by Clancy, Tom
Hood received an instant message from Bugs Benet. Emmy Feroche was on the line. Hood wrote back and asked him to have her hold on.
“Mr. Fujima, I’m going to look into these developments for you,” Hood said. “Bob Herbert or I will keep you informed. I hope you will do the same.”
“I will,” Fujima promised.
The Japanese intelligence officer thanked him. Hood told Bugs to forward the personnel files of the Beaudin board to Mr. Fujima. Then he grabbed the call from Emmy.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Emmy,” Hood said.
“Not a problem, Paul,” she said. “It’s great to hear from you! How has life been?”
“Eventful,” he replied.
“I can’t wait to catch up,” she said. “God, it’s amazing how ‘Let’s stay in touch’ can turn into ‘Has it really been that long?’ ”
“I know,” Hood said. “How is the world of white-collar crime?”
“Overall, it’s very busy,” Emmy told him. “At the moment, it’s completely insane.”
“Why?” Hood asked.
“We’re checking to see if there were any improprieties in several major stock deals,” Emmy told him. “Have you ever heard of a German stockbroker named Robert Stiele?”
Hood felt a chill. “It so happens I have,” he replied. “What did he do?”
“Stiele quietly pulled the trigger on some major deals early this morning, Euro time,” she said. “He dumped one hundred and fourteen million dollars in blue-chip stock holdings, companies that were doing well, and put the money into three separate, privately held operations.”
“Do you have their names?” Hood asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “The first one is VeeBee Ltd., the second one is Les Jambes de Venus—”
“And the third is Eye At Sea,” Hood said.
“Yes!” Emmy replied. She was obviously impressed. “How do you know that?”
“I can’t tell you,” Hood said.
“Well, Mr. Wizard, what can you tell me?” she asked.
“Look into Albert Beaudin,” he said.
“Why?”
“Can’t tell you that either,” Hood said. “what are you doing about Stiele?”
“We’re trying to find out if Mr. Stiele knows something about the blue chips that we don’t.”
“I wouldn’t worry about the blue chips,” Hood said. “This is about Stiele. He needed to get liquid.”
“Why?” she pressed.
“That,” Hood replied, “is a damn good question.”
NINETEEN
Okavango Swamp, Botswana Thursday, 6:00 P.M.
It was ironic. After being given food and rest, Father Bradbury’s own tactics were used against him.
The priest had recalled the missionaries, as instructed. Then he was taken outside. He was not bound or hooded, and it felt strange to see the morning light, to feel fresh air on his face. He was allowed to use the little island’s outhouse. After that, he was not returned to “the cage,” as his captors called it. He was taken to a small hut. The window was shuttered, the walls were made of logs, and the roof was corrugated tin. Near the ceiling, a series of four small holes had been cut two feet apart in the walls on every side. They provided the small room’s only light and ventilation. The door was bolted from the outside, and the floor was concrete. But there was a cot against the back wall, and Bradbury was given bread and water. After saying grace, he ate and drank greedily.
The air was humid and extremely hot. Following his modest meal, Father Bradbury stood on the cot and sucked the relatively cool morning air through one of the openings. Then, his eyes heavy, he lay down on his belly. He put his head on the towel that passed for a pillow. He reeked of dried perspiration and the smells of the swamp. Marsh flies scouted his sticky hands and cheeks. But the heat, the stench, the bugs, all of that vanished when the priest shut his eyes. He was asleep within moments.
The next thing Father Bradbury knew, he was being awakened by a firm tap on the shoulder and a gruff, unfamiliar voice.
“Get up!”
It was now very dark in the room and he had no idea how long he’d been asleep. The voice seemed to be coming from far away. The priest felt incredibly groggy. He was not even certain he was awake. He did not want to move, let alone stand.
Someone tapped him again. “Come on!” the voice said.
Father Bradbury tried to face the speaker. His arms were asleep, and it was a moment before he could move. He finally looked over at a shadowy figure. It was someone he did not know.
The man reached down and grabbed Father Bradbury’s upper arm. He gave it a sharp tug. Obviously, the priest was not moving swiftly enough. Father Bradbury pushed himself off the cot and stood unsteadily, and his vision swirled from having gotten up too quickly. Still holding him, the man led the clergyman through the open door. The skies were blue black as they walked across the warm soil toward a hut. The structure was about thirty yards away. Father Bradbury had not seen Dhamballa’s hut from the outside. The last time he was pulled in this direction, he had been wearing a hood. But he saw half-dragged footprints in the soil. They were probably his. And they led to this structure.
The island seemed deserted. There was only the one soldier to escort the priest. That did not surprise Father Bradbury. Even if he had the strength, where would an unarmed man go? Especially with predators hiding in the murky waters and along the moss-shrouded shoreline.
But flight was not what Father Bradbury had in mind. Sometimes the best escape was to change the prison itself.
“Whom do I thank for giving me food and allowing me to rest?” the priest pressed.
The man responded with silence. The priest was undeterred.
“May I know your name?” Father Bradbury asked.
The man still did not answer him.
“I am Powys Sebastian Bradbury—”
“Quiet!”
“I’m sorry,” Father Bradbury replied.
The priest had not really expected the man to say anything. Nonetheless, now that he had the strength, the clergyman wanted to try to engage these people in conversation. When talking to parishioners or taking confession, Father Bradbury found that trust often grew from the most banal or innocent exchanges. It was easy to evolve a conversation. To progress from learning a person’s name to discussing the weather to asking how they’re feeling. Now that the priest was rested and thinking more clearly, establishing a personal connection with his captors was a priority. It might not guarantee his safety or gain his release, but it might give Father Bradbury a clue as to what the Botswanans were planning. It might also tell him whether he should continue to participate.
But conversation was like a spear with two heads. If a man pushed too hard, he could impale himself on the backside.
The priest was taken inside the hut. Dhamballa was there. He was sitting on a wicker mat by the far wall. His back was to the door. There was a candle in front of him. It gave off a tart smell, like burning rubber. It was the only light in the room. There was a wooden bucket behind the man. Father Bradbury could not see what was inside.
The soldier sat the priest in a folding chair in the center of the room. Then the young man closed the door and stood beside it. There was a tray on the dirt floor to Father Bradbury’s right. On it were a cell phone, a plate of fruit, a pitcher of water, and a glass.
“You may drink or eat, if you wish,” Dhamballa said. He spoke without turning around.
“Thank you,” Father Bradbury said. He filled the water glass and took a banana.
“You did both,” Dhamballa remarked.
“Yes.”
“But I gave you a choice,” Dhamballa pointed out.
The priest apologized. He put the banana back.
“You kept the water,” Dhamballa said.
“Yes.”
“People will always choose drink over food,” Dhamballa said. “Do you know why?”
“Thirst is a more commanding need, I would say,” th
e priest replied.
“No,” Dhamballa told him. “Water is the companion to air, earth, and fire. Men always return to the four elemental forces to nurture life, to find the truth, to understand themselves.”
“Is that what you are doing out here?” Father Bradbury asked. “Searching for truth?”
“I am not,” Dhamballa said. He looked back. His face was dark, but his head was haloed by the candle’s orange glow. He looked very young, very innocent. “I have found the truth. I am preparing to bring it to others.”
“Does that include me?” Father Bradbury asked.
Dhamballa now turned around fully. He stood. Dhamballa was a tall man, well over six feet. He was barefoot and dressed in a brown, sleeveless robe that reached to his ankles. “What do you know of Vodunism?”
The word itself made Father Bradbury feel unclean. He looked down at the cup of water. It reminded him of the Baptist. What is elemental to one is holy to another. That made him feel a little better. Besides, the Vatican had established guidelines that enabled missions to exist harmoniously with indigenous faiths. The most important was to open a dialogue with the leaders of those faiths. Not to remain a mysterious, threatening secret.
“I know nothing about Vodunism,” Father Bradbury replied. He did not want to tell what little he knew about voodoo or the black arts. He could not risk misspeaking and insulting his host. As long as they kept talking, as long as they opened up to one another, the priest had hope.
“But you are acquainted with the term,” Dhamballa continued.
“Yes,” the priest admitted.
“What is your perception of Vodunism?” Dhamballa asked.
The priest considered his words carefully. “It is an ancient set of practices. I have read that your beliefs are rooted in nature. In the elementals, if you will. Your rites are said to employ herbal mixtures that can control the will, raise the dead, and perform other acts of the supernatural.”
“That is part of it. Some of our ‘practices,’ as you describe them, are at least eight thousand years old,” Dhamballa said.
“Your history is great,” Father Bradbury agreed.
“Our history?” Dhamballa said. “We are more than an accumulation of years and events.”
“Forgive me,” Father Bradbury said immediately. “I did not mean any disrespect.”
“In truth, priest, you know nothing about the heart of my faith,” Dhamballa went on.
“No,” Father Bradbury admitted.
“How can you know anything?” Dhamballa asked. “In the fifteenth century, your priests came to Africa, and later to the West Indies. They baptized my people to save us from a ‘profound evil.’ Growing up in Machaneng, I knew priests. I watched them. I saw how they promised the poor riches in the next life.”
“They are there,” Father Bradbury assured him.
“No,” Dhamballa replied. “The riches are here. I saw them when I worked in the diamond mines. I watched as good Christians took our wealth from us, and the priests did nothing to stop them.”
“It is not our job to restrict the actions of others,” Father Bradbury said.
“You did not speak against it.”
“Why would we? They broke no laws,” the priest observed.
“They did not break your laws,” Dhamballa said. “The laws that the British brought here and that subsequent governments retained. I do not recognize those laws.”
Father Bradbury wanted to say, Clearly you do not. But that would not have helped him.
“I judge all men by one measure, and that is truth,” Dhamballa said. “When I worked in the mines, I also saw the living faith of Vodunism. I saw men who could cure the hurt, the weary, the despairing with a touch, a prayer, a potion.” He pointed a finger at Father Bradbury. “They explained to me that they practiced in secret because those whom you have converted also regard them as evil. And yet these are arts my ancestors took with them when they migrated to the Middle East. They are skills that could very well have been used by your own Savior, Jesus Christ. White arts to heal, not black arts that hurt.”
“The powers of our Savior belonged to Him because He is the Son of God,” Father Bradbury said.
“We are all sons of God,” Dhamballa replied. “The question is, which god? Jehovah or Olorun?”
The cult leader moved forward slowly. Father Bradbury noticed there were snakes tattooed on the backs of his wrists.
“My faith is as old as civilization itself,” Dhamballa said. “It was ancient when your religion was not yet conceived. Our rites and our prayers have passed unchanged since the earliest days of man. Not just the black magic but the white magic, the arts your priests ignored as they had us flogged and hanged. We used mandrake to kill pain, rattles and drums to stimulate blood flow and cure illness, stimulated human glands by the consumption of animal meat and blood. Our priests do not just talk about miracles. They work miracles, every day, guided by Agwe, the essence of the sea; by Aida Wedo, the rainbow spirit; by Baron Samedi, the guardian of the grave; by Erinle, the heart of the forest; and by hundreds of others. The fortunate ones are taught in dreams and visions. These spirits give us the power and the wisdom to generate, to regenerate, or to destroy.”
“Are you one of the fortunate ones?” Father Bradbury asked.
“I am among the blessed,” the leader said with humility. “I am the priest of the serpent spirit Damballah. I have adopted a form of his name in tribute. My sacred task is to clean the nation of disbelievers. I must do that or else I must prepare the way for Ogu Bodagris, the great spirit of war. He wishes to reclaim the home that was once his.”
Just a few minutes before, the idea of John the Baptist had brought Father Bradbury a feeling of peace. It was frightening to think that Dhamballa saw himself in that same way. John was a bringer of light and eternal salvation. Dhamballa was a harbinger of darkness and damnation. Even if it cost Father Bradbury his life, the priest could not allow this war to happen.
Words, he reminded himself. Use them as you have in the past. Get him to open up.
“There must be a way to resolve our differences without bloodshed,” Father Bradbury said.
“There is, most definitely,” Dhamballa replied. “Withdraw your people. Return our nation to us.”
“But Botswana is home to many of us,” Father Bradbury replied. “I am a citizen. So is Deacon Jones and many others. We have spent much of our lives in Maun.”
“It cannot be your home because you came uninvited,” Dhamballa replied. “You came here for one reason. To try to conquer the native faith of Botswana. Your people are the ones who have made war on us.” Dhamballa pointed to Father Bradbury’s forehead. “A war of ideas. They will be crushed.”
“You speak of a different time, a different church,” Father Bradbury assured him. “We respect other religions, other religious leaders. We wish to coexist with you.”
“That is not true,” Dhamballa replied.
“I tell you it is,” Father Bradbury replied.
“Pick up the telephone,” Dhamballa told him.
Father Bradbury was caught off guard. He walked to the table and lifted the cordless receiver. It was larger than any telephone he had ever seen. It looked more like a walkie-talkie.
“Call your parish,” Dhamballa said. “Speak with your deacon. Ask who is coming to the church.”
The priest did so. Deacon Jones answered. The missionary was surprised and excited to hear from Father Bradbury.
“God is merciful! How are you, Father?” Jones asked.
The deacon’s voice was coming from the back of the receiver as well as the front. This was a portable speakerphone.
“I’m well,” the priest replied. “Deacon, tell me. Is someone coming to Holy Cross?”
“Yes,” the deacon replied. “A bishop is arriving tomorrow from Washington, D.C., to minister in your absence.”
“A bishop?” Bradbury said.
“Yes, Bishop Victor Max,” Jones said. “Deacon Canon an
d I are going to Maun to meet his plane when it arrives. Father, talk to me—where are you? Are they treating you well?”
“I am fine,” the priest said. “Is anyone else coming to the church?” Father Bradbury asked.
“No,” the deacon replied.
“Are you certain?” the priest asked.
“This is what I’ve been told,” Deacon Jones informed him.
Dhamballa held out his hand. Father Bradbury handed him the telephone. The Vodun leader punched it off.
“You see?” Dhamballa said.
“A bishop is coming,” Father Bradbury said. “A single clergyman. I’m certain he has been sent to tend to the needs of the people I left behind. My flock. My followers. He is no threat to you.”
The priest spoke softly and with great compassion. But as he awaited Dhamballa’s reply, Father Bradbury had an uneasy feeling, a sense that he had just made a terrible mistake.
“He is no threat,” the voodoo priest repeated disdainfully. His dark eyes glared at the priest. “As I suspected, they will replace one with another.”
“As you suspected?”
“They send one mightier in rank and from another nation, daring us to defend ourselves,” Dhamballa said.
“You used me,” the priest said angrily. “You didn’t know anyone was coming—”
“They are daring me to go after him,” Dhamballa said more to himself than to Father Bradbury. “But Leon expected this. We will postpone visiting the other churches to deal with this great man from America.” His eyes shifted to the soldier. “Grinnell, return the priest to the hut.”
The soldier took Father Bradbury by the arm. The priest tried to wrench it free.
“Wait!” the priest said. “What is going to happen now?”
Dhamballa turned back toward his mat. He did not answer.
Of all the hapless, trusting fools, Father Bradbury thought. The voodoo priest had done exactly what the priest himself had been trying to do. To engage his opponent and find out what he was thinking. Only Dhamballa had done it better. He had gotten the priest to open up, to hope, to trust. In so doing, Father Bradbury had told Dhamballa where and how to seize his next hostage.
