Vixen 03 (Dirk Pitt 5)

"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."

39

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 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 Jar-vis'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?"

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

Jarvis's brows 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.

"That's all she wrote."

"How many?" Daggat asked.