Текст книги "Vixen 03"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
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"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 of jacaranda 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 bloody 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 times comes. And the Defence Ministry will, of course, deny any association 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 passed 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. "God help us now."

"God? 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.

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 attackers' identities 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 glass and for the twentieth time began scrutinizing each photograph.

22

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 passengers 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 passport to the immigration official.

The white South African studied the passport 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."

Machita smiled, showing every tooth, and casually made his way through the terminal to the taxi stand outside. He waved his free hand at the first cab heading a long line. The driver acknowledged him and started his engine. But suddenly, before he could pull up to his fare, another cab swung out from the rear of the line, cut in, and skidded to a stop in front of Machita amid a cacophony of angry shouting and horn honking from the outraged cabbies awaiting their rightful rotation.

Machita found the performance amusing. He threw the bag into the backseat and followed it. "The Mozambique Consulate," he said to the aggressive driver.

The cabby merely tipped his cap, set the meter, and steered into traffic. Machita leaned back and idly watched the scenery. He unlocked the wrist chain and threw it into the brief case. The Mozambique consul, friendly to the AAR cause, allowed Machita and his operatives to come and go under the guise of diplomatic couriers. After a proper length of time spent enjoying the Consulate's hospitality, they then retired to an inconspicuous hotel and went about their business of espionage.

Something in the back of Machita's brain blinked a warning signal. He sat up and studied the landscape. The driver was not taking a direct route to the Consulate; instead, the cab's hood ornament was pointed toward the bustling downtown business section of Pretoria.

Machita tapped the driver on the shoulder. "I am not a tourist to be gouged, my friend. I suggest you take the nearest shortcut to my destination if you expect to get paid."

His only reply was an indifferent shrug. After a few more minutes of weaving through the busy traffic pattern, the driver turned into the underground parking lot of a large department store. Machita needed no extrasensory perception to detect the trap. His tongue swelled like a dry sponge and he could hear his heart begin to pound. He carefully clicked open the briefcase snaps and slipped out a Mauser.38 automatic.

At the lowest level of the parking lot the driver eased the cab into an empty space,against the wall farthest from the entrance tunnel and stopped. Then he turned around and found the barrel of Machita's gun caressing the tip of his nose.

It was the first chance Machita had had to observe the cabby's face. The smooth dark skin and facial features were those of an Indian, a race that numbered more than half a million in South Africa. The man smiled a genuine relaxed smile. There was none of the uneasiness about him that Machita expected.

"I think we can dispense with the theatrics, Major Machita," said the cabby. "You are in no danger."

Machita's gun hand held steady. He did not dare turn to scan the parking area for the army of heavily armed men he was sure were there. "Whatever happens, you die with me," he said.

"You are an emotional man," the driver remarked. "Stupid, actually. It bodes ill for a man of your occupation to react like an adolescent caught robbing a sweets shop."

"Can the fat talk, man," Machita snapped. "What's the gig?"

The driver laughed. "Spoken like the true American black that you are. Luke Sampson. of Los Angeles; alias Charlie Le Mat, of Chicago; alias Major Thomas Machita, of the AAR; and God only knows how many others."

A chill gripped Machita. His mind hunted frantically for answers, answers to who the cabby was and how he knew so much about him. "You are mistaken. My name is Yariko, George Yariko."

"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 anti-AAR strategy known as Operation Wild Rose. The material inside explains the concept and the purpose behind the plan. Give it to 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.

23

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 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 decors 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 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 3 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 imp ortant-lo o king 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. Thirtytwo 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 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 0 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."

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 to 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.

24

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.

'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."

"But how?" asked Jumana. "Where?"

"The answers to those questions, my friend, come only with two million Yankee dollars."

"I still only see this Operation Wild Rose as a swindle."

"Actually, the scheme smacks of genius," Lusana continued. "If the strike involved heavy casualties, the nation that was the victim would then be provoked into turning their sympathies away from our cause and voting arms and aid for Koertsmann's government."

"The questions are unending," said jumana. "What nation is singled out as the target?"

"The United States is my guess."

Jumana threw the envelope to the ground. "Ignore this stupid deception, my General. Put the money to better use. Heed my proposal for a series of raids to throw fear into the hearts of the whites."

Jumana was met with a steely stare. "You know my feelings on butchery."

Jumana pushed ahead. "A thousand hitand-run assaults on cities, villages and farms, from one end of the country to the other, would put us in Pretoria by Christmas."

"We will continue to conduct a sophisticated war," Lusana said coldly. "We will not act like primitive rabble."

"In Africa it is often necessary to drive the people with an iron hand. They seldom know what is best for them."

"Tell me, Colonel; I'm always willing to learn: who knows what's best for the African people?"

Jumana's face purpled with controlled anger. "Africans know what is best for Africans."

Lusana ignored the slur against his American blood. He could sense the impulses swirling in Jumana: the hatred of all things foreign; the driving ambition and the newly discovered luxury of power mingled with a distrust of modern ways; an almost childlike acceptance of bloodthirsty savagery. Lusana began to wonder if he hadn't made an enormous error in appointing jumana to a high level of command.

Before Lusana could focus on the problems that might arise between them, the soft padding sound of feet emanated from beyond the lip of the riverbank.

The security guards tensed and then relaxed as Major Machita dog-trotted down the path into view. He came to a halt in front of Lusana and saluted.

"One of my agents has just arrived from Pretoria with Emma's report on the Fawkesfarm raid."

"What did he uncover?"

"Emma says he was unable to find evidence the Defence Forces had a hand in it."

Lusana looked thoughtful. "So it's back to the opening play."

"It seems incredible that a force can murder nearly fifty people and go unidentified," said Machita.

"Could Emma have lied?"

"Possibly. But he would have no reason for doing so."

Lusana did not answer. He turned his attention back to the fish. His line whispered over the running water. Machita looked questioningly at Jumana, but the colonel avoided his gaze. Machita stood there confused for a moment, wondering what had caused the atmosphere of tension that hovered over his two superiors. After a long uneasy silence he nodded at the envelope.

"You've reached a decision concerning Operation Wild Rose, General?"

"I have," Lusana answered as he reeled the line in.

Machita remained silent. waiting.

"I intend to pay Emma his thirty pieces of silver for the rest of the plan," Lusana finally said.

Jumana raged. "No, it is a fraud! Even you, my General, are not entitled to throw our army's funds away stupidly."

Machita caught his breath and tensed. The colonel had overstepped his rank. And yet Lusana kept his back to the shore and nonchalantly went about his fishing. "I'll remind you," he said over his shoulder with quiet authority, "the lion's share of our treasury came from me. What is mine I can take back or I can use as I please."

Jumana clenched his hands in tight knots and the cords in his neck stood out. He made a move toward the water's edge, his lips drawn back over his teeth. Then, suddenly, as if a circuit breaker somewhere in his gray matter had overloaded and clicked off, all expression of rage vanished, and he smiled. His words came casually, but with an undercurrent of bitterness.

"I apologize for my remarks. I am overtired."

Machita decided then and there that the colonel was a danger that bore watching. He could see that jumana would never fully accept the position of number-two man.

"Forget it," said Lusana. "The important thing now is to lay our hands on Wild Rose."

"I will make arrangements for the exchange," said Machita.

"You will do more than that," Lusana said, facing the shore again. "You will create a plan to make the payoff. Then you will kill Einma."

Jumana's mouth hung open. "You never intended to give away the two million dollars?" he sputtered.

Lusana grinned. "Of course not. If you had been patient, you could have spared us your juvenile outburst."

Jumana made no reply. There was nothing he could say. He widened his smile and shrugged. It was then Machita caught the imperceptible shift of the eyes. jumana was not looking directly at Lusana; his vision was aimed at a spot in the river ten feet upstream from the general.

"Guards!" Machita screamed, pointing frantically. "The river! Fire! For God's sake, fire!"

The security men's reaction time measured less than two seconds. Their shots exploded in Machita's ears and the water erupted a few feet from Lusana in a hundred shattered geysers.

Twenty feet of hideous brown scale burst through the surface and rolled over and over, its tail thrashing crazily as the bullets thudded into the thick hide like hail. Then the firing ceased and the great reptile made one more convulsive revolution and sank beneath the surface.

Lusana stood in his wading boots, his eyes wide, his body stunned into immobility. He stared dazedly into the clear water at the hulk of the crocodile, now gracefully tumbling along the riverbed in the current.

On the bank, Machita trembled, not so much at Lusana's narrow escape as at the satanic expression on Jumana's Neanderthal-shaped face.

The bastard had known, Machita thought. He had known the instant the crocodile slithered off the far bank and homed in on the general, and yet he had said nothing.