Vixen 03 Part 41

"How could they know one of the mirrored panels was two way? They were too busy to notice anything short of an earthquake. Just to play safe, I used a special noiseless camera."

"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."

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 a.s.s 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 a.n.a.lysis, 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 s.h.i.t-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 h.e.l.l."

"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 ident.i.ty. 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 doc.u.ments. 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 pa.s.sed Daggat the photos and pulled his ap.r.o.n off over his head.

"That's all she wrote."

"How many?" Daggat asked.

"About thirty that clearly show faces. I checked out the contact prints with a magnifying gla.s.s. All the rest were nothing shots."

"A shame they aren't in color."

"Next time, hang something besides those blue lights," said Jackson. "They might hype a s.e.xy gig, but they sure ain't got what it takes to make sharp color transparencies."

Daggat carefully studied the eight-by-ten black-and-white prints. He went through them a second time. The third time, he sifted out ten and put them inside a briefcase. The remaining twenty he handed to Jackson.

"Put these together with the negatives and contact prints in an envelope."

"You're taking them with you?"

"I think it best if I alone am responsible for their safekeeping. Don't you agree?"

It was clear Jackson did not. He threw Daggat an uneasy look. "Hey,

man, photographers aren't in the habit of giving up their negatives. You're not going to produce these for sale, are you? I don't mind shooting a private p.o.r.no job for a good customer, but I'm not about to make a commercial living at it. Trouble with the fuzz I can do without."

Daggat closed upon Jackson until their faces were only inches apart. "I am not 'Hey, man,' " he said coldly. "I am United States Congressman Frederick Daggat. Do you get the message, brother?"

For a brief moment Jackson glared back. Then, slowly, he lowered his eyes and stared at the chemical stains on the linoleum floor. Daggat held all the cards, bankrolled by his congressional powers. The photographer had no choice but to fold.

"Suit yourself," he said.

Daggat nodded, and then, as if dismissing Jackson's objections completely, casually smiled. "I'd appreciate it if you'd hurry things up. I have a lovely but anxious lady waiting in the car outside. She's the impatient type, if you know what I mean."

Jackson slid the negatives, contact prints, and eight-by-ten glossies into a large manila envelope and handed it to Daggat. "About my fee."

Daggat flipped him a hundred-dollar bill.

"But we agreed on five hundred," Jackson said.

"Consider your labors an unselfish act on behalf of your country," Daggat said as he walked to the door. Then he turned. "Oh, and one more thing: just so you won't be inconvenienced by unforeseen problems in the future, it might be a good idea to forget this whole episode. It never happened."

Jackson gave the only possible reply. "Whatever you say, Congressman."

Daggat nodded and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

"Turkey-s.h.i.t son of a b.i.t.c.h!" Jackson hissed through clenched teeth as he removed another set of the photographs from a cabinet drawer.

"You're gonna get yours!"