by Clancy, Tom
“I don’t suppose we’ll be able to count on much cooperation from Gaborone,” Hood said. “They haven’t seemed to show much interest so far.”
“No, and I’ve been thinking about that,” Rodgers said. “If this were just a backwater cult, the government might have taken stronger action. But they have to be very cautious turning against a ten-thousand-year-old religion. Hell, there may even be Vodunists in the Botswana ministries and in parliament. They may want to nudge Gaborone toward embracing the faith the way Rome turned to Christianity in the fourth century A.D.”
“The Vatican is definitely not going to like that,” Hood said.
“Not a bit, which is why they’re probably going to do a full-court press to get Father Bradbury back,” Rodgers said. “Or at least force the government to move against Dhamballa.”
They reached Hood’s office and stopped.
“Mike,” Hood said thoughtfully. “We’re going to need to get Maria on site, aren’t we?”
Rodgers nodded. “If nothing else, Maria speaks Spanish,” the general said. “If she manages to hook up with the Unidad Especial, she’ll be able to converse with them. That could give us access to information we won’t necessarily get through Edgar Kline.”
“I wonder if I can sell that to Darrell,” Hood said, glancing behind himself to make sure the FBI liaison was not listening.
“You mean, the idea that his wife is going in as a glorified translator instead of as a spy?” Rodgers said.
“Yeah,” Hood said.
“I don’t think he’ll believe that,” Rodgers told him.
“I don’t think so, either,” Hood said. “Okay, Mike. You get Aideen and Battat going. I’ll go and talk to Darrell.”
Rodgers turned and left. Paul Hood went into his office. He sat heavily behind his desk.
Hood was tired inside and out. He also felt strange, though he did not know why. He was going to have that chat with Darrell. Then, because he needed to feel grounded, he was going to call home. He would see what kind of a day Harleigh and Alexander had. It would be refreshing to listen to problems that did not threaten to topple a government.
Home, Hood thought. Just thinking the word put tears in the back of his eyes. And he realized that was why he felt strange. This day had begun and now ended with Hood participating in disunions.
Paul Hood still thought of the house in Chevy Chase as home. It was not. He did not live there anymore. He pulled into the driveway on weekends to pick up the kids. Home was now a small apartment a half hour from Op-Center. It was a few bare walls and some furniture. Nothing personal except for a few photos of the kids and some framed letters from heads of state. Mementos from his days as mayor. Nothing with any real emotional history. Here he was, missing that terribly. At the same time, he was trying to stop Dhamballa from reclaiming his home. And he was helping to prevent Darrell McCaskey from starting a new life with his new wife.
When Hood was mayor of Los Angeles, when he worked in finance, he built things. He built roads, housing, corporations, portfolios, careers. He started and nurtured his own family. What the hell was he doing now?
Keeping the world safe for other families, he told himself.
Maybe. Maybe that was a party-line crock. Maybe it was true. In any case, Hood had to believe it. Not just think it but be convinced of it. Otherwise, he would not be able to pick up the phone and call Darrell McCaskey. He would not be able to ask for help that would turn up the heat in an African floodplain where McCaskey’s wife was already at risk.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Maun, Botswana Friday, 8:00 A.M.
Leon Seronga and Donald Pavant woke with the sun. By eight, they had been up for nearly three hours and were anxious to catch the bus to Maun. Seronga did not like sitting still.
He also did not enjoy impersonating a deacon. Seronga knew they could not simply assume the identities of Deacons Jones and Canon while they were here. The director of the center had certainly met them. What was more, the director had seen Seronga when he came for Father Bradbury. The man had seen him from a distance, but he still might recognize him. Seronga came up with a cover story in case they needed it. He hoped, instead, that he and Pavant could simply remain out of sight until the bus arrived.
It was not to be.
Nearly a dozen of the tourists went to the church that morning. Though the door was unlocked, no candles had been lit. No clergyman was in attendance. Shortly after eight A.M., the center’s director, Tswana Ndebele, went to the deacons’ residential quarters. Donald Pavant opened the door. He stepped through the doorway onto the veranda.
The creases of Ndebele’s sun-baked skin deepened with surprise. “Who are you?”
“Deacon Tobias Comden of the Cathedral of All Saints,” he replied. “And you are—?”
“Tswana Ndebele, the director of the center here,” Ndebele replied. He was guarded, suspicious.
“I am happy to make your acquaintance,” Pavant said pleasantly. He bowed slightly. He did not want to offer his hand. His skin was rough and calloused. They were not the hands of a missionary.
Ndebele pulled on his curly white beard. “The Cathedral of All Saints,” he said. “I am not familiar with that church.”
“It is a very small church in Zambia,” Pavant replied. The soldier did not specify where the mythical church was located. If Ndebele decided to look it up, he would have a lot of ground to cover. “We came in during the night.”
“We?” Ndebele asked.
“Deacon Withal and myself,” Pavant said. The soldier stepped aside so the tour director could see into the room.
Ndebele leaned forward. He peered into the darkness.
Seronga was curled on the bed. His back was facing the door. Tucked in the waistband of his vestments was a Walther PPK with a silencer. It was there in the event that Tswana Ndebele came over to the bed for a chat and recognized him from the abduction.
Accustomed to the brilliant morning light, the tour director could not make out details inside the quarters. After a moment, he stood back.
“How did you gentlemen get here, Deacon?” Ndebele asked.
“We came by Jeep,” Pavant informed him. “Deacon Withal did most of the driving. That’s why he is still sleeping. We got in very late.”
“I did not see a Jeep,” Ndebele said. His mouth twisted suspiciously at one end.
“Deacon Jones and Deacon Canon took it shortly after we arrived,” Pavant replied.
Ndebele reacted with open surprise. “They left in the dark to drive to Maun? They know better than that. There are no roads, no lights.”
Lying on the bed, Seronga felt his heart speeding up. This was not going well. He hoped that he would have a clear shot at the tour director. The last thing they wanted was for him to go away unconvinced.
“The deacons said they knew the way,” Pavant told him. “It was felt that two sets of deacons should go to meet the bishop. The kidnappers might still be watching. We will take the tour bus.”
Seronga waited. He listened closely. Lying there, pretending to sleep, was one of the most difficult things Seronga had ever done. There was nothing so frustrating as having one’s fate in the hands of another.
After a long moment, Ndebele nodded. “Well, that is probably a good idea,” he said.
Seronga relaxed. There was conviction in the tour director’s voice.
“Forgive all of the questions,” Ndebele went on. He sounded a little ashamed now. “We have all been as anxious as zebras since Father Bradbury was taken away. We jump at any unfamiliar noise or a change in routine.”
“I understand completely,” Pavant replied. “Now, was there something you needed?”
“Deacon, I came back here because some of our guests wanted to light candles,” Ndebele said. “I wanted to find out if that would be all right.”
“Of course,” Pavant replied.
“Father Bradbury usually lit the first ones each morning,” Ndebele said. “Not being Catholic, I didn’t kn
ow if that’s the way it has to be.”
“It will be all right if they do it,” Pavant replied. “Unfortunately, I cannot join them. We were instructed to remain as invisible as possible. If the kidnappers are watching, we do not want them to move against us.”
“Of course not,” Ndebele replied. “Though two of them did ask if they might be able to meet with you privately.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Pavant replied.
“I understand. I will tell them,” Ndebele said. “They are Spanish and very devout. I will ask them not to bother you on the bus, either. Maybe I will tell them that you only speak Bantu.”
“If you like.” Pavant smiled. “I appreciate your help.”
“I will do anything to help the church of Father Bradbury,” Ndebele said.
The director left, and Pavant shut the door. Seronga turned around. The Brush Viper commander sat on the edge of the bed. Pavant walked toward him. His easy manner and benevolent expression both vanished.
“I’m proud of you,” Seronga said. “You handled that situation like a true diplomat.”
“How would you know?” Pavant asked.
“I did not have to shoot him,” Seronga replied. He removed the gun from his waistband and put it on the bed.
Pavant shook his head. “I hate words. They do not solve things. They only put action off.”
“Well, my friend, that was all we needed to do this morning,” Seronga pointed out.
“So you say,” Pavant said. “All those gentle words about deacons, priests, and the bishop. I made myself sick. We should bring this place down, to finish the threat completely.”
“Why spend energy to pull down what will fall on its own?” Seronga asked his partner.
“Because these need to play a role,” Pavant said, shaking his fists. “They have been idle while outsiders cut the heart from our people, our nation. My hands need to be active.”
“They will be,” Seronga said. “To build, not to destroy.”
As he spoke, Seronga had gone to his backpack and removed several maps. He unfolded them on the bed. Then he sat down with Pavant to review the route that would take them from Maun back to camp. They had already arranged for one of Dhamballa’s followers to meet them at the airstrip.
Donald Pavant was still angry. Seronga could see it in the harsh turn of his partner’s brow, in the tense set of his mouth. He could hear it in Pavant’s clipped words. Growing up on the floodplain, Seronga had seen all kinds of predators. He had watched insect-eating plants, crocodiles, lions, and hyenas. He had observed aggressors from hounds to bees. None of them had the quality that too many humans possessed: the ability to hate and for that hate to feed the predatory instinct. Even when he had been forced to kill, Seronga had always been motivated by positive forces. The desire to hunt with his father. The hope of seeing Seretse Khama become president. The need to protect his nation’s borders.
Some men are driven by dreams, while others run from their nightmares, Seronga thought.
However, Seronga did have one hope: that when the struggle was over, all Botswanans would be united. He prayed that they would be moved by something that had been missing from their lives for too many years. By something greater than animal needs.
By Dhamballa and perhaps the gods themselves.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Washington, D.C. Thursday, 5:30 P.M.
The conversation with Darrell McCaskey had been flat. Paul Hood had expected that. Darrell did not tend to react to things immediately. He took them in, and then he reacted. As the former G-man sat in his office chair, the only thing that seemed to annoy him was that Hood had come by to tell him about Maria’s new objectives in Botswana.
“This is Mike’s operation, isn’t it?” McCaskey had asked.
“Yes,” Hood said.
“Then he should be the one giving me the heads-up,” McCaskey said. “I mean, Bob was the one who called her in Madrid. Now you’re here. What the hell is Mike doing?”
“He’s prepping Aideen Marley and David Battat,” Hood said. He was not going to let McCaskey take out his frustration on Mike Rodgers. “We felt it would be okay if I talked to you. Because if you want to be by the numbers official about it, Darrell, you didn’t have to be notified at all. This is Maria’s gig, not yours. I’m telling you because we’re friends, and I think you should be involved.”
That had taken some of the steam from McCaskey’s engine. He settled down a bit, thanked Hood for the information, and got back to work researching Beaudin’s operations.
Hood went back to his office. He called home. The children’s line was busy. One of them was probably on the computer. Most likely Alexander. Hood called the house phone. Sharon answered. His former wife said that Harleigh was on-line, and Alexander was at a night soccer game. She told him to phone back after ten. The kids would be up late because there was no school the next day. Teachers’ conference. Hood said he would call. He asked Sharon how she was. She was not in a mood to talk. Hood knew her well enough to know when she was measuring her words. He suspected that she had a gentleman caller.
Well, why not? he thought. No one should be alone.
Before leaving for the evening to be alone in his own apartment, Paul Hood visited with Aideen Marley and David Battat. They were in Ron Plummer’s office. The international political expert had assembled files on Botswana for them to read. Aideen was obviously a little uncomfortable being there. Plummer had replaced Aideen’s former boss, Martha Mackall. Aideen had been with Martha when she was assassinated.
Bob Herbert and Lowell Coffey III were also present. Coffey had already briefed the two agents on the laws and political structure of Botswana. When Hood arrived, Bob Herbert was providing an overview of the Vatican’s activities in the search for Father Bradbury. Battat and Aideen were told to watch out for the Spanish “tourists.” They were told not to make contact unless the soldiers initiated such contact.
“We don’t want you getting in the way of any military operation they might undertake,” Herbert said.
“Or be blamed for it, either,” Coffey added.
“Or have us caught in the crossfire,” Battat pointed out.
Barbara Crowe arrived to give the two their passports and told them about their new identities. They were Frank and Anne Butler, a Washington, D.C.–based couple on their honeymoon. Customs officials, police, service providers such as hotel clerks and waiters, and even ordinary citizens tended to be more tolerant of newlyweds. Barbara had an engagement ring and wedding bands for them both. Annie was a homemaker, and Frank was a movie critic. Battat had wanted to be a government employee or law enforcement agent of some kind. That was closer to what he really did. He said he would feel more comfortable if fellow travelers asked about it. But those jobs might raise flags at customs. Especially if some clown in line joked with the agent, “Hey, you better just let this guy through! He carries a badge.” Botswana was proud of its stability and extremely reluctant to allow potential subversives or troublemakers into the country.
“Besides, everyone wants to know about American movie stars,” Barbara pointed out. “Just say that you’ve met Julia Roberts, and she’s very nice. Everyone goes away happy.”
Except for David Battat. He had not been to a movie or rented a video in over a year. Battat said that he had hoped he could read about Botswana on the plane and then take a nap. Instead, he would be reading about Botswana and then reading People magazine and watching movies. He said he could think of nothing less exciting.
Neither could Hood. But that was irrelevant.
Hood ignored Battat’s crankiness. The former CIA operative was a professional. He had accepted the assignment. Whether Battat liked it or not, he would do whatever was necessary to complete it.
Aideen was a delight, as always. She was eager to be involved in something important. At one point she half jokingly referred to herself and Battat as “paladins for religious freedom.” Hood liked the name. Paladins became
the code name for Rodgers’s new team.
After the short but intense briefings, Battat and Aideen returned to New York. There, they caught an early evening South African Airways 747 bound for Gaborone via Johannesburg.
Hood headed to his apartment. He wanted to be in bed relatively early so he could get back to Op-Center by six-thirty. That was when Bishop Max was due to arrive in Gaborone, Washington time. Hood walked in and opened the window. The night air was refreshing. Then he opened a can of pasta with tiny meatballs and dumped it on a plate. While it warmed in the microwave, Hood went to the small desk near the window. He decided not to call the kids. Instead, Hood booted his laptop and made a web-cam call to the house. That was one of the advantages of working with Matt Stoll. Op-Center’s computer genius could wire anyone to anyone else.
The line was free, and twelve-year-old Alexander got on. Hood was surprised to see the first signs of what looked like facial hair. Maybe the lighting was throwing shadows under his nose and along his cheekbones. Or it could be dirt. Alexander was still wearing his soccer clothes. Whatever it was, Hood suddenly missed him very much. He wanted to hug the boy’s neck, which did not look as scrawny as he remembered it.
They talked about the soccer game the school had played. Alexander’s team had won. He had not scored any goals, but he had assisted in a key one. Sometimes, Hood said, that was all you got. They talked about school and about a new video game system that Alexander had seen. But they did not talk about girls. Maybe the boy had not grown up that much.
Not yet.
As usual, fourteen-year-old Harleigh was much less talkative than her younger brother. She seemed to have put on a little weight over the last week or so, which was good. Her long blond hair had a few fashionable green streaks in it. That was her mother’s doing, no doubt. The idea of streaking it might have come from Harleigh, but not the color. Green was also the opposite of the blood red that other kids were using to streak their hair. But Harleigh had trouble making eye contact. Liz had said that this was typical of people who had been in hostage situations. By not looking at the people who were holding them prisoner, hostages somehow felt invisible and safe. Because the trauma leaves victims feeling impotent and extremely vulnerable, they avoid eye contact even after being rescued.
