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current, then the range of tidal conditions. Satisfied with the figures, he next traced a mile-by-mile course to his destination, memorizing every buoy, every beacon and channel marker, until he could picture them all in his mind’s eye without confusion as to their exact sequence.

The task before him seemed impossible. Even with precise analysis of every obstacle and its successful conquest, there were still too many variables that had to be left to chance. There was no way he could predict the weather on a given day still weeks away. The odds of colliding with another ship also reared their numerical heads. These unknowns he did not take lightly, and yet the possibility that he might be found out and stopped was refused entrance into his mind. He had even steeled himself to ignore any second thoughts from De Vaal, who might order the mission to be scrapped.

At ten minutes to midnight Fawkes removed his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. He took a small photo holder from his breast pocket and looked into the long-ago faces of his family. Then he sighed and propped the holder on a small packing crate set beside the cot he maintained in the control room of the ship. The first week he had slept in the captain’s quarters, but the comfortable accommodations were gone now; furnishings, facilities, even the bulkheads that once enclosed the cabin, had been torched away.

Fawkes undressed and slid his huge frame inside a sleeping bag, taking a final look at the photo. Then he clicked off the drop-cord light and became smothered in the darkness of his loneliness and unrelenting hatred.

De Vaal rolled a cigarette between his slender fingers. “Will Fawkes meet his schedule, do you think?”

“One of my operatives reports that he is driving the shipyard workers like a sadist,” replied Zeegler. “I cannot help but think the good captain will launch Wild Rose at the required time.”

“What of his black crew?”

“They are under tight security on a cargo freighter moored off a remote island in the Azores.” Zeegler sat down across from De Vaal before continuing. “When all is in readiness, the crew will be smuggled on board Fawkes’s ship.”

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“Will they be familiar with the operation of the vessel?”

“Training is being conducted with mock-ups on the freighter. Each man will know his job when Fawkes casts off the mooring lines.”

“What have the men been told?”

“They think they have been recruited to pick up the ship for sea trials and gunnery practice before sailing it on to Cape Town.”

De Vaal sat in concentration for a moment. “A pity we can’t have Lusana as a passenger.”

“The possibility exists,” said Zeegler.

De Vaal looked up. “Are you serious?”

“My sources say he has left for the United States,” Zeegler replied. “Trailing him through Africa and knowing his exact traveling schedule in advance is next to impossible. He can slip out of the continent virtually undetected at will. But he cannot slip in without showing himself. When he leaves the States, I will be waiting.”

“Abduction.” De Vaal said the word slowly, savoring each syllable. “The very bonus that would make Operation Wild Rose virtually foolproof.”

The BEZA-Mozambique overseas airliner pivoted off the main runway onto a seldom-used taxi strip and dipped its nose as the pilot applied the brakes. The boarding hatch swung open and a baggage handler wearing white coveralls and a red baseball cap stepped from the evening darkness and attached an aluminum ladder to the fuselage. A figure stooped in the light streaming from the interior of the plane, dropped a large suitcase to the man on the ground, and climbed down after it. Then the hatch closed and the ladder was removed. The engines picked up their whine and the plane rolled off in the direction of the Dulles Airport international terminal.

No conversation was exchanged as the baggage handler passed the stranger a spare set of coveralls, which were quickly donned. They climbed aboard a small tractor that had four empty carrier carts attached to its rear hitch and steered a course to the maintenance section of the field. After a few minutes of dodging parked aircraft, the tractor pulled up to a floodlit gate. A guard leaned out at their approach and, upon recognizing the driver, stifled a yawn and waved them through. The

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baggage handler waved back and drove to the employees’ parking lot, stopping beside a door held open by the chauffeur of a large dark-blue limousine. Still without a word, the man from the airplane stepped into the backseat of the car. The chauffeur took the suitcase, lifted it into the trunk, and the baggage handler drove his empty caravan back toward the cargo terminal.

It wasn’t until the car entered the outskirts of Georgetown that Lusana relaxed and slipped out of the coveralls. In past years he would have entered the States like any other traveler coming from overseas. But those were the days before the South African Defence Ministry took him seriously. Lusana’s fears of assassination were well founded. With a sense of relief he watched the chauffeur stop in front of a house whose downstairs windows were lit. At least someone was home.

The chauffeur carried his suitcase to the doorstep and silently departed. A faint murmur from the TV set came through the open windows. He pressed the bell.

The porch light came on, the door opened a crack, and a familiar voice said, “Who is it?”

He moved under the light so that it illuminated his face. “It’s me, Felicia.”

“Hiram?” Her voice was stunned.

“Yes.”

The door opened slowly. She was dressed in a sheer and sexy chiffon peasant blouse and a long soft jersey skirt. A knotted bandana covered her hair. She stood motionless, her eyes searching his. She wanted to say something appropriately clever but her mind went blank. All she managed was, “Come in.”

He stepped inside and set the suitcase down. “I thought you might be here,” he said.

Her dark eyes quickly shifted from surprise to calm composure. “Your timing is right on the money. I just got back from Hollywood. I’ve cut a new album and auditioned for a part in a TV series.”

“I’m happy all goes well for you.”

She looked up into his face. “You never should have sent me away with Frederick.”

“If it will make you feel any better, I’ve often regretted my hasty decision.”

“I could go back with you to Africa.”

He shook his head sadly. “Someday, maybe. Not now. You can do more for our cause here.”

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They turned in unison as Frederick Daggat, casually attired in a paisley-print bathrobe, appeared from the living room. “My God, General Lusana. I thought I recognized your voice.” He looked down at the suitcase and his face clouded. “There was no advance word of your arrival. Has there been trouble?”

Lusana grinned wryly. “The world is not safe for revolutionaries. I thought it expedient to return to the Land of the Free as inconspicuously as possible.”

“But surely the airlines … customs … someone must have announced your presence.”

Lusana shook his head. “I sat in the pilot’s cabin on the flight from Africa. Arrangements were made for me to leave the plane after landing and bypass the Dulles terminal.”

“We have laws that frown on illegal entry.”

“I am a citizen. What difference does it make?”

Daggat’s expression softened. He placed his hands on Lusana’s shoulders. “If there is any fuss, my staff will take care of it. You’re here, and that’s all that counts.”

“But why all the subterfuge?” asked Felicia.

“For good reason.” Lusana’s voice was very cold. “My intelligence people have uncovered a sensitive piece of information that can prove highly embarrassing to the South African minority government.”

“That’s a serious charge,” said Daggat.

“It’s a serious threat,” retorted Lusana.

Daggat’s eyes registered a mixture of confusion and curiosity. He nodded toward the living room. “Come in and sit down, General. We have much to talk over.”

“Every time I see you it’s like looking at an old photograph. You never change.”

Felicia returned Loren’s admiring look. “Flattery from another woman is flattery indeed.” She idly stirred the ice in her drink. “It’s amazing how time evaporates. How long has it been-three, maybe four years?”

“The last inaugural ball.”

“I remember,” Felicia said, smiling. “We went to that little dive down by the river afterward and got smashed. You were with a tall, sad-looking dude with spaniel eyes.”

“Congressman Louis Carnady. He was defeated in the next election.”

“Poor Louis.” Felicia lit a cigarette. “My date was Hiram Lusana.”

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“I know.”

“We parted company only last month in Africa,” Felicia said as if Loren had not spoken. “I wonder if my life has been one big downer, chasing after every liberal cause that pops on stage, taking up with any stud who promises to save the human race.”

Loren motioned to the waiter to bring them two more drinks. “You can’t blame yourself for believing in people.”

“I haven’t got a hell of a lot to show for it. Every crusade I’ve ever joined, I screwed up.”

“I don’t mean to pry, but did you and Lusana have personal differences, or was it political?”

“Strictly personal,” Felicia said. She felt her chest tighten as Loren circled the bait. “I no longer mattered to him. His only love was his fight. I think at first, deep inside him, there was a feeling for me, but as the struggle expanded and his pressures grew, he became distant. I know now that he had taken all he ever wanted from me. It was as though I was as expendable as one of his soldiers on the battlefield.”

Loren saw the tears start to come to Felicia’s eyes. “How you must hate him.”

Felicia looked up, surprised. “Hate Hiram? Oh no, you don’t understand. I was unfair with him. I let my own desires stand between us. I should have been patient. Perhaps when his war to give majority rule to blacks in South Africa is won, he will look upon me differently.”

“I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you. I know his history. Lusana uses people like the rest of us use toothpaste. He squeezes every dab and throws away the empties.”

An angered frown crossed Felicia’s face. “You only see in Hiram what you want to see. The good outweighs the bad.”

Loren sighed and leaned back as the waiter brought their second round. “It’s wrong for old friends to argue after being so long apart,” she said softly. “Let’s change the subject.”

“I agree,” Felicia said, her mood changing. “What about you, Loren? Are there any men in your life?” . “Two, at the moment.”

Felicia laughed. “It’s common Washington gossip: one is Phil Sawyer, the President’s press secretary. Who’s the other?”

“He’s a director at NUMA. His name is Dirk Pitt.”

“You serious about either one of them?”

“Phil is the sort you marry: loyal, true blue, sets you on a gilded

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pedestal and wants you to be the mother of his children.”

Felicia made a face. “He sounds perfectly mundane. What about this Pitt?”

“Dirk? Sheer animal power. He makes no demands; he comes and goes like an alley cat. Dirk can never be truly owned by a woman, and yet he’s always there when you need him. The lover who turns you on but won’t stand still long enough for you to grow old with.”

“He sounds more my type. Send him my way when the affair crashes.” Felicia sipped at her drink. “It must be tricky, maintaining your political purity in front of the voters while seeing a lover on the side.”

Loren’s cheeks turned crimson. “It is difficult,” sRe admitted. “I never was very good at intrigue.”

“You could say to hell with what people think. Most women do these days.”

“Most women are not members of Congress.”

“The old double standard again. Congressmen can get away with anything as long as it doesn’t show up on their expense account.”

“Sad, but true,” said Loren. “And in my case, I represent a district that is heavily rural. The voters still believe in the Sears catalogue, Coors’ beer, and the Eleven Commandments.”

“What’s the eleventh?”

“Ttiy Congresswoman shalt not screw around if she expects to win the next election.”

“Where do you and Pitt meet?”

“I can’t take the chance of a male’s being seen leaving my apartment along with the milkman, so we meet at his place or drive to some little out-of-the-way country inn.”

“You make it sound like a bus-stop romance.”

“As I said, it’s difficult.”

“I think I can eliminate all the bullshit for you.”

Loren looked at Felicia quizzically. “How?”

Felicia fished in her purse and came up with a key. She pressed it into Loren’s hand. “Here, take this. The address is taped to the top.”

“What is it for?”

“A pad I leased over in Arlington. It’s yours anytime you get horny.”

“But what about you? I can’t expect you to get lost on a moment’s notice.”

“You won’t be imposing,” Felicia said, smiling. “I’m the houseguest of a dude across town. No more protests. Okay?”

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Loren studied the key. “God, I feel like a hooker.”

Felicia reached over and folded Loren’s hand over the key. “If just

thinking about it gives you a deliciously obscene feeling, wait until you

take a shot of the upstairs bedroom.”

“What do you make of it?” asked Daggat. He was seated at his desk. Hiram Lusana stood across the room and leaned over a high-backed chair, his expression anxious.

Dale Jarvis, director of the National Security Agency, pondered a few moments before answering. He looked up with a friendly, almost fatherly face. His brown hair was streaked with gray and he wore it in a crew cut. He was dressed in a tweed suit and the large red bow tie beneath his Adam’s apple drooped as though it were melting.

“My guess is that this Operation Wild Rose is a game.”

“A game!” Lusana rasped. “That’s crap!”

“Not really,” Jarvis said calmly. “Every nation with a sophisticated military establishment has a department whose function is solely to dream up what is generally referred to in the trade as ‘feasibility games.’ Improbable schemes, ultra crepidam, beyond the depth or grasp of likelihood. Strategic and tactical studies invented to combat unforeseen events. Then shelved against the unlikely day they are dusted off and put into action.”