Loren was asleep. She was cuddled in a ball and lost to the world. She wore a Grecian-style green dress and calfskin boots under a long fur coat. Pitt leaned over and brushed the hair from her cheeks and gently shook her awake. Her eyes fluttered open and then locked on his. Her lips arched into a feline smile and her face looked strangely pale and young.

"Mmm. Fancy meeting you here."

He leaned over and kissed her. "Are you crazy? A luscious creature all alone in an empty Washington parking lot. It's a miracle you weren't assaulted and gangbanged."

She pushed him away and wrinkled her nose. "Ugh, you reek of stale cigars."

"Blame that on being cooped up with Admiral Sandecker for six hours." He settled back and started the car. "How did you track me down?"

"No great feat. I called your office to get your number in Savannah. Your secretary said you were already back in town, tied up in conference."

"Whatever possessed you to stake out my car?"

"I fought and lost an overwhelming urge to do something foolish and feminine." She kneaded the inside of his thigh. "Glad?"

"I cannot tell a lie," he said, grinning. "You come as a welcome relief after the last twenty-four hours."

"Welcome relief?" Loren faked a pout. "You really know how to charm a girl with flattery."

"We don't have much time," he said, turning serious. "I'm off again in the morning."

"I figured as much. That's why I've planned a nice surprise."

She snuggled closer and her hand worked its way up his thigh.

"I don't believe this.," Pitt murmured in awe.

"Felicia hinted it was sexy, but I had no idea."

Pitt and Loren stood ankle deep in a crimson carpet. staring in fascination at a room whose four walls and ceilings were solidly paneled with gold-tinted mirrors. The only piece of furniture was a large circular bed raised on a platform and covered with red satin sheets. Illumination came from four spotlights embedded in the corners of the ceiling, emitting a soft blue light.

Loren stepped over to the raised bed and touched its gleaming pillows reverently, as though they were exquisite art objects. Pitt studied her reflection, multiplied into infinity, for several moments, and then he walked up behind her and deftly stripped off her clothes.

"Don't move_," he said. "I want my eyes to devour a thousand naked Loren Smiths."

Her face flushed dark. her eyes riveted to the unending images of herself in the mirrors. "Lord," she whispered, "I feel as though I'm performing in front of a crowd." Then she tensed and said something blurred and murmurous as Pitt bent down and flicked his tongue in her navel.

The telephone's muted ring summoned Frederick Daggat from a sound sleep. Beside him Felicia moaned softly, rolled over, and continued sleeping. He groped for his wristwatch on the bedstand and focused his eyes on its luminous dial. It read four O'clock. He picked up the receiver.

"This is Daggat."

"Sam Jackson. I have the pictures."

"Any problems?"

"A breeze. You were right. I didn't have to shoot with infrared. They left the lights on. Can't say as I blame them — the room mirrored from top to bottom and all. Highspeed film should bring out all the details you asked for. They put on quite a show. Too bad we didn't tape it."

"They didn't suspect?"

"How could they know one of the mirrored panels was two way? They were too busy to notice anything short of an earthquake. just to play safe, I used a special noiseless camera."

"When can I expect to see the results?"

"By eight in the morning, if it's a dire emergency. I could use some sack time, though. Wait till early evening and I promise you eight-by-ten glossy prints fit for a gallery exhibit."

"Take your time and do it right," said Daggat. "I want every detail highlighted."

"You can count on it," Jackson said. "By the way, who's the foxy lady? She's a real tiger."

"That doesn't concern you, Jackson. Call me when you're ready. And remember, I'm only interested in the artistic positions."

"I get the message. Good night, Congressman."

Dale Jarvis was just getting ready to clear his desk and leave for the thirty-minute drive home to his wife and a traditional Friday supper of pork roast when there was a knock at the door and John Gossard, who headed up the agency's Africa Section, entered. Gossard had come to the NSA from the Army after the Vietnam war, where he had served as a specialist in guerrilla logistics. A quiet man with a cynical sense of humor, he walked with a limp caused by a rifle grenade whose shrapnel had severed his right foot. He was known as a heavy drinker, but also as a man who fulfilled all his section's requests for data in precise and abundant detail. His intelligence sources were the envy of the entire agency.

Jarvis spread his hands in an apologetic gesture. "John, chew my ass if you will; it completely slipped my mind. I had every intention of RSVPing your fishing-trip invitation."

"Can you make it?" Gossard asked. "McDermott and Sampson, over in Soviet Analysis. are going. "

"I never turn down a chance to show those 55 Kremlin guys how to catch the big ones.

"Good. The boat is reserved. We cast off from slip nine at the Plum Point Marina at five sharp, Sunday.)' Gossard set his briefcase on Jarvis's desk and opened it. "Incidentally, I had two motives for stopping by your sanctum sanctorum before heading home. The second is this." He dropped a folder in front of Jarvis. "I'll let you take it over the weekend, providing you promise not to shit-can it along with your old paperback spy novels."

Jarvis smiled. "Small chance of that. What've you got?"

"That data you asked for concerning a weird South African feasibility plan called Wild Rose."

Jarvis's brown raised. "That was fast work. I only put in the request this afternoon."

"The African Section does not allow the moss to grow," Gossard said, pontificating.

"Anything I need to know before reading it?"

"Nothing of any earth- shattering consequence. Pretty much as you suspected: a wild pipe dream."

"Then Hiram Lusana was telling the truth."

"Insofar as the plan actually exists," Gossard replied. "You'll especially enjoy the plot. The concept is intriguing as hell."

"You've piqued my curiosity. just how do the South Africans posing as AAR blacks intend to carry out the raid?"

"Sorry," Gossard said, smiling devilishly. "That would be giving away the meat of the story."

Jarvis threw him a serious look. "Can you fully trust the quality of your source?"

"My source is genuine, all right. Strange sort of duck. Insists on going under the code name of Emma. We've never been able to establish an identity. His information is solid enough. He sells to anybody and everybody willing to pay."

"I gather you doled out a pretty penny for Operation Wild Rose," Jarvis said.

"Not really. It was included in a box with fifty other documents. We paid only ten thousand dollars for the lot."

As the photographs dropped from the dryer into a basket, Sam jackson scooped them up and neatly jiggled their edges until they were straight and orderly. He was a tall, angular black man with braided hair, a youthful face, and long, slender hands. He passed Daggat the photos and pulled his apron off over his head.