Vixen 03 Part 23

Lusana did not reply immediately. He gazed down at his lap and brushed off an imaginary piece of lint from a razor-creased pant leg. Finally he spoke in a soft voice. "I'm sorry, Felicia, but I can't allow sentimental feelings to enter into this."

"What c.r.a.p!" She stared at him, her expression void of belief. "You're both mad, raving mad, if you think you can pa.s.s me around like abowl of grits."

Lusana rose and came over and brushed his lips across her forehead. "Do not hate me." He faced Daggat. "Congressman, enjoy your spoils."

Then he walked from the room.

For a long moment Felicia stood there, her face a study in mixed hostility and confusion; then understanding came and her eyes filled with tears. She made no protest, no gesture of resistance, as Daggat gently pulled her close and kissed her.

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d," she whispered. "You rotten b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I hope you're satisfied."

"Not quite yet."

"You've won your pound of flesh. What more do you want?"

He pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed her misting eyes.

"You forget," he said, grinning sardonically. "You still owe me a dollar."

Pieter De Vaal closed the report folder on the Fawkes-farm ma.s.sacre. His face was drawn and tired as he looked up. "I'm still shocked by this dreadful tragedy. It was so senseless."

Fawkes remained impa.s.sive. He sat across the desk from the Defence Minister and tamped the tobacco in his old pipe. The room fell silent; only the muted noise of Pretoria's traffic seeped through the large windows overlooking Burger Park.

At last De Vaal slipped the folder into a drawer and avoided Fawkes's eyes as he spoke. "I regret that our patrols failed to catch the savages who were responsible."

"Only one man was responsible," said Fawkes grimly. "The men who slaughtered my family were acting under his orders."

"I know what y,ou are thinking, Captain Fawkes, but we have no proof that Lusana was behind this."

"I'm satisfied he was."

"What can I say? Even if we knew for certain, he is beyond our borders. There is no way we can touch him."

"I can touch him."

"How?"

"By volunteering to lead your Operation Wild Rose."

De Vaal could sense the vengeful hate that seethed within Patrick Fawkes. The Defence Minister rose to his feet and stood at the window, gazing over the sea ofjacaranda trees that quilted the city. " I sympathize with your feelings, Captain. However, the answer is no."

"But why, man?"

"Wild Rose is a monstrous concept. If the operation failed, the consequences would prove disastrous to our government."

Fawkes rapped his pipe on the Minister's desk, snapping the stem. "No, dammit! My farm was only the opening thrust. Lusana and his b.l.o.o.d.y mob have got to be stopped before the whole country runs red."

"The risks far outweigh the possible benefits."

"I won't fail," Fawkes said coldly.

De Vaal looked like a man torn apart by his conscience. He paced the room nervously, then stopped and stared down at Fawkes. "I cannot promise to evacuate you successfully when the time comes. And the Defence Ministry will, of course, deny any a.s.sociation with the venture if you are uncovered."

"Understood." Fawkes heaved a great sigh of relief. Then a thought occurred to him. "The train, Minister. How was it you traveled from the operating room in a Durban hospital to the Pembroke rail yard so quickly?"

For the first time, De Vaal smiled. "A simple ruse. I went in the front door of the hospital and out the back. An ambulance carried me to the Heidriek Air Base, where I took a military jet to an airstrip near Pembroke. The train belongs to our President. I merely borrowed it for a few hours while it was traveling to a scheduled overhaul."

"But why the complicated illusion?"

"I often find it necessary to cloud my movements," De Vaal answered. "And, I think you'll agree, Operation Wild Rose is not exactly a product we want to advertise."

"I see your point."

"And you, Captain Fawkes. Can you drop from sight without prodding suspicious minds?"

Fawkes nodded solemnly. "I've left Umkono under a cloud of grief. My friends and neighbors think I've returned to Scotland."

"All right, then." De Vaal moved behind his desk, wrote on a slip of paper, and pa.s.sed it across to Fawkes. "Here is the address of a hotel ten miles south of the city. Check into a room and wait for the necessary papers and instructions to get the ball rolling. As of this moment, the government of South Africa considers you dead." He relaxed his shoulders. "G.o.d help us now."

"G.o.d? No, I don't think so." An evil light began to dance in Fawkes's eyes. "I sincerely doubt he'd want any part of it."

On the floor below the Minister's office Colonel Zeegler sat alone in an operations room and paced back and forth in front of a large table stacked with glossy photographs.

For the first time in his military career he was totally baffled. The raid on the Fawkes farm had an aura of intrigue about it that did not fit the usual terrorist scheme. It was accomplished with too much precision and sophistication for the AAR. Besides, it was not Lusana's style. Granted, he might order the deaths of white soldiers, but he would never condone the murders of Fawkes's Bantu workers, especially the women and children. That part ran counter to the insurgent leader's known strategy.

"Who, then?" Zeegler mused aloud.

Operation Wild Rose I 89

Certainly not black units of the South African Defence Forces. That would have been impossible without Zeegler's knowledge.

He stopped and shuffled the photographs taken by a team of investigators after the raid. No witnesses were ever found and none of the raiders caught. It was too perfect in execution, too completely free of flaws.

The slightest clue to the attacker's ident.i.ty eluded him. But his years of experience told him it was there, obscured in the background.

Like a surgeon examining X rays in preparation for a delicate operation, Zeegler picked up a magnifying gla.s.s and for the twentieth time began scrutinizing each photograph.

The Air Malawi jet from Lourenco Marques, Mozambique, touched down and taxied to the terminal of Pretoria's airport. A few moments after the whine of the engines had faded away, the boarding ramp was extended, and the pa.s.sengers nodded their good-byes to the pretty African stewardess and made their way toward the terminal.

Major Thomas Machita followed the other travelers, and when his turn came, he handed his falsified Mozambique pa.s.sport to the immigration official.

The white South African studied the pa.s.sport photo and the name, George Yariko, beneath it and smiled sagaciously. "That makes three trips to Pretoria in the last month, Mr. Yariko." He nodded at the courier briefcase chained to Machita's wrist. "Instructions to your consul seem to be running hot and heavy, as of late."

Machita shrugged. "If my foreign department doesn't send me to our consulate in Pretoria, they send me to a consulate somewhere else. No offense intended, sir, but I'd prefer a Paris or London delivery."

The official motioned him toward the exit. "I look forward to seeing you again," he said with mock courtesy. "Have an enjoyable stay."