Vixen 03 Part 24

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 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 sat 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 s.p.a.ce 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 G.o.d 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."

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 h.e.l.l 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 pa.s.sed Machita a small envelope. "This contains a brief description of a highly cla.s.sified 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 ma.s.sacre."

"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 s.p.a.ce. 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.

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 pa.s.sage 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.

As with many women, s.e.x to Felicia was not necessarily exalted above other forms of entertainment. There were uncounted times she'd wished she had curled up with a good novel instead. Already Hiram Lusana's face was blurring into obscurity along with all the rest.

At first she hated Daggat, hated the very idea that he could turn her on. She had insulted him at every opportunity, and yet he had remained courteous. Nothing she could say or do angered him. G.o.d, it is maddening, she thought. She almost wished he would demean her as a slave so that her hatred would be justified, but it was not to be. Frederick Daggat was too shrewd. He played her gently, cautiously, as would a fisherman in the knowledge he had a record fish on the line.