Tom Clancy's Op-center Novels 7-12 (9781101644591)

by Clancy, Tom

  “I’m staying at the Watergate,” Kline told him. “I should be there about eight o’clock.”

  “Fine. I’ll meet you at the bar,” Herbert said. “Sounds like we need to put some hair back on your cheek.”

  “Would you mind meeting me in my room?” Kline asked. The South African’s tone was suddenly more serious.

  “Okay, sure,” Herbert said.

  “I’ll be in the same room I had back on February 22 of’84,” Kline told him. “You remember which one that was?”

  “I do,” Herbert told him. “You’re getting nostalgic.”

  “Very,” Kline said. “We’ll order room service.”

  “Fine, as long as you’re picking up the check,” Herbert said.

  “Of course. The Lord provides,” Kline said.

  “I’ll be there,” Herbert told him. “And don’t worry, MC. Whatever it is, we’ll fix it.”

  “I’m counting on that,” Kline told him.

  Herbert hung up. He glanced at his watch out of habit and immediately forgot what time it was. He was thinking about Kline.

  Kline had not stayed at the Watergate in 1984. That was how they used to communicate room numbers or house addresses of terrorists. The date signified the number. In this case, February 22 meant that Kline was staying in room 222. Obviously, the VSO operative did not want Herbert asking for him. That meant he was not traveling under his real name.

  Edgar Kline did not want a record of his being in Washington, D.C. That was also why he was not staying in the permanent rooms the Vatican kept at Georgetown University. If he did, he would be photographed by the campus security cameras. There was also a chance he might be recognized by someone he had worked with.

  Herbert wondered what kind of crisis could require such precautions. He brought up the White House database on the travels of world leaders. The Pope was not planning any trips abroad in the near future. Perhaps there was a plot against the Vatican itself.

  Whatever it was must have come up suddenly. Otherwise, Kline would at least have let Herbert know he was coming.

  In any case, Herbert could use a good scrap right now. The CIOC action had left him frustrated. And it would be nice if he could help an old friend and colleague in the process.

  While Herbert pondered the problem, he happened to glance down to his right to the pocket in his wheelchair, to something he had forgotten because he had been distracted and annoyed for most of the day.

  To a possible answer to his question.

  NINE

  Okavango Swamp, Botswana Wednesday, 1:40 A.M.

  The hut was bank-vault dark, and the air was as stuffy and still. The swamp gave up the heat it had accumulated during the day. It was no longer as open-oven hot as it was under the sun. But it was still humid, especially inside the small hut. However hot he was, though, Henry Genet was certain of one thing. The stubborn Father Bradbury was warmer.

  Dressed only in briefs, the bald, five-foot-nine-inch Genet sat down on the forty-eight-inch canvas cot. The bed was surrounded by a heavy white nylon lace mosquito net that hung from a bamboo umbrella and reached to the wooden floor. Genet pulled it shut. Then he eased onto his sunburned back. It had been too hot to keep his shirt on, and the sun had managed to find him, even through the thick jungle canopy. Beneath him was a foam mattress and pillow. They were not the king-size bed and down pillow to which he was accustomed, but both were surprisingly comfortable. Or maybe he was just tired.

  The trappings were completely alien to the Belgian native. So was this remote swamp, this distant nation, this vast continent. But the fifty-three-year-old was thrilled to be here.

  He was also thrilled to be doing what he was doing.

  The son of a diamond merchant, Genet had lived in and around Antwerp most of his life. Situated on the busy Scheldt River, Antwerp was Europe’s chief commercial city by the mid–sixteenth century. The importance of the Belgian city declined after its sacking by the Spanish in 1576 and the subsequent closing of the Scheldt to navigation. Its significance to modern times dates from 1863. Kings Leopold I and Leopold II undertook a massive industrialization program and a modernization of Antwerp’s port. Today, it is a very modern city and a major center of finance, industry, and the diamond trade.

  For all of that, Henry Genet did not miss it.

  Despite the history, the culture, and the conveniences, Antwerp existed for finance. So did most of Europe these days. So did Genet. Though he loved acquisition, it had ceased to become a challenge. That was why he had put together the Group. The others were as bored as he was. And boredom was one of the reasons they had come here.

  In Botswana, the mentality was far different than it was in Antwerp. For one thing, the age of things in Africa was measured in eons, not in centuries. The sun witnessed the rise and fall of mountains and plains, not improvements in buildings and streets. The stars looked down on the slow workings of evolution, not the life span of civilizations. The people had a monolithic patience that was unheard of in Europe.

  Here, Genet had found himself thinking bigger thoughts but with European impatience.

  As ancient as this world was, it was also fresh and uncomplicated. There was a clarity of purpose. For the inhabitants it was dance or die. The predators had to kill their prey. The prey had to elude the predators. That simplicity also suited Genet’s partner Beaudin. Unlike Europe, where there were attorneys and financial institutions to protect him, the risks here were intense and exciting.

  It had been two days since Genet first arrived to oversee the expansion of the ministry. What he had discovered was that even sleeping here was a challenge. The noises, the heat, the mosquitoes that lived in the shallow waters on the shore of their little island. Genet loved being challenged like this.

  Especially when the Belgian diamond merchant knew that, if he needed it, escape was just a few dozen yards away. Genet could always use the Aventura II to fly back to his private airstrip and then to civilization. He wanted excitement, but he was not delusional.

  Not like Dhamballa. He was an idealist. And idealists, by their nature, were not realists.

  Genet used the edges of his pillow to wipe sweat from his eyes. He turned gently onto his belly so the perspiration would run out on its own. Then he thought about Dhamballa, and he had to smile. This operation could not have been easier from conception to launch. And for all Dhamballa’s ideas, for all his insights about faith and human nature, he had no idea what any of it was really about.

  Eight months before, Dhamballa had been associated with Genet in a much different capacity. Then, the thirty-three-year-old Botswanan was known as Thomas Burton. He was a sifter in a mine Genet visited each month to do some of his buying. Sifters were men who stood beside the mining flumes—long wooden troughs with running water. These troughs were located inside the mines where the lighting could be kept constant. There were screens at different intervals. The water went through without a problem. Small rocks and dirt were trapped by the screen. If the sifters did not see any diamonds, they moved the screen so the detritus could be washed along. Each successive screen had a finer mesh than the one before. And each successive sifter was trained to spot diamonds of decreasing size. Even diamond dust had value to scientists and industrialists. Those people used the dust in microtechnology as prisms, cutting surfaces, or nano-thin switches. The diamond dust was removed from the sand by a fan operator, who blew the fine powder away from the significantly heavier grains.

  Thomas had worked at the very end of the trough line. And he had a voice that could be heard over the rushing water and the hum of the fan. Genet knew this because every day, promptly at two o’clock, Thomas would speak about the ages-old teachings of Vous Deux or “You Two.” While continuing to sift, the young man would extemporize on the beauty of life and death and their relation to the universe.

  He would talk about the greatness of the snake, which cast off its skin and died without dying. He would explain how men could cast off death if they took the ti
me to find their own “second skin.”

  The mine operators allowed Thomas to speak. The other sifters enjoyed hearing him, and they always worked more energetically after his ten- or fifteen-minute inspirational talks. During one visit, Genet listened to what Thomas had to say. He spoke about the gods and how they favored the industrious. He talked about “the white arts,” the doing of good deeds, and how it spread light on those whom the practitioner loved. And Thomas spoke of the strength and character that was indigenous to the people of Botswana. It was all very general and very uplifting. It sounded to Genet as if Thomas’s words could have come from any faith—Christian, Hindu, Islam.

  It was only upon his return to Antwerp that Henry Genet discovered what Thomas Burton was talking about. Who and what he really was. As Genet drifted into sleep, he recalled how, over dinner, he had been discussing the speeches with five other businessmen. When Genet was finished, one of the men, Albert Beaudin, sat back and smiled. Beaudin was a seventy-year-old French industrialist who had his hand in a variety of businesses. Genet’s father had invested heavily in several of his enterprises.

  “Do you have any idea what you witnessed?” Beaudin asked.

  “I don’t understand,” Genet told him.

  “Do you know what you saw in Botswana, Henry? You saw a papa giving a sermon about Bon Dieu,” the elderly industrialist explained.

  “Who was doing what about whom?” asked Richard Bequette, one of the other merchants.

  “A papa is a priest, and Bon Dieu is his supreme deity,” Beaudin said.

  “I still don’t follow,” Genet said.

  “What you heard were lectures in Vodunism, the religion of white and black arts,” Beaudin said. “Of good magic and evil magic. I read about it in National Geographic.”

  And suddenly Genet understood. Vous Deux was better known by its Anglicized name, voodoo.

  Henry Genet and the other men at that meeting also understood something else. That what the Belgian had witnessed was like the mines he visited. The voodoo faith was deeper, older, and richer than most people knew. All it needed was for someone to tap its wealth. To speak directly to its traditional adherents and potential converts.

  To unleash its power.

  TEN

  Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 8:00 P.M.

  The Watergate was Bob Herbert’s favorite hotel. And not just his favorite in Washington. His favorite in the world.

  It was not only because of the history of the hotel. The infamy attached to Richard Nixon and the break-in. Herbert actually felt sorry for the man. Virtually every candidate did what Nixon’s staff had done. Fortunately or unfortunately, he got caught. That was bad enough. What affected Herbert was this smart man’s too-slow uptake in the nascent art of spin control.

  No, Herbert had a more personal connection with the hotel. It happened in 1983. He was still getting accustomed to life in a wheelchair, to life without his wife. His rehabilitation facility was several doors down from the hotel. After one frustrating session, Herbert decided to go to dinner at the Watergate. It was his first time out alone.

  The hotel, the world, were not yet wheelchair-accessible. Herbert had a difficult time getting around. It was made more difficult by the fact that he was convinced everyone was giving him the “you poor man” look. Herbert was a CIA agent. He was accustomed to being invisible.

  Herbert finally made it into the hotel and to a table. Almost at once, the diners at the next table engaged him in conversation. After a few minutes, they invited Herbert to sit with them.

  The diners were Bob and Elizabeth Dole.

  They did not talk about disabilities. They discussed the value of growing up in a rural area. They talked about food. They compared notes on TV shows, movies, and novels. It was one of those moments of kismet that transcended the practical value of what had transpired. The act of being asked to join the Doles made Herbert feel whole.

  Herbert had come back often after that. The Watergate became a touchstone for him, a place that reminded him that a man’s value was not in his mode of mobility but what was inside.

  Of course, it did not hurt that they had installed ramps since then.

  Herbert did not go directly to the elevators. He went to the house phones. There, he swung his laptop from the arm of the wheelchair and accessed the wireless Internet. As soon as he was on-line, he rang room 222. Intelligence people made enemies. Some of those enemies went to elaborate extremes to get revenge. Herbert wanted to make certain that it was Edgar Kline who had called and not someone trying to set Herbert up.

  Kline picked up. “Hello?”

  “Just making sure you’re in,” Herbert said.

  “I got here five minutes ago,” Kline replied.

  “On what airline and flight?” Herbert asked.

  If Kline were being held against his will, he might give Herbert misinformation to keep him from coming up.

  “Lufthansa 418,” Kline said.

  Herbert did an Internet search for Lufthansa schedules. While he waited he asked, “What make of aircraft?”

  “Boeing 747,” Kline replied. “I was in seat 1B, and I had the filet.”

  Herbert smiled. A moment later, the Lufthansa web site confirmed the flight. It was supposed to land at 3:45 P.M., but it had been delayed. “I’ll be right up,” Herbert said.

  Three minutes later, Bob Herbert was rapping on the door of room 222. A tall man with a lantern jaw and short blond hair answered. It was Edgar Kline all right. A little more rotund and leathery around the eyes than Herbert remembered him, but then who wasn’t?

  Kline smiled and offered his hand. Herbert rolled into the foyer and shut the door before accepting it. He glanced quickly around the room. There was an open suitcase on the bed. Nothing had been removed from it yet. A tweed sports jacket was draped over the back of the desk chair, and a necktie was slung over that. Kline’s shoes were at the foot of the bed. Those were the first things a man would have removed after a long flight. The arrival looked legitimate. Kline did not appear to be trying to put something over on him.

  Now Herbert turned toward Kline and shook his hand.

  “It’s good to see you, Robert,” Kline said.

  Kline spoke with the same reserve Herbert remembered so well. And though he was smiling, it was the kind of smile a professional gambler gave to a newcomer or to a flip comment during a poker game: polite, practiced, not insincere but not very expressive.

  “I’m glad to see you, too,” Herbert replied. “We haven’t been together since I left for Beirut, have we?”

  “No,” Kline said.

  “So what do you think of the new me?” Herbert asked.

  “You obviously haven’t let what happened over there stop you,” Kline observed.

  “Did you think it would?” Herbert asked.

  “No,” Kline replied. He nodded toward the wheelchair. “Does that thing have afterburners?”

  “Yeah, these,” he said, holding up his powerful hands.

  Kline smiled his polite smile and gestured toward the main room. It bothered Herbert more than it used to. Maybe it was just because the intelligence chief was older and more cynical. Or maybe it was something else. Maybe his veteran spy antennae were picking something up.

  Or maybe you’re just flat out paranoid, Herbert told himself.

  “Would you like a drink?” Kline asked.

  “A Coke would be nice,” Herbert said as he wheeled himself in. This was the first time he had been to one of the rooms. He stopped by the bed and watched as Kline went to the minibar. The South African turned the key and removed a can of soda.

  “Would you like anything else?” Kline asked.

  “Nope,” Herbert said. “Just the Coke and an update.”

  “I promised you dinner,” Kline said. “Shall I call for it?”

  “I’m okay for now, and we know you just ate,” Herbert said.

  “Touché,” Kline said.

  “So,” Herbert said. “Why are you here?”
r />   “To talk to Cardinal Zavala here in Washington and Cardinal Murrieta in New York,” he replied as he handed the Coke to Herbert. “We need to get more American missionaries into the field in southern Africa.”

  “Quickly, I assume?” Herbert said.

  Kline nodded. Then his mood changed. The bright blue eyes lost a little of their light. The thin mouth tightened. He began to pace the room. “We’re facing a potentially explosive situation in Africa, Robert,” Kline said slowly. “And I do not mean just the Vatican.”

  “You’re talking about the incident yesterday with Father Bradbury,” Herbert said.

  “Yes,” Kline said. A hint of surprise crossed the poker face. “What do you know about that?”

  “You first,” Herbert said. He held up the can. “My mouth is dry.”

  “Fair enough,” Kline said knowingly.

  Bob Herbert never went first. Having more information than someone else, even an ally, was always a good thing. Today’s allies could be tomorrow’s adversaries.

  “Father Powys Bradbury was abducted by a militia that was led by someone who we believe is Leon Seronga,” Kline said. “Do you know that name?”

  “Doesn’t spark anything,” Herbert said.

  “Seronga is a former Botswana soldier who helped to organize the Brush Vipers,” Kline said. “They were a very effective intelligence unit that helped Botswana break away from Great Britain.”

  “I know about the Brush Vipers,” Herbert said. This was not what he had wanted to hear. If the Brush Vipers were back, in more than just name, it meant that what happened was probably not a small, isolated action.

  “Seronga was spotted two weeks ago at the Botswana village of Machaneng,” Kline went on. “He was attending a rally held by a religious leader named Dhamballa.”

  “Is that his real name?” Herbert asked as he unfolded his computer. “I mean is that a surname or a tribal name or an honorary title?”

  “It’s a variant spelling of the name of a god of the Vodun faith,” Kline said. “We do not know more than that. And we do not have direct access to him. Nor is his image in our file.”