De Vaal turned from the open window and brushed both hands through a thicket of gray wavy hair. He looked more like a professor of ancient languages than like the iron-willed head of the second largest j military power on the continent. Not that he had exactly inherited a plum job. De Vaal was the fifth defense minister in seven years. His predecessor had lasted less than five months.

“Typical English performance,” he said impatiently. “An Englander lives only for gin, the queen, and a practiced air of indifference. They cannot be relied upon.”

“If you so much as even imply to his face that he is English, Heer Minister, Fawkes will become most uncooperative.” Colonel Joris Zeegler downed his drink and poured another. “Fawkes is a Scotsman. I respectfully suggest, sir, that you try not to forget that.”

De Vaal made no show of anger at Zeegler’s insubordinate tone. He regarded advice from his intelligence chief seriously. It was no secret within the Ministry that De Vaal’s success in smashing the advances by outside terrorists and suppressing local uprisings was due largely to the ingenious infiltration of the insurgent organizations by Zeegler’s highly trained operatives.

“Englander, Scotsman-I would prefer dealing with an Afrikaner.” “I agree,” said Zeegler. “But Fawkes is the best qualified to offer an

Operation Wild Rose I 65

opinion on the project. A month-long computer search of experienced military personnel proved that.” He opened a file folder. “Twenty-five years Royal Navy. Fifteen of them in ship’s engineering. Two years captain of HMS Audacious. Final time in service spent as engineering director of the Grimsby Royal Navy Shipyard. Purchased a farm in northern Natal and retired there eleven years ago.”

“And what does your computer make of the fact that he coddles his Bantu workers?”

“I must admit that offering his blacks and coloreds shares of his farm profits is the gesture of a liberal. But there can be no denying Fawkes has built up the finest estate in northern Natal in an extremely short length of time. His people are loyal beyond belief. Woe to the radical who tries to stir up trouble on the Fawkes farm.”

De Vaal was in the midst of formulating another pessimistic statement when there was a knock on the door. A young officer entered and came to attention.

“Forgive the interruption, Herr Minister, but Captain Fawkes has arrived.”

“Show him in,” De Vaal said.

Fawkes ducked his head under the low doorway and entered. De Vaal stared up at him in silence. He had not expected someone of such proportions, nor someone whose face was freshly cut in a dozen places. He extended his hand.

“Captain Fawkes, this is indeed a pleasure,” De Vaal said in Afrikaans. “It was good of you to make the trip.”

Fawkes crushed De Vaal’s hand within his. “Sorry, sir, but I do not speak your language.”