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.

It was two hours before dawn when Patrick Fawkes paid the cabdriver and walked up to the floodlit gate of the Forbes Marine Scrap & Salvage Company. A uniformed guard turned from a portable TV set and yawned as Fawkes passed a small folder through the arched window of the gatehouse. The guard scrutinized the signatures and compared the photograph with the man before him. Then he passed it back.

"Welcome to America, Captain. My employers have been expecting you."

"Is she here?" Fawkes asked impatiently.

"Tied up to the east dock," replied the guard, shoving a Xerox copy of a map of the salvage area through the window. "Mind your step. Since the energy rationing, the yard's night lights have been shut off. It's darker than Hades out there." As Fawkes passed under the giant derricks toward the dock, a wind swept in off the bay and carried a heavy odor to his nostrils: the pungent perfume of the waterfront. He inhaled the mingled aromas of diesel oil, tar and salt water. It never failed to revive his spirits.