28
"Someone highly placed," answered Machita. "Costs us a pretty penny, but his information is thoroughly reliable. Odd sort, though; he never appears in the same place twice under the same guise."
"You make him sound like some kind of mystic," said Jumana.
"Perhaps he is," conceded Machita. "Emma materializes when we least expect him."
"Emma?"
"His code name."
"Either the man has a warped sense of humor or he's a transvestite," said Lusana.
"I cannot say, General."
"How do you contact him?"
"We don't. He reaches us only when he has useful information to sell."
Jumana's face clouded. "What guarantee have we that he isn't feeding us falsified documents?"
"To date, everything he passed us from the Ministry has checked out one hundred percent."
Lusana looked at Machita. "You'll see to it, then?"
Machita nodded. "I'll fly to Pretoria myself and await Emma's next appearance. If anyone can clear up the mystery, it will be him."
20
The African Army of Revolution's camp was not really a camp at all; rather, it was a headquarters in what was once a small university for the Portuguese when they ruled Mozambique. A new university for the nation's black citizens had since risen from the heart of a new city torn from the northern interior, on Lake Malawi.
The converted campus made an ideal base for Lusana's army: dormitories for the troops, cafeterias turned mess halls, sporting facilities now utilized for combat instruction, comfortable quarters for the officers, a newly decorated ballroom for social events.
Democratic congressman Frederick Daggat, one of New Jersey's three black congressmen, was impressed. He'd half expected a typical revolutionary movement run by tribesmen armed with Soviet rockets, dressed in drab Chinese uniforms, and spouting inane, overused Marxist cliches. Instead he was pleased to discover an organization run on the lines of an American oil corporation.
Lusana and his officers came off more like business executives than guerrillas.
Everything at the cocktail party went strictly according to New York protocol. Even the hostess, Felicia Collins, would have done a midtown Manhattan party proud.
Daggat caught her eye and she excused herself from an admiring group of Somalian legislators. She came over and laid her hand on his arm.
"Enjoying yourself, Congressman?"
"Very much."
"Hiram and I had hoped you could stay over until the weekend."
"Regrettably, I must be in Nairobi for a meeting with the Kenya Educational Council tomorrow afternoon."
"I hope your quarters are satisfactory. We're a little off the beaten track for a Hilton Hotel franchise."
"I must admit, Mr. Lusana's hospitality is far more than I bargained for."
Daggat looked down at her. Tonight was the first time he had actually seen Felicia Collins up close. Celebrity, singer with three gold records, actress with two Emmys and an Oscar for a difficult role as a black suffragette in the motion picture Road of Poppies.
She was every bit as ravishing as she appeared on screen.
Felicia stood cool and poised in green crepe de chine evening pajamas. The small strapless top tied at the waist and the matching pants gave a diaphanous hint of her shapely legs. She wore her hair in a chic short African cut.