Vortex

The government’s new limits on the hours during which liquor could be served hadn’t cut South Africa’s alcohol consumption. They’d just forced people to drink their booze faster. A classic example of the law of unintended consequences, Ian thought sourly as he sipped the warm pint of beer in front of him.

He’d come here to play a hunch-a hunch backed by tidbits he’d picked up in an earlier, off-the-record conversation with the U.S. embassy’s CIA station chief.

“Political Counselor” Frank Price hadn’t confirmed his belief that South Africa’s security services had a high-ranking mole inside the ANC, but he had drawn Ian’s attention to an operation that seemed to indicate it just might: the surgically precise SADF commando raid into Zimbabwe back in May.

Although Price hadn’t been willing to say more than that, the mention of the attack on Gawamba had been enough to put Ian on what he hoped was the right track. He’d spent the several days since then arranging this meeting with a man he hoped could take him even further toward the truth.

The bar’s front door swung open, briefly admitting a swirl of fresh, cool evening air along with a new customer. Ian watched through narrowed eyes as the man, self-conscious in an unfamiliar civilian suit, made his way through the tangle of portly businessmen and loud, off-duty soldiers. The newcomer was looking for someone.

Ian waited until the man’s eyes focused on him and then tapped the empty place across the table.

Capt. Michael Henshaw, SADF, slid gingerly into the booth, sweat gleaming on his brow.

“Are we safe here? Were you followed?”

Ian shook his head impatiently. He’d taken a lot of precautions to dodge any kind of a tail-feeling spectacularly silly all the while.

First, Sam Knowles had bundled their driver and suspected informer,

Matthew Sibena, off on an all-day wild-goose chase across Johannesburg.

The two were supposed to be filming a whole new slew of background shots for use as filler in

news broadcasts. Ian only hoped Siberia didn’t know that the network’s files already held more footage of Johannesburg street scenes than could possibly be used in a dozen years.

Once they were gone, Ian had slipped quietly out of the studio and followed a long, roundabout path to the pub one designed to shake loose anybody dogging his footsteps. Sudden changes in direction. Rapid taxi switches.

Even a quick stroll through a department store teeming with lateafternoon shoppers. Hell, he’d used every trick he’d ever read about in espionage thrillers. And all without seeing any sign of anyone trying to follow him.

He signaled toward the bar.

“A beer for my friend here, please. “

Henshaw watched in silence as the white-jacketed barman deposited a tall glass in front of him. Once the man was safely out of earshot, he pushed the glass aside and leaned across the table.

“Well, did you bring it?”

“Yeah.” Ian risked a quick glance around the haze-filled room. Nobody seemed to be watching. He slid an envelope across into Henshaw’s hands and looked away as the South African tore it open and riffled through the stack of crisp bank notes inside. Five hundred pounds’ worth of tax-free British currency. Henshaw was one of those people who wanted to do the right thing, but only at a profit.

Ian frowned. He hated paying for information. Bribing somebody, even to tell the truth, always left him feeling soiled. He forced himself to smile.

“Satisfied?”

The South African officer nodded abruptly and slid the envelope inside his suit coat.

“You may ask your questions, Mr. Sheffield. I will do my best to answer them.”

“Did you get a chance to check the records I mentioned earlier?”

“About the raid on the ANC’s command center in Zimbabwe? Yes.” Henshaw took a cautious sip of his beer.

“It was a classic hit-and-kill op. Very well handled. “

Ian grimaced.

“I didn’t ask you here to grade the damned thing for me. ” He lowered his voice.

“What I want to know is, was there anything out of the ordinary about the raid? Anything that struck you as unusual?”

Henshaw hesitated and took another look around the crowded bar. Then he turned back to Ian.

“There were three things, okay?”

He traced numbers on the table while he talked.

“One, the par as who went in on the assault had a complete readout on the target before they went in.

Enemy strength. Building plans. Everything. It was like they’d been talking to somebody who’d worked there. Right?”

Ian nodded his understanding.

“Okay, two. There weren’t just par as on the op.” Henshaw’s voice dropped even lower.

“I saw the orders for the mission. It listed a special intelligence-gathering unit besides the parachute company. “

Curiouser and curiouser.

“Who’d they work for?”

Henshaw looked even more nervous. He took another pull at his beer, this time a sizable gulp. Then he leaned forward.

“For a man named Erik Muller.

You’ve heard of him? The director of military intelligence?”

Jackpot. Ian nodded again, casually, as though the information were of little importance.

“All right. What else?”