His only reply was an indifferent shrug. After a few more minutes of weaving through the busy traffic pattern, the driver turned into the underground parking lot of a large department store. Machita needed no extrasensory perception to detect the trap. His tongue swelled like a dry sponge and he could hear his heart begin to pound. He carefully clicked open the briefcase snaps and slipped out a Mauser .38 automatic.

At the lowest level of the parking lot the driver eased the cab into an empty space against the wall farthest from the entrance tunnel and stopped. Then he turned around and found the barrel of Machita’s gun caressing the tip of his nose.

It was the first chance Machita had had to observe the cabby’s face. The smooth dark skin and facial features were those of an Indian, a race that numbered more than half a million in South Africa. The man smiled a genuine relaxed smile. There was none of the uneasiness about him that Machita expected.

“I think we can dispense with the theatrics, Major Machita,” said the cabby. “You are in no danger.”

Machita’s gun hand held steady. He did not dare turn to scan the parking area for the army of heavily armed men he was sure were there. “Whatever happens, you die with me,” he said.

Operation Wild Rose I 91

“You are an emotional man,” the driver remarked. “Stupid, actually. It bodes ill for a man of your occupation to react like an adolescent caught robbing a sweets shop.”

“Can the fat talk, man,” Machita snapped. “What’s the gig?”

The driver laughed. “Spoken like the true American black that you are. Luke Sampson, of Los Angeles; alias Charley Le Mat, of Chicago; alias Major Thomas Machita, of the AAR; and God only knows how many others.”

A chill gripped Machita. His mind hunted frantically for answers, answers to who the cabby was and how he knew so much about him. “You are mistaken. My name is Yariko, George Yariko.”

“Whatever comforts you,” the cabby said. “However, you’ll pardon me if I find it more expedient to conduct my conversation with Major Machita.”

“Who are you?”

“For an intelligence man, your powers of perception are woefully lacking.” The voice altered subtly into an English now tinged with an Afrikaans accent. “We have met twice before.”

Machita slowly lowered the gun. “Emma?”

“Ah, the haze lifts.”

Machita expelled a great sigh of relief and put the gun back in the briefcase. “How in hell did you know I was arriving on that particular flight?”

“A crystal ball,” said Emma, obviously not willing to share his secrets.

Machita stared at the man in the driver’s seat, taking in every minute detail of the face, the smooth, unblemished skin. There wasn’t the slightest resemblance to the gardener and the cafe waiter who had claimed to be Emma on the two previous occasions they’d met.