by Clancy, Tom
As he was led from the hut, the priest wailed in despair.
TWENTY
Maun, Botswana Thursday, 6:46 P.M.
It was as if no time had passed.
Most human bodies have a better memory than the mind. Skills once learned do not go away, whether it is assembling a rifle or holding a pencil. Reflexes and instincts work faster than thought. Even when the limbs age, they have the capacity to recall their abilities and execute many of them. The mind? Leon Seronga could not tell someone how to tie a shoe. But he could show them. He could not remember what he had for dinner two nights ago. But his fingertips could remember the weight of a switchblade he had learned to use when he was a boy. Whenever Seronga took the old knife from his pocket, his hand and arm could run a slash attack on their own.
Seronga sat on his motor scooter looking out at the tourist center. His body told him it was 1966. His senses were finely tuned. His muscles, only slightly impaired by age, were still at hair-trigger readiness. He and his companion, Donald Pavant, had driven to Maun and rented Malaguti Firefox F15 RR scooters. Dressed in white and blue Dainese scooter jackets, the men had pretended to be recreational bikers as they made their way across the floodplain. They raced through gullies and jumped small hills as they headed away from the city. Now that it was nearly dark, the men had stopped to keep an eye on the tourist center. If everything was all right, they would contact the men at the edge of the swamp. They would proceed to the Church of Loyola in Shakawe to kidnap the priest there. Seronga expected that he would be guarded now, probably by local police. The military would not want to give this a high profile. Not yet. But whoever was there, it would not matter. There was always a way in.
Seronga and Pavant had come here to keep an eye on any surreptitious developments at this church. The Brush Vipers wondered if the archdiocese in Cape Town, perhaps the Vatican itself, would let the violation of this place go unanswered. Would the Church respond with calm or would they send a battery of priests? Perhaps they would send nuns to see if women were vulnerable.
The secure phone provided by Genet beeped. The call from the Belgian gave Seronga his answer.
“Dhamballa just spoke with our guest,” Genet informed the leader of the Brush Vipers. “As we anticipated, there is a new one coming over. We were told that a bishop is due in Maun tomorrow afternoon. Two individuals from your locale will be meeting him at the airfield.”
“Is this new arrival traveling alone?” Seronga asked.
“That’s what we were told,” Genet informed him.
“Where is he coming from?” Seronga asked.
“The United States,” Genet replied.
“Interesting.”
“Very,” Genet said. “That automatically makes it a global affair and guarantees the interest of international press if something happens.”
Any move against him could draw America into this conflict in some capacity. Probably in a démarche, intense diplomatic activity. Possibly even a military one. There was a zero-tolerance policy for terrorism. A limited search-and-rescue operation could be called for. On the other hand, the clergyman might simply be bait to capture the abductors. The government in Gaborone might dispatch troops to protect him. Or perhaps the Vatican had made its own security arrangements.
Seronga thanked Genet for the update and hung up. The Belgian did not have to tell him what to do. That had been decided ahead of time. If a replacement were sent for Father Bradbury, he was to be taken. But not with a show of force this time. The abduction of Father Bradbury had been done that way to show the world that Dhamballa had soldiers to use if he wished. If Seronga had come back with his army, the Botswana president might begin to fear a brewing civil war. He would have no choice but to call on his own military. Dhamballa did not want that. This time, the kidnapping must be different. It must be very subtle. To slip the priest’s replacement away would show Gaborone that this was not a war. It was a dispute. And the dispute was not with Botswana or its people. It was with the Roman Catholic Church. Only later, when Dhamballa had established a strong religious base among the general population, would he use his ministry to impact nationalism and politics.
Seronga briefed Pavant. The thirty-three-year-old was the youngest of the Brush Vipers. He was also one of the most militant. Born and raised in Lobatse on the South African border, Pavant was exposed to refugees from apartheid. Pavant believed that Africa was for native Africans and their descendants. He was one of the first men to discover Dhamballa and his ministry.
The men waited a quarter of a mile from the tourist center. They sat on their bikes, shielded by the darkness. They ate chicken sandwiches they had picked up in Maun and watched the dirt road for headlights. They did not speak. After five hours on the bikes, the silence felt good.
At a few minutes before nine o’clock, the evening bus from Maun pulled up to the front gate of the tourist center. Seronga asked for the binoculars. Pavant reached into the small equipment locker on the back of his bike. He removed the case and handed the binoculars to Seronga. The leader of the Brush Vipers peered across the dark, still floodplain.
There were several things odd about the group. The size, for one. There were about twenty-five new arrivals. That was a large number for this time of year. Most of the large tour groups came when the weather was cooler. Seronga watched carefully. They were all carrying duffel bags as well as having suitcases stored below. The bags had a sameness to them, as if the tourists had packed an identical amount of clothes, the same number of personal items. Individuals on a trip did not do that. Seronga also noticed that no one had plastic bags or souvenir caps, the kinds of things one typically picked up in airports or local gift shops.
And one thing more struck Seronga as very unusual. Most of the tourists were men.
“It looks as if a lot of people came in,” Pavant remarked.
“Too many,” Seronga remarked.
As Seronga watched, there were other things that made him uneasy.
Genet and Dhamballa had set out very strict guidelines for Seronga and his Brush Vipers to follow. Clergymen were to be captured as nonviolently as possible. None was to be martyred, even if it meant aborting a mission. Care was to be taken so that parishioners were never harmed.
Military or police action taken against Dhamballa or the Brush Vipers was to be met with deadly force. Dhamballa did not like killing. It angered the gods. But Seronga did not have enough soldiers that he could afford to lose any of them. He argued that self-defense was not an evil act. He also did not want his people captured. A prisoner who had been tortured, his brain rewired, could be made to say just about anything. A show trial could be used to discredit Dhamballa.
Reluctantly, Dhamballa had agreed to killing under those conditions. But neither man had expected things to reach that stage this early.
Seronga continued to study the group. The truth was, he had no way of knowing whether these were tourists or soldiers traveling incognito. He could not see if they were black or white. They might have come from Gaborone. Perhaps the United States sent them from the embassy to look after their cleric. The Americans had soldiers stationed there. These could have been selected from their ranks. Perhaps they would go touring when the deacons went to Maun to meet the American cleric. Perhaps the tourists would be watching for any attempts to abduct the new arrival. The bishop could not be allowed to reach the church and resume Father Bradbury’s work. If he did, priests and field missionaries might be encouraged to stay. Dhamballa could not afford to let that happen.
“How is their posture?” Pavant asked.
“Excellent,” Seronga said.
“Then they can’t be tourists,” Pavant said. “They always slump.”
“Yes, and when these people got out, several did stretches,” Seronga said. “They seem accustomed to traveling great distances.” He handed his companion the binoculars. “And look at how they’re moving.”
Pavant studied the group for a moment. “They’re passing each othe
r bags as they unload them.”
“Like troops,” Seronga said. “Let’s give them a while to settle in, and then we’ll go over.”
Seronga took the binoculars back. He continued to watch the bus until it pulled away. The more he saw of the dark figures, the more convinced he became that something was afoot.
He would soon know if that were true. And if it was, he would know what to do about it.
TWENTY-ONE
Washington, D.C. Thursday, 11:47 A.M.
Darrell McCaskey left Mike Rodgers chatting with David Battat and Aideen Marley at DiMaggio’s Joe. Within a half hour, the general had the two operatives revved up and ready to die for him. Rodgers’s sense of purpose, and the quiet intensity with which he stated it, made people want to work with him. The genius of Mike Rodgers was that he was standoffish without being cold. He did not welcome new friendships. If others wanted to be with him, service was all they could give him. Colonel Brett August was the only one who had ever gotten close to Rodgers. And that had taken him a lifetime.
Darrell McCaskey was not like that. When he was with the FBI and out in the field, he had been ice. That was the only way to deal with the terrorists and drug dealers and kidnappers. He had to forget they were people with parents and siblings and children. His job was to uphold the law. If that meant arresting a single mother who was pushing heroin to support her kids, he did it.
When he was at the office or went home, McCaskey always did a one eighty. He let himself get close to people. He had to. He needed to keep his armor from becoming permanent. He opened himself up to superiors, subordinates, custodians, neighbors, shopkeepers, women he dated.
Inevitably, with that kind of emotional exposure came trust. Equally as inevitable, with trust came disappointment. And right now, McCaskey was disappointed in a man he had trusted.
Bob Herbert’s call to Maria had gnawed at him during the drive from Georgetown to Andrews Air Force Base. Herbert knew that this was a sensitive area in the couple’s relationship. McCaskey did not believe that Herbert had set out to hurt him. But his coworker, his friend, had not done anything to protect him, either. If Herbert had asked, McCaskey could have put him in touch with any number of Interpol agents in Madrid. They could have done the same job as Maria. McCaskey could not imagine what the hell the guy was thinking.
He tried calling his wife during the drive. Her cell phone voice mail took his call. He asked her to call back as soon as possible. She did not.
By the time McCaskey reached Op-Center, he was in a silent rage. The former G-man went directly to Bob Herbert’s office. That was probably a bad idea, and he knew it. But Herbert was not a kid. He could take a dressing down. Hell, he had no choice. It was coming.
The door to Herbert’s office was shut. McCaskey knocked. Paul Hood opened it.
“Good morning, Darrell,” Hood said.
“Morning,” McCaskey said. He entered the office. Op-Center’s director shut the door behind him. Herbert was seated behind his desk. Hood remained standing. His white shirtsleeves were rolled up and his tie loosened. Paul Hood was not a casual man. It must have been a tough morning. Or maybe Hood was just expecting it to get tougher.
“Everything okay?” Hood asked.
“Sure,” McCaskey replied. He did not attempt to conceal the edge in his voice. But if Hood or Herbert noticed, they said nothing. They apparently had their own problems. McCaskey had spent nearly three decades in law enforcement. When the temperature of a room was off, he knew it.
“I was just bringing Bob up to speed on developments in Africa,” Hood said. “You know what happened over there? About the kidnapping of Father Powys Bradbury?”
“I read the briefing on the Op-ED page before I left the house,” McCaskey said.
“Bad news and a Danish,” Herbert said.
“Something like that,” McCaskey replied. Their eyes remained locked a moment longer than ordinary conversation required. McCaskey realized just how angry he was at Bob Herbert for having contacted Maria.
The Op-ED page was the Op-Center Executive Dossier page, a twice-daily summary of NCMC activities. Written by the daytime department heads, it was posted on the internal web site. In that way, officials who did not normally interact could stay on top of what was happening in different divisions. It was also a quick way for the night crew to get up to speed. The Op-ED program also cross-referenced names and places with files from other U.S. intelligence agencies. If a company owned by Albert Beaudin were involved in an investigation over at the CIA, FBI, NSA, military intelligence, or some other agency, the respective department heads would be notifed via automated E-mail.
“There are a few things aren’t on the Op-ED yet,” Hood said. “Have you ever heard of a diamond dealer by the name of Henry Genet?”
“No,” McCaskey said.
“Genet has financial ties to Albert Beaudin, the French industrialist,” Hood told him.
“The Musketeer,” McCaskey said.
“Right,” Hood said. “As Bob and I were just discussing, the most compelling reason for Op-Center to be involved in this situation is to track whatever Beaudin might be doing. After what we went through in France with the New Jacobins, we can’t afford to underestimate this guy.”
“I agree,” McCaskey said.
“The big question is whether these people have anything to do with a religious cult leader named Dhamballa,” Herbert said.
“Where’s the link?” McCaskey asked.
“A man named Leon Seronga,” Herbert told him. “Seronga is one of the founders of the Brush Vipers, a paramilitary intelligence group that helped Botswana get its independence from Great Britain. The Vatican suspects Seronga of having kidnapped their priest. He has also been seen at Dhamballa’s rallies. The MO of what went down in Maun is reminiscent of how the Brush Vipers used to strike. In and out, surgical, usually early in the morning when people were still groggy. We’ve promised to help Rome try to clear up some of these connections, maybe get some people over there.”
“I think we’re past the maybe stage,” McCaskey said. “I was just with Mike, Aideen Marley, and David Battat. They’re ready to go.”
Hearing this, Herbert punched in the telephone extension of Barbara Crowe. Crowe ran Op-Center’s documents department. This wasn’t his operation, but he had never been one to fret over formalities. They would need counterfeit IDs, credit cards, and passports. Crowe could use photographs from their dossiers. Battat had been registered in a hospital in Azerbaijan. Marley had been involved in an assassination in Spain. The new identities would prevent their names from raising flags in any customs or airline databases.
While Herbert told Barbara what Marley and Battat would need, Hood continued the briefing.
“Apart from Beaudin and the missing priest, there is another immediate concern,” Hood said. “The Vatican is sending a replacement to run the church in Maun, a bishop from D.C. He arrives tomorrow.”
“Have they got resources to protect him?” McCaskey asked.
“Yes, which is what concerns me,” Hood said. “He is going to be shadowed by undercover Spanish troops posing as tourists.”
“How did Spain get involved?” McCaskey asked.
“They’re in this because of the Madrid Accords,” Herbert said as he hung up with Barbara Crowe. “That’s a fairly recent alliance between the Vatican and the king of Spain. A dozen of the Spanish army’s elite troops have gone over to Botswana. We tracked their flight. They’re definitely on the ground and probably already on site.”
“Paul, why is that a concern?” McCaskey asked.
“Because now you’ve got five political entities involved,” Hood said. “The U.S. through the bishop. The cult. The Botswana government. The Vatican. And the Spanish.”
“Ordinarily, coalitions are a good thing,” Herbert said. “In this case, though, we feel that the Vatican should be walking softly, not hammering what may be a manageable crisis.”
“Manageable by us,” McCaskey said.<
br />
“It’s worth a try,” Hood said.
“What we should be doing is gathering intel to see if the priest can be rescued,” Herbert said. “That should be done before anything else, including sending in a replacement.”
“Would Maria be part of this intel gathering group?” McCaskey asked directly.
“Darrell, Bob and I were just discussing that,” Hood said.
That was what McCaskey sensed when he entered the room. The chill between the men.
“I had called her to get me some information from the Ministry of Defense,” Herbert said. “She got that. She said she wanted to do more.”
“You asked her to go to Botswana,” McCaskey said.
There was another long look. There was something in the intelligence chief’s eyes. Something strong, as if he were braced for an assault.
“No, that isn’t it,” McCaskey said suddenly. “You already sent her.”
“Yes,” Herbert said. “She is en route.”
“You recruited my wife to spy on the Brush Vipers,” McCaskey said. As though saying the words would help him process them. “You sent her to track people who know Botswana better than we know D.C.”
“She’s not going to be alone for long,” Hood said. “And she’s been given very strict orders to gather data from secondary sources.”
“As if my wife knows the meaning of moderation,” McCaskey declared.
“Darrell, let’s talk about this,” Hood said.
McCaskey shook his head. He did not know what to do or what to think. But talking it out was third on his list of options. Beating the hell out of Herbert and walking out of the office were ahead of it, in that order.
“Darrell, I okayed the call to Maria,” Hood said. “If she was going to get to Botswana in time for the bishop’s arrival, she had to leave immediately.”
“Traveling under her own name?” McCaskey said.
“No, under her married name,” Herbert pointed out. “I made sure that she had already changed her passport. Maria McCaskey won’t show up in any foreign databases.”
