who fulfilled all his section's requests for data in precise and abundant detail. His intelligence sources were the envy of the entire agency.
Jarvis spread his hands in an apologetic gesture. 'John, chew my ass if you will; it completely slipped my mind. I had every intention of RSVPing your fishing-trip invitation.'
'Can you make it?' Gossard asked. 'McDermott and Sampson, over in Soviet Analysis. are going. '
'I never turn down a chance to show those 55 Kremlin guys how to catch the big ones.
'Good. The boat is reserved. We cast off from slip nine at the Plum Point Marina at five sharp, Sunday.)' Gossard set his briefcase on Jarvis's desk and opened it. 'Incidentally, I had two motives for stopping by your sanctum sanctorum before heading home. The second is this.' He dropped a folder in front of Jarvis. 'I'll let you take it over the weekend, providing you promise not to shit-can it along with your old paperback spy novels.'
Jarvis smiled. 'Small chance of that. What've you got?'
'That data you asked for concerning a weird South African feasibility plan called Wild Rose.'
Jarvis's brown raised. 'That was fast work. I only put in the request this afternoon.'
'The African Section does not allow the moss to grow,' Gossard said, pontificating.
'Anything I need to know before reading it?'
'Nothing of any earth- shattering consequence. Pretty much as you suspected: a wild pipe dream.'
'Then Hiram Lusana was telling the truth.'
'Insofar as the plan actually exists,' Gossard replied. 'You'll especially enjoy the plot. The concept is intriguing as hell.'
'You've piqued my curiosity. just how do the South Africans posing as AAR blacks intend to carry out the raid?'
'Sorry,' Gossard said, smiling devilishly. 'That would be giving away the meat of the story.'
Jarvis threw him a serious look. 'Can you fully trust the quality of your source?'
'My source is genuine, all right. Strange sort of duck. Insists on going under the code name of Emma. We've never been able to establish an identity. His information is solid enough. He sells to anybody and everybody willing to pay.'
'I gather you doled out a pretty penny for Operation Wild Rose,' Jarvis said.
'Not really. It was included in a box with fifty other documents. We paid only ten thousand dollars for the lot.'
As the photographs dropped from the dryer into a basket, Sam jackson scooped them up and neatly jiggled their edges until they were straight and orderly. He was a tall, angular black man with braided hair, a youthful face, and long, slender hands. He passed Daggat the photos and pulled his apron off over his head.
'That's all she wrote.'
'How many?' Daggat asked.
'About thirty that clearly show faces. I checked out the contact prints with a magnifying glass. All the rest were nothing shots.'
'A shame they aren't in color.'
'Next time, hang something besides those blue lights,' said Jackson. 'They might hype a sexy gig, but they sure ain't got what it takes to make sharp color transparencies.'
Daggat carefully studied the eight-by-ten black-and-white-prints. He went through them a second time. The third time, he sifted out ten and put them inside a briefcase. The remaining twenty he handed to Jackson.
'Put these together with the negatives and contact prints in an envelope.'
'You're taking them with you?'
'I think it best if I alone am responsible for their safekeeping. Don't you agree?'
It was clear Jackson did not. He threw Daggat an uneasy look. 'Hey, man, photographers aren't in the habit of giving up their negatives. You're not going to produce these for sale, are you? I don't mind shooting a private porno job for a good customer, but I'm not about to make a commercial living at it. Trouble with the fuzz I can do without. '
Daggat closed upon jackson until their faces were only inches apart. 'I am not 'Hey, man,' ' he said coldly. 'I am United States Congressman Frederick Daggat. Do you get the message, brother?'
For a brief moment jackson glared back. Then, slowly, he lowered his eyes and stared at the chemical stains on the linoleum floor. Daggat held all the cards, bankrolled by his congressional powers. The photographer had no choice but to fold.
'Suit yourself,' he said.
Daggat nodded, and then, as if dismissing Jackson's objections completely, casually smiled. 'I'd appreciate it if you'd hurry things up. I have a lovely but anxious lady waiting in the car outside. She's the impatient type, if you know what I mean.'
Jackson slid the negatives, contact prints, and eight-by-ten glossies into a large manila envelope and handed it to Daggat. 'About my fee.'
Daggat flipped him a hundred-dollar bill.
'But we agreed on five hundred,' Jackson said.
'Consider your labors an unselfish act on behalf of your country,' Daggat said as he walked to the door. Then he turned. 'Oh, and one more thing: just so you won't be inconvenienced by unforeseen problems in the future, it might be a good idea to forget this whole episode. It never happened.'
Jackson gave the only possible reply. 'Whatever you say, Congressman.'
Daggat nodded and left, closing the door quietly behind him.
'Turkey-shit son of a bitch!' Jackson hissed through clenched teeth as he removed another set of the photographs from a cabinet drawer.
'You're gonna get yours!'
Dale Jarvis's wife was used to his habit of reading in bed. She kissed him good-night, rolled into her customary fetal position, facing away from the beam of the lamp on his night table, and soon drifted asleep.
Settling himself in, Jarvis arranged two pillows behind his back, bent the highintensity light to the proper angle, and pulled his Ben Franklin specs low on his nose. He propped the folder lent him by John Gossard on his raised knees and began reading. As he turned the pages, he jotted notes on a small pad. At two o'clock in the morning, he closed the folder on Operation Wild Rose.
He lay back and stared into nothingness for several minutes, considering whether to drop the folder back in Gossard's lap and forget about it or have the outlandish plan investigated. He decided to compromise.
Easing slowly out of bed so as not to disturb his wife, Jarvis padded to his den, where he picked up a telephone and expertly punched its touch system in the dark. His call was answered on the first ring.
'This is Jarvis. I want a rundown on the current status of all foreign and United States battleships. Yes, that's right — battleships. On my desk sometime tomorrow. Thank you. Good night.'
Then he returned to bed, kissed his wife lightly on the cheek, and turned out the lamp.
40
The House Foreign Affairs subcommittee hearing on economic aid to African nations, chaired by Frederick Daggat, opened to a half-empty conference chamber and a platoon of bored reporters. Daggat was flanked by Democrat Earl Hunt, of Iowa, and Republican Roscoe Meyers, of Oregon. Loren Smith sat off by herself near one end of the table.
The hearing stretched into the afternoon as representatives of several African governments made their pitch for monetary aid. It was four o'clock when Hiram Lusana took his turn and sat down before the subcommittee. The chamber was crowded now. Photographers stood on seats, their flashbulbs stabbing the walls, while reporters began furiously scribbling on note pads or muttering into tape recorders. Lusana paid no attention to the commotion. He sat poised at the table. like a croupier who knew the odds were in his favor.
'General Lusana,' said Daggat. 'Welcome to our hearing. I think you know the procedures. This is purely a preliminary fact-finding session. You will be allowed twenty minutes to state your case. Afterward, the committee will put their inquiries to you. Our opinions and findings will later be reported to the House Foreign Affairs
