"Perhaps," De Vaal muttered. "But what choice does one have when one is winning battles while losing the war?"
"I am not a grand strategist," Zeegler replied. "But I'm certain Operation Wild Rose is not the answer, Minister. I urge you to shelve it."
De Vaal considered Zeegler's words for several moments. "All right, Colonel. Gather all data pertaining to the operation and seal it in the Ministry vault with the other contingency plans."
"Yes, sir," said Zeegler, his relief obvious.
De Vaal contemplated the liquid in his glass. Then he looked up with a thoughtful expression.
"A pity, a great pity. It just might have worked."
Fawkes was drunk.
If a monstrous claw had reached down and plucked away the long mahogany bar of the Pembroke Hotel, he would have fallen flat on his bandaged face. Dimly, he saw that he was the only patron left in the room. He ordered another drink, noting in a mild sort of sadistic glee that it was long past closing time and the five-foot-five-inch bartender was uneasy about asking him to leave.
"Are you all right, sir?" the bartender probed cautiously.
"No, dammit!" Fawkes roared. "I feel bloody-well awful."
"Beggin' your pardon, but if it makes you feel so bad, why do you drink it?"
"It's not the whisky that turns my guts. It's Operation Wild Rose."
"Sir?"
Fawkes looked furtively around the room and then leaned across the bar. "What if I was to tell you I met with the Minister of Defence right down the street at the station, in his private railroad car, not more than three hours ago?"
A smug smile curled the bartender's lips. "The Minister must be one hell of a wizard, Mr. Fawkes."
"Wizard?"
"To be in two places at the same time."
"Make your point, man."
The bartender reached under a shelf and threw a newspaper on the bar in front of Fawkes. He pointed to an article on the front page and read aloud the caption.
" 'Defence Minister Pieter De Vaal enters Port Elizabeth Hospital for surgery.' "
"Impossible!"
"That's this evening's paper," said the ba
rtender. "You have to admit-not only does the Minister have extraordinary powers of recu-peration, but one fast train as well. Port Elizabeth is over a thousand kilometers to the south."
Fawkes snatched up the paper, shook the fuzziness from his vision, put on his glasses, and read the story. It was true. Clumsily, he threw a wad of bills at the bartender and staggered through the doorway, through the hotel lobby, and into the street.
When he reached the railroad station, it was deserted. The moon's light glinted on empty rails. De Vaal's train was gone.
15
They came with the rising sun. Somala counted at least thirty of them, clothed in the same type of field uniform he wore. He watched as they crept out of the bush like shadows and disappeared into the sugarcane.
He swept the acacia tree with his binoculars. The scout in the blind was gone. Probably slipped away to join his unit, Somala surmised. But who were they? None of the raiding force looked familiar to him. Could they be members of another insurgent movement? If so, why did they wear the distinctive black beret of the AAR?
Somala was sorely tempted to leave his hiding place inside the baobab tree and approach the intruders, but he thought better of it and remained motionless. He would watch and observe. Those were his orders, and he would obey them.
The Fawkes farm was slowly coming to life. The workers in the compound were beginning to spread out and commence their daily chores. Patrick Fawkes, Jr., passed through the electricity-wired gate and went off to the great stone barn, where he began tinkering with a tractor. The guards were changing at the gate, and the fellow who had manned the night shift was standing half in, half out of the enclosure, swapping small talk with his relief, when abruptly and silently he fell to the ground. Simultaneously, the other guard slumped and dropped.