Vortex

The resort area’s hotel and casino complex rose around the paved shoreline of a sparkling, sky-blue artificial lake. Hundreds of picture windows gleamed in the summer sunlight-opening onto wide terraces full of greenery and purple-blossomed jacaranda trees. Outside the hotel, sprinkler systems swiveled to and fro, spraying a fine mist of fresh water over manicured lawns, towering palm trees, and an eighteen-hole golf course.

On the inside, though, the Cascades Hotel and Casino was abnormally quiet, almost lifeless. Most of the young South African men who normally frequented its slot machines, blackjack tables, and roulette wheels were off fighting in

Namibia, the Natal, or the country’s black townships. And there were few foreign tourists arriving to replace them during these troubled times.

Ian and Emily sat restlessly in a small bar adjacent to the hotel’s main lobby. Two untouched glasses of white wine warmed to room temperature on the table between them. With difficulty, Ian stopped himself from checking his watch for what seemed the thousandth time. Muller was already much later than they’d expected him to be. Had something gone wrong? Had the

South African security chief canceled or postponed his meeting?

Ian felt cold sweat beading on his forehead. They’d only have one opportunity to pull off a stunt like this, and if the Afrikaner intelligence man didn’t show tonight, they’d have to rethink everything from square one. He twisted around again to check the lobby. Nothing. No sign of the damned man.

In a brief puff of warm air, the automatic doors leading outside slid open and then closed behind a single lean, waspwaisted man carrying a tan overnight bag slung over his shoulder. Ian started suddenly. He’d studied the few available file photos long enough to recognize the narrow, arrogant face and pale blue eyes of South Africa’s director of military intelligence. Erik Muller had arrived.

The South African strode confidently across the lobby and stood waiting in front of the Cascades’ teak registration desk. Seconds later, the hotel’s main door slid open again and Sam Knowles ambled in and got in line behind

Muller-acting like any other travel-weary tourist eager for his chance at the swimming pool and gaming tables. The cameraman rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, shifted impatiently, looked at his watch, and then started whistling.

Ian held his breath as Muller turned round to look for the source of the disagreeable, off-key noise. Shut up, Sam, for God’s sake, shut up, Ian thought desperately. But the South African simply ran his cold, hard eyes over the shorter man, taking in Knowles’s open-collared green sports shirt, pleated plaid trousers, and white shoes. Then he scowled and turned back to the desk clerk to finish checking in-having evidently dismissed the American as nothing more than the annoying buffoon he appeared to be.

With a curt nod, Muller took his room key from the clerk, waved away the offer of a bellman’s services, and vanished in the direction of the elevators without looking back. Ian heaved a sigh of relief and waited while his cameraman finished registering and sauntered across the lobby into the bar.

Knowles plopped onto a chair next to Emily and across from Ian.

“The bugger signed in as Hans Meinert and they put him in Room three thirty-five.” Then he grinned, dangling an oversize room key from his hand.

“And we’re in three thirty-seven-right next door.”

Ian matched his grin.

“And just how the hell did you manage that?”

Knowles shrugged.

“The same way you get anything special in one of these swanky hotels-a kind word and a hundred-rand gratuity tucked in your registration card.”

Ian chuckled and took the room key out of Knowles’s outstretched hand.

Then he stood up to go. They were as ready as they could ever be.

Room 337 overlooked Sun City’s central artificial lake and swimming pool.

A handful of elderly couples strolled along the treelined edge of the lake, enjoying the cool early-evening air. Lights were coming on all over the quiet compound, triggered into action by the gathering darkness. It all seemed too peaceful to be part of the South Africa Ian had seen so much of over the past few months.

He turned and looked at the two very different men waiting inside the room with him. Matthew Sibena sat bolt upright in a chair facing a small writing desk, his face a rigid mask of nervousness and underlying fear.

Sam Knowles, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease-lounging carelessly on the room’s queen-size bed beside a closed soft-sided suitcase.

Knowles looked up from his paperback.

“You realize we’re gonna look mighty stupid if this ANC mole you’re expecting comes straight to

Muller’s room?”

Ian nodded without saying anything. That was a risk they’d