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 attacker's identity 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.
22
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 immigra-tion 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 31
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 briefcase. 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 s
at 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.
It was the first chance Machita had had to observe the cabby's face. The smooth dark skin and facial features were those of an Indian, a race that numbered more than half a million in South Africa. The man smiled a genuine relaxed smile. There was none of the uneasiness about him that Machita expected.
"I think we can dispense with the theatrics, Major Machita," said the cabby. "You are in no danger."
Machita's gun hand held steady. He did not dare turn to scan the parking area for the army of heavily armed men he was sure were there. "Whatever happens, you die with me," he said.
"You are an emotional man," the driver remarked. "Stupid, actually. It bodes ill for a man of your occupation to react like an adolescent caught robbing a sweets shop."
"Can the fat talk, man," Machita snapped. "What's the gig?"
The driver laughed. "Spoken like the true American black that you are. Luke Sampson, of Los Angeles; alias Charley Le Mat, of Chicago; alias Major Thomas Machita, of the AAR; and God only knows how many others."
A chill gripped Machita. His mind hunted frantically for answers, answers to who the cabby was and how he knew so much about him. "You are mistaken. My name is Yariko, George Yariko."
"Whatever comforts you," the cabby said. "However, you'll pardon me if I find it more expedient to conduct my conversation with Major Machita."
"Who are you?"
"For an intelligence man, your powers of perception are woefully lacking." The voice altered subtly into an English now tinged with an Afrikaans accent. "We have met twice before."