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“Whatever comforts you,” the cabby said. “However, you’ll pardon me if I find it more expedient to conduct my conversation with Major Machita.”

“Who are you?”

“For an intelligence man, your powers of perception are woefully lacking.” The voice altered subtly into an English now tinged with an Afrikaans accent. “We have met twice before.”

Machita slowly lowered the gun. “Emma?”

“Ah, the haze lifts.”

Machita expelled a great sigh of relief and put the gun back in the briefcase. “How in hell did you know I was arriving on that particular flight?”

“A crystal ball,” said Emma, obviously not willing to share his secrets.

Machita stared at the man in the driver’s seat, taking in every minute detail of the face, the smooth, unblemished skin. There wasn’t the slightest resemblance to the gardener and the cafe waiter who had claimed to be Emma on the two previous occasions they’d met.

“I was hoping you’d contact me, but I hadn’t expected you quite this soon.”

“I have come up with something I think Hiram Lusana will find interesting.”

“How much this time?” asked Machita dryly.

There was no hesitation. “Two million United States dollars.”

Machita grimaced. “There’s no information worth that cost.”

“I haven’t time to argue the point,” said Emma. He passed Machita a small envelope. “This contains a brief description of a highly classified bit of and-AAR strategy known as Operation Wild Rose. The material inside explains the concept and the purpose behind the plan. Give it to

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Lusana. If, after examining it, he agrees to my price, I shall deliver the entire plan.”

The envelope went in the briefcase, on top of the wrist chain and the Mauser. “It will be in the general’s hands by tomorrow evening,” promised Machita.

“Excellent. Now then, I will drive you to the Consulate.”

“There is one more thing.”

Emma looked over his shoulder at the major. “You have my attention.”

“The general wishes to know who attacked the Fawkes farm in Natal.”

Emma’s dark eyes locked on Machita’s speculatively. “Your general has a strange sense of humor. Evidence left at the scene tied your benevolent AAR to the massacre.”

“The AAR is innocent. We must have the truth.”

Emma shrugged affirmatively. “All right, I will look into it.”

Then he shifted the cab into reverse and backed out of the parking space. Eight minutes later he dropped Machita off at the Mozambique Consulate.

“A last bit of advice, Major.”

Machita leaned down to the driver’s window. “What is it?”

“A good operative never takes the first taxi offered to him. Always pick out the second or third in line. You stay out of trouble that way.”

Properly rebuked, Machita stood on the curb and watched the cab until it was swallowed by the swarming traffic of Pretoria.

The rays of the late-afternoon sun crept over the balcony railing and probed the languid form stretched outside one of the more expensive suites of the New Stanley Hotel in Nairobi, Kenya.

Felicia Collins wore a colorfully patterned bra and matching Kongo skirt over the bottom half of her bikini. She rolled over on her side, lit a cigarette, and considered her actions of the past few days. Granted, she had slept with a varied lot of men over the years. That part didn’t bother her. Her first time had been with a sixteen-year-old cousin when she was only fourteen herself. At best, it was an experience dimmed by the passage of time. Then came at least ten other men by the time she was

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twenty. Most of the names were long forgotten and the faces vague and indistinct.

The lovers who had climbed in and out of her bed during the years when she was struggling as an aspiring vocalist formed a continuous montage of recording-company executives, disc jockeys, musicians, and composers. Most had in some way contributed to her rise to the top. With the sudden crest of success came Hollywood and a whole new orgy of high living.

Faces, she thought. How strange that she couldn’t remember their shapes and features. And yet the bedrooms and their decor stood out vividly. The feel of the mattress, the design on the wallpaper, the fixtures in the adjoining bathroom, were still etched in her mind along with the different types of beams and plaster she had recorded on the ceilings.

As with many women, sex to Felicia was not necessarily exalted above other forms of entertainment. There were uncounted times she’d wished she had curled up with a good novel instead. Already Hiram Lusana’s face was blurring into obscurity along with all the rest.

At first she hated Daggat, hated the very idea that he could turn her on. She had insulted him at every opportunity, and yet he had remained courteous. Nothing she could say or do angered him. God, it is maddening, she thought. She almost wished he would demean her as a slave so that her hatred would be justified, but it was not to be. Frederick Daggat was too shrewd. He played her gently, cautiously, as would a fisherman in the knowledge he had a record fish on the line.

The balcony door slid open and Daggat stepped outside. Felicia sat up and removed her sunglasses as his shadow fell across her body.

“Were you dozing?”

She offered him a fluid smile. “Just daydreaming.”

“It’s beginning to get cool. You’d better come inside.”

He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. She gazed at him mischievously for a moment and then unclasped the bikini’s bra and pushed her bare breasts against his chest. “There is still time to make love before dinner.”

It was a tease and they both knew it. Since they had left Lusana’s camp .| together, she had responded to his sexual manipulations with all the ‘ abandon of a robot. It was a part she had never played before.

“Why?” he asked simply.

Her expressive coffee eyes studied him. “Why?”

“Why did you leave Lusana and come with me? I am not a man whose

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looks turn women’s heads. I’ve looked at this ugly face of mine in the mirror every day for forty years and I’m not about to kid myself into thinking I’m superstar material. You did not have to behave like a bartered cow, Felicia. Lusana didn’t own you; nor do I, and I suspect no man ever will. You could have told us both to go to hell and yet you came with me willingly, too willingly. Why?”

She felt her stomach tingle as her nostrils detected his strong male scent, and she took his face in her hands. “I suppose I jumped from Hiram’s bed into yours merely to prove that if he didn’t need me, I could just as easily do without him.”

“A perfectly human reaction.”

She kissed him on the chin. “Forgive me, Frederick. In a sense, Hiram and I both used you: he to gain your goodwill for congressional support, and I in an adolescent game to make him jealous.”

He smiled. “This is one time in my life that I can honestly say I’m happy I was taken advantage of.”

She took him by the hand and led him into the bedroom and expertly undressed him. “This time,” she said, her voice low, “I’m going to show you the real Felicia Collins.”

It was well past eight o’clock when they finally released each other. She was far stronger than Daggat had believed possible. There was no plumbing the depths of her passion. He lay in bed for several minutes, listening to her humming in the shower. Then he wearily rose and pulled on a short kimono, sat down at a desk littered with important-looking documents, and began sorting through them.

Felicia padded from the bathroom and slipped on a belted wrap dress in a red and white zebra print. She approved of what she saw reflected in the full-length mirror. Her figure was slim and solid; the vitality that flowed through her lithe muscles overshadowed the soreness that was there from the vigorous exertions of early evening. Thirty-two years old and still damned provocative, she decided. There were still a few good years left before she could allow her agent to accept matronly roles for her, unless, of course, a producer offered a blockbuster script and a hefty percentage of the net.

“Do you think he can win?” Daggat asked, interrupting her reverie.

“I beg your pardon.”

“I asked you if Lusana can defeat the South African Defence Forces.”

“I’m hardly one to offer a valid prediction on the outcome of the

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revolution,” Felicia said. “My part in the AAR was simply that of a fund raiser.”

He grinned. “Not to mention providing entertainment to the troops, particularly generals.”

“A fringe benefit,” she said, and laughed.

“You haven’t answered the question.”

She shook her head. “Even with an army of one million men, Hiram could never hope to defeat the whites in a knockdown, drag-out conflict. The French and the Americans lost in Vietnam for the same reason the majority government fell in Rhodesia: guerrillas fighting under the cover of heavy jungle have all the advantages. Unfortunately for the black cause, eighty percent of South Africa is arid, open country, better suited for armored and air warfare.”

“Then, what’s his angle?”

“Hiram is counting on worldwide popular support and economic sanctions to strangle the white ruling class into submission.”

Daggat rested his chin on his huge hands. “Is he a communist?”

Felicia tilted her head back and laughed. “Hell, Hiram made his fortune as a capitalist. He’s too ingrained with making money to embrace the reds.”

“Then how do you explain his Vietnamese advisers and the free supplies from China?”

“The old P. T. Barnum sucker routine. The Vietnamese are so revolution happy they’d air-freight guerrilla-warfare specialists into the Florida swamps if someone sent them an invitation. As for Chinese generosity, after getting booted out of eight different African nations in as many years, they’ll kiss anybody’s ass to keep a toehold on the continent.”

“He could be miring himself in quicksand without realizing it.”

“You underestimate Hiram,” said Felicia. “He’ll send the Asians packing the minute they’ve outlived their usefulness to the AAR.”

“Easier said than done.”

“He knows what he’s doing. Take my word for it. Hiram Lusana will be sitting in the Prime Minister’s office in Cape Town nine months from now.”

“He has a schedule?” Daggat asked incredulously.

“To the day.”

Slowly Daggat picked up the papers on the desk and shuffled them neatly into a stack.

“Pack your things.”

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Felicia’s neatly plucked brows raised. “We’re leaving Nairobi?”

“We’re flying to Washington.”

She was taken aback by his sudden air of authority. “Why should I return stateside with you?”

“You have nothing better to do. Besides, arriving home on the arm of a respected congressman after shacking for a year with a known radical revolutionary might go a long way in restoring your image in the eyes of your fans.”

Outwardly Felicia pouted. But Daggat’s logic made sense. Her record sales had fallen off and calls from producers had taken a noticeable downward turn. It was time, she quickly deduced, to put her career back on its track.

“I’ll be ready in half an hour,” she said.

Daggat nodded and smiled. An edge of excitement began tp form inside him. If, as Felicia indicated, Lusana was the odds-on favorite to become South Africa’s first black leader, Daggat, by championing a winning cause on Capitol Hill, could assure himself of immense congressional stature and voter respect. It was worth the gamble. And if he was careful, and chose his words and programs cleverly, he might … just might… stand a shot at the vice-presidency, the major stepping-stone to his ultimate goal.

Lusana brought his hand up to eye level and then snapped the rod forward with a deft wrist action. The small wad of cheese clung to the hook, plopped daintily into the river, and then sank out of sight. The fish were there. Lusana’s instincts began to vibrate in anticipation. He stood thigh deep amid the shadows of the trees leaning over the bank and slowly reeled in the line.

On his eighth cast he had a strike, a hard, splashing strike that nearly tore the rod from his relaxed grip. He had hooked a tiger fish, an Old World relative of the ferocious piranha of the South American Amazon. He gave the fish its head and eased out more line. He had little choice; the rod was nearly bent double. Then, abruptly, before the battle had a chance to warm up, the tiger fish circled a sunken tree stump, broke the line, and escaped.

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“I did not think it possible that anyone could entice a tiger fish with a bit of cheese,” said Colonel Jumana. He was sitting on the ground, his back resting against a tree. He held the envelope containing the brief outline of Operation Wild Rose in his hand.

“The bait is irrelevant if the prey is hungry,” said Lusana. He waded back to shore and began tying a new leader to his line.

Jumana rolled on his side and scanned the landscape to see if Lusana’s security guards were properly stationed and alert. It was a wasted gesture. No soldiers served with greater fervor and loyalty. They were lean and hard, picked by Lusana personally, not so much for their fearlessness and rugged physiques as for their intelligence. They stood poised in the underbrush, their weapons held in determined, steady hands.

Lusana turned to resume his casting. “What do you make of it?” he asked.

Jumana stared at the envelope and twisted his face in a skeptical expression.

“A rip-off. A two-million-dollar rip-off.”

“You don’t buy it, then?”

“No, sir. Frankly, I do not.” Jumana rose to his feet and brushed off his combat uniform. “I think this Emma has fed Major Machita cheap bits and pieces as a buildup for the big score.” He shook his head. “This report tells us nothing. It only indicates that the whites are going to launch a major terrorist strike somewhere in the world with a group of blacks posing as AAR followers. The South Africans are not so stupid as to risk international repercussions on such an absurd ploy.”

Lusana cast his line. “But suppose-just suppose-Prime Minister Koertsmann has seen the handwriting on the wall. He might be tempted to take a desperate gamble, a last throw of the dice.”