip of gold that made up one-half of her new pendant. “Who are these people, and why are we here?”

My shoulders sagged as I gave into what was now inevitable—our new work was as book spies. I didn’t think I’d ever heard of such a role before, and the Enneagram 4 in me kind of liked that part because it was unique. But the practical, bookish, read at home on Saturday night for fun part of me really just wanted to go back to the hotel and, well, read. Still, I was a grown-up. I would handle this, too.

“You’re going to be helping the South African government break up a black-market smuggling ring specializing in ancient folklore manuscripts from across Africa,” Boone said.

Okay, I wasn’t sure I could handle this. A black-market smuggling ring. Ancient texts. Africa. I wasn’t processing the whole yet, just these huge parts. “What part of Africa?” I asked without thinking.

Boone smiled. “Good question. All of it. These books are from across the continent, and most pre-date the modern nation-states that we know. The South African government has taken the lead on the investigation and prosecution, and we have been brought in to begin the process.”

I swallowed hard. “And I take it, given our unwanted companions here,” I flicked my eyes to the couple near the window, “the ring knows we’re onto them. How is that going to work exactly?”

“Oh, they don’t think you’re working with the government. They think you’re here to join the gang.” Boone winked at me, and I felt my stomach drop.

“We’re going to be book smugglers?” Beattie asked in a hushed tone.

“No ‘going to be’ about it. As far as anyone knows, you are the best in the American business. We even have some folks in Scotland and Iceland willing to testify to your credentials.” Boone was practically grinning now.

“Oh, joy,” I said as I raised my hand to ask for another beer.