Machita slowly lowered the gun. "Emma?"
"Ah, the haze lifts."
Machita expelled a great sigh of relief and put the gun back in the briefcase. "How in hell did you know I was arriving on that particular flight?"
"A crystal ball," said Emma, obviously not willing to share his secrets.
Machita stared at the man in the driver's seat, taking in every minute detail of the face, the smooth, unblemished skin. There wasn't the slightest resemblance to the gardener and the cafe waiter who had claimed to be Emma on the two previous occasions they'd met.
"I was hoping you'd contact me, but I hadn't expected you quite this soon."
"I have come up with something I think Hiram Lusana will find interesting."
"How much this time?" asked Machita dryly.
There was no hesitation. "Two million United States dollars."
Machita grimaced. "There's no information worth that cost."
"I haven't time to argue the point," said Emma. He passed Machita a small envelope. "This contains a brief description of a highly classified bit of and-AAR strategy known as Operation Wild Rose. The material inside explains the concept and the purpose behind the plan. Give it to Lusana. If, after examining it, he agrees to my price, I shall deliver the entire plan."
The envelope went in the briefcase, on top of the wrist chain and the Mauser. "It will be in the general's hands by tomorrow evening," promised Machita.
"Excellent. Now then, I will drive you to the Consulate."
"There is one more thing."
Emma looked over his shoulder at the major. "You have my attention."
"The general wishes to know who attacked the Fawkes farm in Natal."
Emma's dark eyes locked on Machita's speculatively. "Your general has a strange sense of humor. Evidence left at the scene tied your benevolent AAR to the massacre."
"The AAR is innocent. We must have the truth."
Emma shrugged affirmatively. "All right, I will look into it."
Then he shifted the cab into reverse and backed out of the parking space. Eight minutes later he dropped Machita off at the Mozambique Consulate.
"A last bit of advice, Major."
Machita leaned down to the driver's window. "What is it?"
"A good operative never takes the first taxi offered to him. Always pick out the second or third in line. You stay out of trouble that way."
Properly rebuked, Machita stood on the curb and watched the cab until it was swallowed by the swarming traffic of Pretoria.
32
23
The rays of the late-afternoon sun crept over the balcony railing and probed the languid form stretched outside one of the more expensive suites of the New Stanley Hotel in Nairobi, Kenya.
Felicia Collins wore a colorfully patterned bra and matching Kongo skirt over the bottom half of her bikini. She rolled over on her side, lit a cigarette, and considered her actions of the past few days. Granted, she had slept with a varied lot of men over the years. That part didn't bother her. Her first time had been with a sixteen-year-old cousin when she was only fourteen herself. At best, it was an experience dimmed by the passage of time. Then came at least ten other men by the time she was twenty. Most of the names were long forgotten and the faces vague and indistinct.
The lovers who had climbed in and out of her bed during the years when she was struggling as an aspiring vocalist formed a continuous montage of recording-company executives, disc jockeys, musicians, and composers. Most had in some way contributed to her rise to the top. With the sudden crest of success came Hollywood and a whole new orgy of high living.
Faces, she thought. How strange that she couldn't remember their shapes and features. And yet the bedrooms and their decor stood out vividly. The feel of the mattress, the design on the wallpaper, the fixtures in the adjoining bathroom, were still etched in her mind along with the different types of beams and plaster she had recorded on the ceilings.