The Fawkes house-more of an estate, actually-dominated the crest of a hill and was neatly landscaped by rows of gladiola and fire lilies edging a closely cropped lawn. The picturesque scene was spoiled by a ten-foot chain-link fence topped by several strands of barbed wire that guarded the house on all four sides.

Somala studied the barrier closely. It was a stout fence. The support

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poles were thick and were no doubt buried deep in encased concrete. Nothing short of a tank could penetrate that mesh, he calculated. He shifted his glasses until a solidly muscled man with a repeating rifle strapped to a shoulder came into view. The guard leaned casually against a small wooden shelter that stood next to a gate. Guards could be surprised and easily disposed of, Somala mused, but it was the thin lines leading from the fence to the basement of the house that diluted his confidence. He didn’t require the presence of an electrical engineer to tell him the fence was connected to a generator. He could only speculate as to the strength of the voltage that surged invisibly through the chain link. He noted also that one of the wires led into the guard’s shelter. That meant a switch had to be thrown by a guard whenever the gate was opened, and this was the Achilles’ heel of the Fawkes defense.

Pleased at his discovery, Somala settled down inside his blind and watched and waited.

12

Captain Patrick McKenzie Fawkes, Royal Navy retired, paced the floor of his veranda with the same intensity he had once exhibited on the deck of a ship when approaching home port. He was a giant of a man, standing a shade over six feet six in his bare feet and supporting a frame that exceeded two hundred eighty pounds. His eyes were somber gray, tinted dark as the water of the North Sea under a November storm. Every sand-colored strand of hair was brushed neatly in place, as were the whitening filaments of his King George V beard. Fawkes might have passed for an Aberdeen sea captain, which is exactly what he was before becoming a Natal farmer.

“Two days!” he exclaimed in a booming Scots accent. “I canna afford to take two days away from the farm. It’s inhuman; aye, that’s what it is, inhuman.” Miraculously, the tea in the cup he waved refused to slop over the brim.

“If the Minister of Defence personally asked to meet with you, the least you can do is oblige.”

“But damn, woman, he does not know what he’s asking.” Fawkes shook his head. “We’re in the midst of clearing new acreage. That prize bull I purchased in Durban last month is due to arrive tomorrow. The

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tractors need maintenance. No, I canna go.”