Breeders by Arno Joubert

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.