by Clancy, Tom
“You still could have run it past me,” McCaskey said. “You could have given me the courtesy of that.”
“You weren’t here,” Herbert said.
“I have a cell phone—”
“This is not the kind of thing I wanted to tell you over a telephone, secure or not,” Herbert replied. “That’s how people cancel dinner reservations and dentist appointments. This needed to be face-to-face.”
“Why?” McCaskey demanded. “How do you know I would have fought you on this?”
“Because you fought with Maria about it,” Herbert replied. “Hell, you broke up over this a few years ago. I couldn’t take the chance that you would hang up on me and call her. I didn’t want her distracted or upset.”
“Or have someone talking reason to her,” McCaskey said.
“That was not an issue,” Herbert insisted.
“Anyway, I thought this was Mike’s operation,” McCaskey snapped. “Mike thinks that, too. I just had breakfast with him.”
“It will be,” Hood said. “What Bob did was put Maria in a position where she might be able to help us. That’s all.”
“Look, Darrell,” Herbert said. “The Spanish military group has experience in quick military strikes. They have not shown that they can conduct surveillance or work for extended periods undercover. I needed someone who can do that. Someone who was in the right hemisphere. Someone who speaks Spanish and can talk to the soldiers, if necessary.”
McCaskey heard Herbert’s words. They all made sense. But logic aside, he could not get past having been left out of the loop. This was his wife they were talking about sending into a potential combat situation.
Which was why Herbert did it this way, McCaskey told himself. Herbert had just said so. To avoid involving her in a debate like this. To keep the high emotions away from Maria.
Reason told him that what Herbert had done was smart and professional. There were human interests, national interests at risk. But there were still conflicting personal and professional stakes. McCaskey could not think of a previous time when he had felt like this.
McCaskey continued to regard Herbert. As he did, something else eased into the equation. Something unexpected. McCaskey found it in Herbert’s gaze. Those lively Southern eyes did not reflect the same hard determination McCaskey had seen a moment before. There was something new.
There was pain.
It was then that the realization hit McCaskey. It struck him hard across the chest, almost taking his breath away.
Bob Herbert was reliving his own fears, his own trauma. Everything McCaskey was feeling, Herbert must have felt each day he and his late wife were in Beirut. Yet then as now, Herbert had put his nation first. He had done his duty, despite the cost.
The furnace inside Darrell McCaskey shut down. A minute before, he had felt completely alone. That was no longer the case.
“I don’t like this,” McCaskey said, his voice low. “But I will say this much. You certainly called on one of the best undercover ops in the business.”
Herbert seemed to relax slightly. “That I did,” he acknowledged.
McCaskey took a long breath, then looked from Herbert to Hood. “I told Mike I’d do some prep work in case his people went to Africa. I need to find out if there’s anyone they might be able to hook up with over there.”
“Great,” Hood said. “Thanks.”
McCaskey turned from Hood to Herbert, then quickly left the office. Though McCaskey’s manner was calm, he was far, far from being at peace.
TWENTY-TWO
Maun, Botswana Thursday, 11:01 P.M.
The door of the church living quarters did not have a lock. There was no need for one. As Father Bradbury used to say, “Lions cannot turn knobs, and human guests are always welcome.”
Tired from their journeys, Deacons Jones and Canon had retired at ten. Jones had spent over two hours on the telephone discussing his call from Father Bradbury. He had reported it, first, to a priest in Cape Town. Then he recounted the conversation to Archbishop Patrick himself. A few minutes later, he was telephoned by a security officer from the Vatican. After that, the deacon missionary received a call from a man named Kline in New York. Deacon Jones was glad for the many years he had spent memorizing lengthy passages of scripture. He was able to repeat the conversation accurately, word for word, to each man with whom he spoke. Yet except for the first priest in Cape Town, no one seemed to share his delight at having heard from Father Bradbury. The archbishop and especially the two men from the Vatican acted as if he had been phoned by the devil himself. Deacon Jones could not figure out why. Nor would anyone explain it to him. The conversation was brief, and it had seemed innocent enough.
The men from the Vatican both told him not to speak to anyone else about Bishop Max. He agreed.
Jones did not let the confusion trouble him. Ignorance was determined by how much information one had. It was not a measure of intelligence or character. At peace with himself, he went to the washroom, brushed his teeth, put on his pajamas, and returned to the sleeping quarters. He and Deacon Canon took linens from the closet.
There were four twin beds in the long, sparsely furnished room. Two of the beds were situated near windows. The deacons made those and opened the windows. Jones took the bed away from the veranda. Canon was a heavy sleeper. If any of the tourists took a late-night stroll, he would not hear them.
Jones knelt beside the bed and said his prayers. Then he gently parted the fine-mesh mosquito net and slid inside. The window was to Jones’s right. The breeze was warm but soothing. It was good to sleep on a mattress with a clean, white sheet. In the field they usually slept on bedrolls, canvas cots, or patches of grass.
Deacon Jones fell asleep quickly.
There was a sharp prick at the top of the clergyman’s throat. It felt like the bite of a female deerfly, which slashes the flesh and drinks the blood. Jones did not know if minutes or hours had passed. He did not want to know. He was groggy, and all he wanted to do was get back to sleep. He kept his eyes closed and went to brush the fly away.
His hand struck metal.
Jones opened his eyes with a start. It was not a fly at his throat. It was a knife. Behind it was a big, dark figure. The mosquito net had been neatly pulled aside, and the intruder was standing holding the tip of the knife firmly under Deacon Jones’s chin. From the corner of his eye, Jones could see that the door was slightly ajar. He also saw someone standing over Deacon Canon.
“Have you ever met the American bishop?” the intruder asked in a low, rough voice.
“No,” Jones answered. His mind was still fuzzy. Why did the man want to know that?
“What are your names?” the intruder pressed.
“I am Eliot Jones, and he is Samuel Canon,” the deacon replied. “We are deacons at this church. What is going on?”
“Where is your cell phone?” the intruder went on.
“Why do you want to know?” Jones asked.
The intruder pushed down slightly on the knife. Jones felt his flesh pop as the tip of the blade punched through it. Blood seeped around the metal and trickled down both sides of his neck. He could actually feel the sharp steel against the top of his larynx. Instinctively, the deacon reached for the man’s hand to push it back. The intruder twisted the knife blade so that it could cut sideways now. He gave a tug to the side. The pain caused Jones’s entire body to tense. His arms pulled back in the same reflex.
“The next thrust sends it all the way through,” the intruder said. “Once again. Where is your cell phone?”
“Go ahead, cut my throat!” the deacon said. “I have no fear of death.”
“Then I will kill everyone at this facility,” the intruder said.
“That sin would be yours, not mine,” replied the deacon. “And whatever you do to their bodies, their souls will be with God.”
The intruder removed the knife. The next thing the deacon felt was a sharp sting, then a blazing pain in his right thigh. Even as the deacon reflex
ively sucked down air to scream, the intruder put the blade back at his throat. It took a moment for the deacon’s brain to realize that he had been stabbed. His mind shifted from disbelief to shock to defiance.
“Where is your cell phone?” the intruder repeated. “Tell me, or I’ll let your soul out in pieces.”
“The soul cannot be harmed,” the deacon whimpered. “‘Though I walk through the valley of death—’ ”
The knife pierced his forearm. The deacon screamed. The blade was worked around in a circle, digging into bone. This pain was not like the other. This one did not stop but kept going deeper into his body, as though molten lead had entered his veins. His head shook violently. His feet kicked on the bed. He could not control his body. Or his mind. Or his will.
“The phone!” the intruder said. “We don’t have time—”
“It’s inside my jacket!” the man screamed. “Behind the door! Oh God, stop! Take the phone! Take it!”
The intruder did not remove the knife. He continued to drive it down. Jones could feel his blood seeping into the sheets, along his leg.
“What time are you meeting the bishop from America?” the intruder demanded.
Deacon Jones told him. He would have told him anything he asked. How did the Savior bear it? It was incomprehensible.
The intruder removed the knife from the deacon’s wrist. The deepest pain abated instantly, like waves pulling back from the shore.
A moment later, the intruder put the blade to his throat and pushed down hard. Deacon Jones heard a scream from somewhere in the distance. It was not his own voice. He knew that because he could not move his mouth. He felt an electric pain in the base of his tongue. He lurched. An instant later, the pain struck the roof of his mouth. That one hurt worse as the hard palate offered resistance to the blade. Jones was still trying to speak, but all that came from his mouth were guttural grunts and gagging. Then the man reversed his hold on the hilt so that his thumb was on top. He pushed the knife to the left, as though it were a paper cutter. The deacon’s carotid artery was severed. Then he tore the blade back to the right. The internal and external jugular veins were cut.
The pain was intensely warm and cold at the same time. Jones heard gurgling from somewhere. It took a moment for him to realize that the sounds were his. He was trying to breathe. The deacon reached for his throat, but his hands were weak, his fingers tingling. He let his arms drop to his sides. His eyes sought his attacker. But by then he was unable to see anything. His vision swirled black and red. His head felt extremely light.
An instant later, Deacon Jones saw nothing at all. The heat and chill blended into a dreamy neutrality.
He went back to sleep.
TWENTY-THREE
Maun, Botswana Thursday, 11:30 P.M.
Leon Seronga looked down at the bloody shape on the bed. To his right, Donald Pavant finished cutting the throat of Deacon Canon. The Brush Viper had placed a strong hand across his mouth. The man had died with a single, muffled scream.
“It is done,” Pavant said to him with defiance. “You had no choice. We did what was necessary.”
Seronga continued to stare.
“Prince, this is the way you used to do it, the way that things must sometimes be done,” Pavant said.
“I promised Dhamballa this would be different,” Seronga said. “No killing. No black magic.”
“That man would have bled to death,” Pavant replied. He was cleaning his own blade on the blanket of the other cot. “You showed mercy. And if you had not pushed him, he would not have told us what we needed to know.”
“What we needed to know,” Seronga said.
“Yes. We cannot allow the bishop to come here. It would undo everything,” Pavant said. “Dhamballa would have been seen as small, petty, ineffective. Besides, no one need know about these two.”
“They mustn’t,” Seronga said.
The leader of the Brush Vipers felt sick. He had been pushed to this extreme by this man’s stubborn resistance. It would have been so much easier if the clergyman had cooperated. Instead, his words were his own epitaph. He had said that if Seronga killed, it would be on his own conscience. If that was true, these two deaths were on the deacon’s soul. Had he answered Seronga’s questions, they would have tied the men up. They would have hidden them here or in the field, in a cave, away from predators. When the kidnapping of the American bishop had been accomplished, they would have instructed authorities where to find these two.
The stupid, stupid man.
“I have the cell phone,” Pavant said from behind the door.
“See if there are fresh bedsheets anywhere,” Seronga said.
“I will,” Pavant said. “But I won’t listen to you blame yourself. We are lions. These men were prey. This is the way it had to be. This is the way you did it when you liberated the country the first time.”
“That was different,” Seronga said.
“No, it wasn’t,” Pavant insisted. “You were fighting an empire then. We are fighting an empire now.”
“It was different,” Seronga repeated. “We were fighting soldiers.”
“These are soldiers,” Pavant replied. “They fight with resistance instead of arms.”
Seronga was in no mood to debate. He removed his own knife from the throat of his victim and wiped the blade on the pillow. Then he put the knife back in his hip sheath. He waited as Donald Pavant felt his way around the dark room. The only light came from the half-moon shining through the partly opened door. They had not shut the door for that reason.
“I have the sheets,” Pavant said. He was standing by a closet in the back of the room.
The younger man hurried over. He set the sheets down on the floor. Then, together, the men prepared the bodies in turn. They removed the pillowcases and stuffed them in the wounds. That would help stem the leaking of blood. Then they wrapped the bodies tightly inside the bloodstained sheets on the bed. The blood was already soaking through, so they took blankets from the closet and lay them on the floor. The bound bodies were placed upon these. Then the beds were made.
Seronga decided that the bodies would be carried out into the floodplain. The sheets would be removed. They would be wrapped around stones and dropped in Lake Mitali. By dawn, there would not be much of the deacons. The authorities would suspect murder. But they would not be able to prove it. The soft tissue the knife had penetrated would have been eaten. And there were footprints everywhere. Those of Seronga and Pavant would not stand out. As far as anyone could prove, the deacons went for a walk and were attacked by predators. The Vatican would have doubts, but they would not have proof. Most importantly, they would not have martyrs. And as long as the other clergymen were held captive, there was a chance for a negotiated withdrawal. First of the Church, and then of all foreigners. The Botswanans would be able to profit from their own rich resources.
There was one last thing the two Brush Vipers would need: the vestments these men had worn. But Seronga did not want to carry them with the bodies. They must not be splattered with blood. He would come back for the garments when the deacons’ remains had been disposed of.
While Seronga wiped up stray streaks of blood, Pavant checked the veranda. There was no one outside. The men slung the bodies over their shoulders. Even with the loss of blood, the corpses were lighter than Seronga expected. Obviously, Deacon missionaries did not eat very well. The dead men were also still very warm. Eager to get his mind off the killings, Seronga wondered if Dhamballa’s ancient magic would be potent enough to rouse two such as these. Not just men who had died of natural causes but men who had been murdered. Seronga wished he could spend more time with their leader. He wanted to learn more about the few phenomena he had witnessed. About the ancient religion he had embraced on faith.
In time, he told himself.
For now, Seronga would continue doing things he did not enjoy. That was how Botswana had become free once before. Whether he liked it or not, that was how Botswana would become free ag
ain.
TWENTY-FOUR
Washington, D.C. Thursday, 4:35 P.M.
It was a busy afternoon for Paul Hood, the kind of afternoon when information flowed so quickly that questions provided their own answers. And each answer generated two or three new questions.
Unfortunately, none of those answers provided the key the Op-Center director was searching for.
Still, Hood was happy to get out of the morning alive. For the first time in over a week, Senator Fox’s office did not call and ask to see Op-Center’s daily work sheet. That was the duty roster Congress used to apportion budgets. Evidently, Fox was satisfied with the cutbacks Hood had already made. Nor did any other members of the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee contact him. That meant Mike Rodgers had been able to keep his new intelligence operation under wraps for over a day. In Washington time, that was equivalent to a year.
Even the tension between Darrell McCaskey and Bob Herbert had been defused, at least for the moment. The only lingering problem was not Op-Center’s. At least, not directly. That was the tension between Darrell McCaskey and his wife. The way Herbert described it, Maria Corneja took the assignment “like a pit bull at a rib roast.” She was not going to give up fieldwork. They had all suspected that would be the case. Now they knew it. The fact that Maria had made this decision without consulting her husband made it even worse. It was ironic. McCaskey was a great listener in interrogations or conferences. He was without equal when it came to sifting answers for truths or following voice inflections to fertile new lines of questioning. But when it came to his personal life, McCaskey tended to do most of the talking and none of the hearing. That was going to have to change.
Look who’s giving advice, Hood thought. He himself was a man who had listened to everything his wife had said. And meant to do most of it. He just never found the time.
But there had not been time to dwell on small triumphs or major shortcomings. Not long after returning to his office, Hood received a call from Edgar Kline. The Vatican security officer reported that Deacon Jones had heard from Father Bradbury. According to Jones, the priest was still a prisoner.
