by Clancy, Tom
Perspiration rolled thickly down the holy man’s neck and forehead. Some of the sweat was caused by the heat of the smouldering wick. Some of it was due to the close, humid warmth of the night. But most of it came from inside. From fear. Dhamballa was not afraid of the unknown. Faith, courage, and the Vodun arts were all he needed to survive life’s countless mysteries and the troubles they caused. What frightened him was the known. Especially the duplicity of men. Even at that, Dhamballa did not fear for his own safety. If he died, his spirit would join his ancestors. What worried him was the fate of his followers. Many of them would lose their way so early in his ministry. He also feared for those who had not yet been returned to the ways of their people.
Dhamballa raised the candle from his chest. It came away easily because of the perspiration. He sat up slowly. The day had been tiring. Now the vision had left him drained.
My allies are my enemies, Dhamballa thought.
Someone close to him was going to betray him. What he did not know was who, exactly. Or how. Or when. It could be someone he already knew. It could be someone he would meet during his next sermon or holy ceremony. All he knew was that it would happen very soon.
Dhamballa put the candle in a clay bowl on a small ledge beside the window. The white canvas shade was down. He used the hemp drawstring to raise it. The flame kicked up for a moment, dancing as the hot, muggy night air rolled in. Then it died to its customary glow. With the breeze came the sounds of the swamp animals. The bullfrogs sounded like unhappy dogs. The night birds seemed to be laughing or sighing. The occasional hiss of a snake. It was deceptively loud because the sharp sibilation cut through every other sound. Almost at once, the wings of small white moths began to flash around the candlelight. Beyond the dark treetops the stars shone clear and large.
Dhamballa had always known that one day there would be conflict. He knew he would have to fight for the diamond mines. He did not mind selling the gems to outsiders to build his nation. But the earth was the home of the dead. Only the faithful should be permitted inside.
Still, Dhamballa did not expect to have to face the matter so soon. The first thing he would have to do was make certain that Leon Seronga and the Brush Vipers were among those he could trust. Without them, the holy man would have to look elsewhere for strength of arms. Perhaps the spirits would guide him. Perhaps they would not.
He suddenly felt very alone.
Dhamballa lifted a ceramic pitcher and cup from the floor beside the mat. He poured himself water flavored with mint leaves. He drank slowly and chewed on the leaves as he stared at the sky.
The stars in Dhamballa’s vision had told him of an impending future. The stars suspended in front of him told a different tale. They reminded Dhamballa of his forebears. Of the men and women who had looked up at the sky when the world was young. The stars spoke of a time when the spirits of men were few, and wisdom had to come directly from the gods themselves.
The stars gave him the courage to do what those men had done. To trust in the visions. To believe in the prophecies. And to find ways of making them come true.
Dhamballa had been given a remarkable gift. He had been given both the blessing and the curse of Vodun enlightenment. It was a blessing because he had the ideas and the voice to inspire a nation, to lead a people who had become fragmented. Who had lost their way. It was a curse because he would not be able to lead those people by spirituality alone.
He was a man of peace, yet he was going to have to fight a war.
A war in which, he feared, not all of the magic would be white.
TWENTY-SIX
Washington, D.C. Thursday, 4:47 P.M.
As they headed toward Matt Stoll’s office, Paul Hood and Mike Rodgers bumped into Liz Gordon. The psychologist was chomping hard on her nicotine chewing gum. She had recently given up smoking and was having a tough time of it. She asked to talk to Paul.
“Is it personal?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied. Her broad shoulders swayed, and her medium-length brown hair bobbed hard as she walked and chewed.
“Can we talk while we walk?” Hood asked.
“We can do that,” the woman told him. “I’ve always been good at multitasking.”
Hood smiled. “What can I do for you?”
“My half brother, Clark, is a poli-sci major at Georgetown,” Liz said. “They’re dealing with contemporary urban issues. He was wondering if you could talk to his class about your term as mayor.”
“When?” Hood asked. It was jarring to shift gears from the global to the local. Liz was obviously better at multitasking than he was.
“Sometime within the next two weeks?” she asked.
“Sure, I’ll do it,” Hood said with a wink. “Too bad everything is not that easy.”
“Thanks. Is it the Vatican problem?” Liz asked.
Hood nodded. “As a matter of fact, you might want to tag along if you have the time.”
“Be happy to,” she said.
Matt Stoll’s space was different from the other offices. When he first came to Op-Center, Stoll had commandeered a small conference room. He proceeded to fill it with a haphazard arrangement of desks, stands, and computers. As Op-Center’s computing needs grew, the original disarray remained where it was. They were like old oak trees a village had grown around.
There were now four people working in the rectangular space. Stoll and Viens now worked back to back in the center of the room. Mae Won sat at the far end, and Jefferson Jefferson sat near the door. When Hood was in Los Angeles, all the eccentrics he knew worked in the film business. Scientists were a serious, conservative bunch. Now it was the movie people who wore short hair and understood complex mathematics and the computer programmers who were the oddballs. Mae, who was born in Taipei, had a ring through her nose and orange hair. J2, as they called Jefferson Jefferson, had no hair and a tattoo of a tree on his scalp. When the mood struck him, J2 added new branches and leaves to the tree.
In the 1990s, these individuals would never have made it past the first interview for a position with the federal government. Now, government agencies could not afford to lose good tech people to private or especially foreign employers. This was particularly true of intelligence and investigative operations. What the people looked like was less important than what they could do or the new technologies they might come up with. In their spare time, Mae and J2 were working on what they called omni ink. Paper saturated in their ink would change its display via pixel-sized microtransistors activated by wireless signals. The electronic charge would cause the ink colors to change in nanoseconds, allowing for immediate news updates, constantly changing want ads, and even on-demand help with crossword puzzles. Hood was not sure their pet name “oink” would work for the new technology. But the question might be irrelevant. He knew from the duo’s employment contracts that while any patents would be issued in their names, the government would have a shot at developing and marketing the product. As Hood walked through the door, he could not help but wonder, suddenly, if J2 would try to apply oink technology to tattoos.
Viens glanced over as the trio entered the room.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” Hood said. “What have you got for us, Mr. Viens?”
“A photo ID from the files of the IODM,” Viens replied. “That’s the International Organization of Diamond Merchants. I figured your guy must have had a job before he became a cult leader.”
“Good job, Stephen,” Hood said.
“Thank you,” Viens replied. “The IODM had his personnel file on-line, as required by law. The computer says that the guy in the three-year-old ID photograph and the guy in that Vatican photograph you sent over are an eighty-nine percent match.”
“The differences being some apparent weight loss around the cheekbones and neck, different hair length, and a change in the bridge of his nose,” Stoll added. “Possibly due to a break.”
“I’m very comfortable with that match,” Hood said.
“It’s a good one
,” Rodgers agreed.
“We hacked the tax records in Gaborone and got lucky right away,” Stoll said. “Your man is named Thomas Burton. Until four months ago, he was a mine worker in Botswana.”
“Did he mine industrial diamonds or gems?” Liz asked.
At her station, Mae Won wriggled the bare fourth finger of her left hand. Hood smiled at her.
“Yes, diamonds,” Viens replied.
“There’s the connection between Dhamballa and Henry Genet,” Rodgers observed.
Hood looked at the ID on Viens’s screen. There was a color picture attached to it. Below it was a photo Edgar Kline had sent over. “Are you sure this is the same guy?”
“We’re sure,” the heavyset Stoll said from his keyboard.
“I’ve got a small on-line newspaper report of the Dhamballa guy’s first mention,” J2 said. “It matches the time Thomas Burton stopped making calls from his home phone.”
“I had a look at those phone records,” Mae added proudly.
“Where did Burton live?” Rodgers asked.
“In a town called Machaneng,” Viens told him. “They’ve got an industrial mine about five miles out of town.”
“According to the file from Mr. Kline, that was where the rally photo was taken,” Stoll pointed out.
“Anything else?” Hood asked.
“Not yet,” Viens replied.
“We’ve only had Mr. Kline’s file for about thirty-five minutes,” Stoll reminded Hood. “Like Stephen said, we got lucky.”
“Believe me, Matt, that wasn’t a knock,” Hood told him. “You guys worked a miracle. I appreciate it.”
J2 and Mae each slapped the air, giving one another an across-the-room high five.
“Will you be able to access any of this man’s medical records?” Liz Gordon asked.
“Yes, if they’re in a computer file and that computer has an Internet link,” Stoll said.
“Looking for anything in particular, Liz?” Hood asked.
“Psychiatric care,” Liz said. “Nine out of ten known cult leaders were treated, according to the last World Health Organization study.”
“That’s compared to what percentage of the non-Waco-bound populace that’s had their heads shrunk?” Stoll asked.
“Seven out of ten percent,” Liz replied.
“That doesn’t exactly put cult leaders in an exclusive club,” the computer expert continued.
“I never said it did,” Liz told him. “But there may be records that we can get our hands on. The Botswana government might be interested in helping shut down a cult before it can get started.”
“He was never shrink-wrapped,” J2 declared.
The others looked at him.
“According to Mr. Burton’s employment file, he was a line leader in the mine,” the young man said. “That meant he was the last person to see the diamonds before they left the mine. I’m looking at the qualifications IODM has on their employment site for double Ls. They can have no criminal record. No immediate family members can have criminal records. And there must be zero history of treatment for mental problems.”
“Also, according to a footnote in this file, the Botswana average for psychiatric care is far below the international average,” Mae added, still studying her own computer screen. “According to the WHO, shrinkage in Botswana amounts to three in ten people. And most of those folks are white-collar workers and military personnel.”
“They probably can’t afford psychiatric care,” Hood said.
“Government subsidies are available,” Mae said, still reading.
“Maybe I ought to move there,” Stoll said.
“Well, I still want to try to get as much information on Dhamballa as possible,” Liz said. “If we can come up with a reliable profile, we can make some intelligent guesses as to what his next moves will be. You’ll need that, Paul, if this goes on for any length of time.”
“I agree,” Hood said.
“You know, people, there’s also the whole voodoo angle to this thing,” Stoll said. “I did some research on the net. It was recognized as the official religion of Benin in 1996. It also has an extremely large following in the Dominican Republic, Ghana, Haiti, Togo, and various places around the United States including New York, New Orleans, and Miami,” Stoll said, as he read from the screen. “It’s also widely recognized throughout South America, where there are a variety of sects like Umbanda, Quimbanda, and Candomble.”
“Impressive,” Liz remarked.
“Shows how parochial we are here,” Hood said.
“The essence of it seems to be very similar to Catholicism, actually, except that the spiritual figures dwell in the earth instead of in Heaven,” Stoll went on. “Both religions worship a supreme being and believe in a spiritual hierarchy. In Vodun the big guns are called loas, and in Catholicism they’re saints. The loas and the saints each have attributes that are unique to them. Vodunists and Catholics believe in an afterlife, in the notion of resurrection, in the ritualistic consumption of flesh and blood, in the sanctity of the soul, and in clear-cut forces of good and evil, which they refer to as white and black magic.”
“Interesting,” Rodgers said. “And it makes sense.”
“What does?” Hood asked.
“It helps to explain why Catholicism took hold in non-Islamic sections of Africa back in the seventeenth century,” Rodgers said. “In the absence of a national Vodun church, Africans would have found the structure of the Catholic church familiar and comforting.”
“The food and wine the missionaries brought probably didn’t hurt their cause,” Stoll said.
“That would have gotten people to sit down and pay attention,” Rodgers said. “But I’ve seen army recruiters at work. You need more than a buffet to get people to actually commit to something.”
“So now Dhamballa wants his people back,” Hood said.
“That could well be the limit of Dhamballa’s ambition,” Rodgers said. “The larger question is what Beaudin wants. And what his associates may have promised Dhamballa.”
“What would they want from him that they can’t get now?” Liz asked.
“A puppet leader,” Hood said.
“Or maybe they don’t want anything from him per se,” Rodgers suggested. “Maybe it’s destabilization of the region that they’re after.”
“Possibly,” Hood agreed.
“There’s also the chance that Dhamballa is just doing a job for pay,” Viens remarked.
“The voodoo equivalent of a televangelist,” Stoll said. He shook his head. “That’s pretty sad.”
“Yes, but I would not spend too much time looking into that idea,” Rodgers said.
“Why not?” Hood asked.
“Let’s assume that Beaudin or someone else is underwriting the Vodun movement,” Rodgers said. “They aren’t likely to have gone out and cast the role of a religious leader. Training someone and convincing others that he’s the real thing is tough and time consuming. It’s like gathering HUMINT. Infiltration doesn’t work as well as finding an individual who is already on the inside and turning him. What’s more likely is that someone spotted Burton or Dhamballa, heard him preaching, and saw an opportunity. They found a way to dovetail his beliefs into a project that was already in the works.”
“If that’s true, then Dhamballa may not know he’s being used,” Hood said.
“That’s right,” Rodgers said.
Hood nodded. He looked at Matt and his team. “Thanks, guys. You did a great job.”
Stephen Viens smiled, J2 and Mae high-fived each other again across the room, and Matt Stoll unfolded his arms. He went back to the keyboard and began typing. He must have had another thought. Stoll was rarely in the same mental space as everyone else.
Hood turned to Liz. “Do you have some time right now?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“I’d like you to stay here and see if there’s any other data you can pick up on Dhamballa,” Hood said. “His family background, friends,
people he may have gone to school with, or stood next to on the diamond line, that sort of thing. Work up a profile.”
“Sounds good,” she said eagerly. Liz was obviously enjoying the new respect Hood was giving her profession.
Stephen Viens had already started clearing boxes of diskettes and cables from a chair. He stacked them on the floor and rolled the chair next to his workstation. Hood thanked Liz, then left with Rodgers. The men made their way back to Hood’s office.
“Profiling Dhamballa is not going to give us the key to defusing this crisis,” Rodgers pointed out.
“No,” Hood agreed.
“We need to get someone close to him. We need to get his ear somehow,” Rodgers said.
“Tell him that the Europeans are using him,” Hood said.
“At least plant the idea, make him trust a little less and maybe move a little slower,” Rodgers said.
“I agree,” Hood said.
“Then we’ll definitely have Aideen Marley and David Battat airborne as soon as possible,” Rodgers said. “They can be in Maun by tomorrow evening, about six P.M. local time.”
“Good,” Hood said. “Assuming we can find Dhamballa and get our people close, what do we do about Father Bradbury?”
“I don’t think we can do anything right now except try to get close to Dhamballa,” Rodgers said.
“Then it’s strictly intel gathering,” Hood said. “No rescue attempt?”
“Except for Maria, none of the three has had much experience with kidnap situations,” Rodgers said. “And she can’t go into this alone. Besides, I wouldn’t want her tripping over those Spanish soldiers if they have some kind of rescue in the works. Unless you think you can work that out with Edgar Kline. And with Darrell,” he added.
“I don’t know if Kline will give us the kind of access we’d need to coordinate our movements with the Unidad Especial del Despliegue,” Hood said. “As for Darrell, let’s not rev him up unless we have to.”
“I’m with you on that,” Rodgers said.
