"I know what you 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 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.

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.