Like a surgeon examining X rays in preparation for a delicate operation, Zeegler picked up a magnifying glass and for the twentieth time began scrutinizing each photograph.

22

The Air Malawi jet from Lourenco Marques, Mozambique, touched down and taxied to the terminal of Pretoria’s airport. A few moments after the whine of the engines had faded away, the boarding ramp was extended, and the passengers nodded their good-byes to the pretty African stewardess and made their way toward the terminal.

Major Thomas Machita followed the other travelers, and when his turn came, he handed his falsified Mozambique passport to the immigration official.

The white South African studied the passport photo and the name, George Yariko, beneath it and smiled sagaciously. “That makes three trips to Pretoria in the last month, Mr. Yariko.” He nodded at the courier briefcase chained to Machita’s wrist. “Instructions to your consul seem to be running hot and heavy, as of late.”

Machita shrugged. “If my foreign department doesn’t send me to our consulate in Pretoria, they send me to a consulate somewhere else. No offense intended, sir, but I’d prefer a Paris or London delivery.”

The official motioned him toward the exit. “I look forward to seeing you again,” he said with mock courtesy. “Have an enjoyable stay.”

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

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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.”