by Clancy, Tom
Thirty-eight-year-old Deacon Eliot Jones had arrived at the Church of the Holy Cross shortly after two P.M. It had taken him more than a day to make his way northwest from Tonota on the Zimbabwe border. It was necessary to ride his bicycle to Francistown and catch a tour bus that went west, around the Makgadikgadi Pan. Then he had to wait at the salt pan tourist center for another bus that took passengers to Maun. From Maun, he had to catch the bus to the tourist center, where the church was located. There, he and Deacon Canon would link up. They would make preparations to leave Botswana.
That order did not sit well with him. He did not like the idea of being bullied from his flock. Souls mattered more than his flesh. His work was to help save souls, not his own skin.
Several times during his trip, he had tried to phone Father Bradbury. The calls were not answered. Deacon Jones was deeply worried about his old friend and mentor.
Just minutes after he finally reached the church, he received a call from the archdiocese in Cape Town. There was a change of plans. Jones was to go to Maun the following afternoon. Only he would not be flying to South Africa. He was to wait for the arrival of Bishop Victor Max from Washington, D.C., and bring him back to the church. The personal secretary of Archbishop Patrick in Cape Town also instructed Jones to bring one other deacon with him. Patrick did not want the thirty-five-year-old bishop left alone when the deacon had to buy tickets, food, or collect his luggage.
Jones was delighted to hear that the church would not be abandoned. Perhaps the new bishop would allow Jones to stay. The deacon was also excited because he had never met an American bishop. Though the men would only be together for a few hours, Jones was looking forward to it. Foreign clergy often had different perspectives, different ideas. Americans on the whole were always more direct and often better informed. Perhaps the bishop would have news about Father Bradbury or comforting insights about what was happening in Botswana. If the archdiocese in Cape Town knew any more about the crisis than Deacon Jones did, they were not saying anything.
Apart from Deacon Jones, Deacon Samuel Holden Canon had made the longest journey. His ministry encompassed a string of villages on the 6,000-foot-high Tsodilo Hill, which stood where Botswana, Namibia, and Angola all met in the northwest. He had taken a mule, jeep, and bus to get to Maun. Because of his late arrival, the Johannesburg-born Sam Canon was the only other deacon who had not taken the morning bus for Cape Town. Jones relayed the archbishop’s instructions to the twenty-four-year-old deacon. Canon said he would be honored to accompany Deacon Jones to Maun.
The men went to the quarters the deacons used whenever they came in from the field. After removing their dirty soutanes and showering away the dust of the journey, the men put on fresh cassocks. In the absence of Father Bradbury, they would be responsible for ministering to any tourists who might need them. Deacon Jones made tea in the small kitchen area and then took it onto the veranda. The two men sat in wicker chairs and looked out at the flat, sprawling floodplain. The afternoon was as dry, warm, and windless as usual for this time of year. The sky was cloudless, and the amber sun was low.
“Do you have any idea at all what’s behind this?” Canon asked.
Eliot Jones had never been an especially political man. He had been raised in an upper-middle-class household in the Kensington section of London. Political history interested Jones only when it impacted on his two loves. Those were art and religion.
“I’m not sure,” Jones said. “Have you ever read anything about the Mahdi of the Sudan?”
“Are you talking about the one who fought the British in the 1880s?” Canon asked.
“That’s right,” Jones said. “The British were under the command of General Gordon.”
“I saw the movie Khartoum with Charlton Heston,” Canon said, somewhat embarrassed.
Jones smiled. “In the video library at the archdiocese?”
Canon nodded.
“I saw it, too.” Jones smiled. “I first became interested in the conflict between the two men when I was thirteen. Gordon was a very religious Christian who fought in the Crimean War, put down the Taiping Rebellion, and then went searching for Noah’s Ark. That was something I always wished I could do. Read the Bible and other texts, look for clues, then search through the mountains. I found a copy of General Gordon’s published journals and was fascinated by the quest. He finally had to give it up to undertake the defense of the loyal British subjects of Khartoum.
The Mahdi was Muhammad Ahmad, a forty-year-old Muslim religious leader. For years, Ahmad would preach to whomever would listen. Typically, they were the hungry, the homeless, people without hope. In 1881, Ahmad became convinced that he was God’s vice-regent on earth. He was equally convinced that the ills of his people were due to the presence of infidels. He declared a jihad, a holy war, and from that point forth, he would go anywhere, slay or torture anyone who disagreed with his worldview. Only General Charles Gordon and a few hundred Sudanese soldiers were on hand in Khartoum to oppose him. The Mahdi slaughtered them and thousands of citizens who were loyal to him.”
“The first radical Islamic fundamentalist,” Canon said.
“Not really,” Jones replied. “But he was the first one who made all the newspapers in England.”
“So are you saying that you see parallels between that conflict and this one?” Canon asked.
“I do,” Jones replied. “I don’t believe Father Bradbury’s kidnapping or the deacon missionaries being asked to leave has to do with national origin. It’s clearly a religious issue.”
“A Mahdi in the making,” Canon said.
“That’s what I believe,” Jones told him.
“How do you know the government is not behind this for some reason?” Canon asked.
“The Church brings food, education, and health care to the villages,” Jones said. “That encourages peace. The government of Botswana gains nothing by casting us out.”
“Then how do you explain what Director Ndebele told me when I arrived?” Canon said. “He said that Father Bradbury was taken away by soldiers.”
“Soldiers can be hired,” Jones pointed out.
“But what kind of loyalty do they give you?” Canon asked. “What kind of courage?”
“Enough, if it gets the job done,” Jones replied. “Especially if you hire enough of them. I also spoke with Director Ndebele. He said that forty or fifty men came to take Father Bradbury. That tells me the kidnappers were looking to make some kind of statement.”
Canon shook his head slowly. “I really don’t know about these things. My parents were always talking about politics, but I didn’t get involved. It seemed to me that all the answers we needed were in the Bible. That was my guide. The word of God.”
Jones smiled. “That’s exactly how General Gordon felt. In the end, he could have used a few more bullets.”
“What happened to the Mahdi?” Canon asked.
“His own success killed him,” Jones replied.
“How do you mean?” Canon asked.
“His holy warriors slaughtered the defenders of Khartoum and left their bodies in the streets for weeks,” Jones told him. “As a result, there was an epidemic of typhus. The Mahdi succumbed to the disease just a few months after securing Khartoum.”
“ ‘Let evil hunt down the violent man speedily,’ ” Canon said.
“Psalms 140:11,” Deacon Jones said.
“Yes,” said Canon. “The Mahdi was doomed the moment he raised a sword against others. But it did not need to be that way; 1 Corinthians 2:15 says, ‘The spiritual man judges all things, but is himself to be judged by no one.’ If the Mahdi had been a truly spiritual man, devoted to God and not to glory, he would have preached instead of making war. He would not have been destroyed.”
“To the contrary,” Jones agreed. “He might have had a more lasting impact. Working among the people here, I have seen deep spirituality,” he said. “Many of those who have not been persuaded by the teachings of Christ have held tightly to thei
r own faith. I admire their conviction. Faith and truth must be the vehicles of change,” he insisted. “Otherwise, the result is never permanent.”
Canon grinned. “Have their beliefs ever made you doubt your own?” the deacon asked.
“No,” he replied. “But they have made me reexamine it. And every time I do, I come away stronger.”
The men sat in silence then, as they sipped their tea. The sun dropped, and the air cooled quickly. The chill felt good. The silence, settled upon such vastness, was humbling.
Deacon Jones’s cell phone beeped. He jumped from the sound and quickly pulled the phone from the pocket of his cassock. He expected it to be the archbishop’s secretary.
It was not.
It was Father Bradbury with a surprising request.
EIGHTEEN
Washington, D.C. Thursday, 9:55 A.M.
The meeting with Bob Herbert, Ron Plummer, and Edgar Kline ended with Herbert going off to call Maria and Kline chatting with Hood for several minutes longer. Their conversation ranged from the financial and political health of Botswana to Hood soothing the lingering indignation Kline felt at having been put under surveillance. Hood behaved sympathetically because that was his job. The truth was, he felt a lot like he did when he was mayor of Los Angeles. City officials often expected to be exempted from tasks such as jury duty or waiting in line at amusement parks and crowded restaurants because of who they were. Kline expected to be above suspicion because of who he worked for. Hood rejected both attitudes. The only thing that mattered to him was his responsibility to the rights and security of his constituents. When Kline left to go to New York City, he seemed satisfied, though perhaps not entirely convinced, that Bob Herbert simply had been following Op-Center protocol.
As for Maria, Herbert came back into Hood’s office to assure him that she would be ready for the challenge.
Hood had offered to brief Darrell McCaskey as soon as he arrived. Herbert asked to handle that.
“Darrell was not happy to hear that you were contacting a friend at the FBI,” Herbert said. “But he’s going to be a lot less happy when he hears what I’m going to do.”
“I would agree with that,” Hood said dryly.
“If he blows up at me, he can always complain to you. If he blows up at you, he may walk out on us. We don’t want him to do that.”
“But he is going to blow up,” Hood thought aloud.
“Oh yeah,” Herbert said. “It could be one big blast or a lot of small ones. I’m guessing small ones. He will want to do what’s right for Op-Center, so that will stuff the big one down.”
Hood gave him the go-ahead. Besides, there were other things Hood needed to do. His old financial colleague Emmy Feroche had been in a meeting. He left word on her voice mail to call him back. In the meantime, Hood wanted to talk to Shigeo Fujima.
As soon as Herbert left, Hood brought up Fujima’s file. He scanned it quickly. The man was thirty-five, married, two children. He held an advanced degree in political science from Tokyo University and another in criminology from the Osaka School of Law. He had been with the Intelligence and Analysis Bureau for seven years. The man obviously had intelligence chops and political savvy. The Japanese were a hierarchical society. To be the head of the IAB at such a young age was very impressive.
After checking Fujima’s file, Hood brought up the dossier on Henry Genet. The fifty-three-year-old Antwerp native was a diamond merchant. He was on the board of directors of Beaudin International Industries along with several other movers and shakers of French business and finance.
Hood punched in the telephone number Fujima had left on Herbert’s voice mail. The head of the Japanese Intelligence and Analysis Bureau was in a meeting. He left it to take Hood’s call.
“Thank you for calling back, Mr. Hood,” Fujima said. “I’m honored the director of Op-Center would call personally.”
The intelligence officer’s voice was calm and respectful, and his manner was unhurried. But that did not mean anything. Japanese officials were always calm and unhurried.
Hood decided to get right to the matter at hand. He did not have time to get into what Martha Mackall used to call the “plastic bouquet liturgy,” the back-and-forth exchange of insincerely sweet compliments that typified initial conversations with most Japanese officials.
“Your call interested me personally,” Hood replied. “You had questions about Henry Genet?”
“Yes,” Fujima replied.
“Let’s see if I can help you,” Hood prompted.
Fujima was silent for a moment. Within seconds the men had gone from empty, free-flowing compliments to the taciturn dance of intelligence personnel. This business was unlike any other Paul Hood had ever encountered. When the Japanese intelligence officer spoke, it was with care and precision.
“We have been watching Mr. Henry Genet because of several recent investment and business undertakings,” Fujima began. “Over the past few months, he has increased the hiring of personnel in Botswana. At least, that is what it says on the tax forms filed in Gaborone.”
“But you don’t believe it,” Hood said.
“I do not,” Fujima said.
“What kind of personnel is he supposed to have hired?” Hood asked.
“Diamond buyers, security personnel for his purchases, scouts for new purchases—”
“In other words, the kind of employees that would not raise any flags,” Hood said.
“Yes,” Fujima agreed. “Yet we saw no evidence of such personnel in our surveillance.”
Hood was curious what kind of surveillance the Japanese were using. HUMINT resources might be helpful to Op-Center. Yet even if Hood had asked, Fujima would not have told him. Putting the man on the spot would have served no purpose. Sometimes a man gained respect by not asking things he wanted to know. That was certainly true when dealing with the Japanese.
“During that same period, Genet has also withdrawn nearly one hundred million dollars from banks in Japan, Taiwan, and the United States,” Fujima went on. “Genet has used some of that money to lease large tracts of land and invest in factories in both China and North Korea.”
“That could simply be an investment decision,” Hood said. “The Chinese economy is expected to grow exponentially over the next twenty years.”
“A reasonable assumption,” Fujima agreed. “Except that Mr. Genet established several international holding companies to share the ownership of the property and apparently to conceal his involvement.”
“What are the names of the companies?” Hood asked.
“The only one we know is called Eye At Sea,” he replied. “It’s incorporated in Holland and lists its business as venture capital. We believe that Mr. Albert Beaudin is part of that investment group. He should not have to conceal his participation. It is not illegal for Frenchmen to invest in China.”
“Where in China has Genet leased land?” Hood asked.
“The property is in Shenyang in the Liaoning province,” Fujima replied. “Are you familiar with that region of China, Mr. Hood?”
“I am,” Hood said. “That’s where the Chinese manufacture their advanced J-8 II fighter jets.”
“That’s right,” Fujima said. “And that is why the purchase concerns us. They have a highly skilled, relatively inexpensive labor pool there. An international munitions manufacturer could make a great deal of money using that talent. Obviously, it’s an area of enterprise that Japan must watch closely.”
“Of course,” Hood said. “Do you have any indication that Albert Beaudin himself was involved in the purchase or that he is looking to expand his operations into China?”
“None, Mr. Hood,” Fujima admitted. “But we cannot ignore those possibilities.”
“Of course not,” Hood said.
Hood went back to the computer file on the Beaudin corporate structure. He reviewed the biographies of each individual. The entries were short and did not show the common origins, traumas, national agenda, or even ages that typically for
med the basis for what was classified as PIGs—political intervention groups. Hood had always felt that was a fitting acronym for groups that backed terrorists, rebels, and coups.
“Have the other members of Beaudin’s team made any significant financial transactions?” Hood asked.
“To date, we have only been watching Mr. Genet and Mr. Beaudin,” the intelligence officer replied. “But you were in finance, Mr. Hood. Consider some of the names on Beaudin’s board. Richard Bequette. Robert Stiele. Gurney de Sylva. Peter Diffring. Are any of them familiar to you?”
“They weren’t until now,” Hood admitted.
“You have files on them?” Fujima asked.
“I have very thin files,” Hood said. “I’ll forward them when we’re done. They all appear to be low-profile French, Belgian, and German financiers.”
“These are extremely low-profile gentlemen,” Fujima agreed. “But directly they control nearly one billion dollars. Indirectly, through partnerships and through individuals who follow their investment leads, they control four to five billion dollars.”
That sum was greater than the gross domestic product of Botswana.
“I am not convinced that we’re witnessing the unfolding of a master plan,” Fujima went on. “Nonetheless, I was hoping you might have some information on Genet, Beaudin, or their colleagues. We cannot ignore the potential for at least a financial assault on international economies.”
Fujima’s use of the term “at least” suggested his greater worry: that the European money, along with Beaudin technology, would be used to enhance the already formidable Chinese military machine. It was a justifiable concern.
What troubled Hood more was whether the events in Botswana were connected to the activities of Genet. Shaking up the flow of diamonds from the south of Africa would be significant to a portion of the world economy, but it would not be enough to help wage a “financial assault.”
