by Clancy, Tom
“I see,” he said. “What about the person you came here to meet?”
“He’s in that cab,” she said.
“You mean the bleeding man?” Paris asked.
“Yes.”
“And you don’t want him to know you are here?” Paris asked.
“That’s right. And I don’t think he was really hurt,” Maria added.
“I am puzzled,” Paris said. “You came to meet someone who you don’t want to meet. And now you think he isn’t hurt even though he is bleeding.”
“Please just drive, Paris,” Maria said. “It will be easier on both of us.”
“Of course,” Paris said. “I will do whatever you ask.” He sat tall. He gripped the steering wheel tightly. He was trying to regain some of the professional dignity his questions and confusion had cost him.
Seronga’s car pulled onto the road. A moment later, so did the taxicab of Paris Lebbard.
“You know, I can always call and ask where they are going,” Lebbard said helpfully. He held up his cell phone.
“If you do that, and Emanuel answers, it may be the last thing he says,” Maria informed him.
“I see,” the Botswanan said. He fell silent and slouched slightly. His dignity had vanished again.
As for Maria, she felt vindicated. And fired up. She wished that she were driving the car herself. Or better yet, she wished she was on her motorcycle. Or on horseback. Doing something where she was able to move. Burn off some of her energy.
For the moment, though, Maria would have to contain herself and do something that would give her deep satisfaction of a different sort.
She had to call Op-Center with an update.
THIRTY-SIX
Washington, D.C. Friday, 8:40 A.M.
Since the Striker debacle in Kashmir, Mike Rodgers had not spoken very often with Colonel Brett August. When the two men did chat, it was over the telephone or on-line. It was never in person. They simply did not want to look into each other’s eyes. They never said that was the reason. They did not have to. They knew each other too long and too well.
And they never mentioned the death of nearly everyone in the unit. The risk of death came with the uniform. The ultimate responsibility for those deaths came with the stripes. There was no official blame. Officially, there was no mission. There was just guilt. Though the two men had to look ahead, the loss still hurt. It hurt them every moment they were not busy. They both knew it would hurt until they could no longer feel a damn thing.
Ironically, by avoiding the subject, each man had to think about it more. He had to consider what to say, what not to say. That served to reinforce the loss and sense of failure both August and Rodgers were feeling. They each took the hit because they did not want to inflict it on the other.
Colonel August had accepted a temporary transfer to the Pentagon. He was stationed in Basement Level Two for SATKA. That was the multiservice department of Surveillance, Acquisition, Tracking, and Kill Assessment. August worked as a liaison between the Pentagon and his former coworkers at NATO. He studied data that came from potential combat regions and helped to determine the force necessary to contain the struggle or crush it. The desirability of such a response was left to his superiors. It was not an assignment August would have selected for himself. But he had run an unauthorized covert operation in Kashmir. Even though he prevented a nuclear war between India and Pakistan, someone had to take the fall for exceeding mission parameters. The Pentagon picked him. It could just as easily have been Rodgers.
August knew he could have turned this assignment down. He could have requested a transfer back to NATO. But implicit in the Pentagon position was a promise. If Colonel August stayed off the radar for at least half a year, there would not be a military or congressional investigation into his actions in Kashmir. Members of all the elite forces took exceptional risks in their work. They were not only the first ones into enemy territory. Sometimes they were the only ones into a region like Iran or Cuba. Groups like Striker conducted recon, sabotage, search and rescue, and ran surgical strikes. The military could not afford to undermine their morale. Away from the attention of the media, the so-called “centurion line” looked after their own.
Being hidden in an underground data processing center was absolutely not August’s favorite place to be. That was why he had called Mike Rodgers. Not to complain but to stay connected. To talk to someone in a place where things were not simply discussed. They happened. August knew that his lifelong friend would understand.
The men chatted about their work and about people they both knew. August told him that he had bumped into Colonel Anna Vasseri, who worked on the president’s Intelligence Oversight Board. Years before, in Vietnam, August had gotten himself an unofficial reprimand for writing new lyrics to the old standard, “The Anniversary Waltz.” He called his version “The Anna Vasseri Waltz.” Then–Private Vasseri wrote for Stars and Stripes at the time. The lyrics speculated about what happened during a night she had spent just outside Saigon with another private who worked on the newspaper. A storm and flash flood had stranded them on top of a small hill. When they were rescued the next morning, all they had with them were the blankets and bottle of Jack Daniel’s they had taken out with them.
“Has she forgiven you?” Rodgers asked.
“No,” August replied. “Which doesn’t surprise me. From the look of her, that was probably the last time her uniform was off. What the hell was the name of that cat mummy we saw in the British Museum?”
“Bast,” Rodgers replied. He did not know where the hell in his memory the name was stored, but there it was.
“Right,” August said. “Bast. Well, this woman is wrapped as tight as that cat mummy.”
Rodgers whistled when he heard that. It was good to look back at happier times. And at mistakes that did not cost so damn much.
Rodgers also talked a little about the team he was putting together. He did not tell August he had already put three members in the field. August would not have approved of that. Experienced lone wolves could be more dangerous to each other than inexperienced team players. But circumstances did not always give a leader the luxury of choice. With the help of the operatives themselves, Rodgers and Paul Hood had made that choice.
The conversation was interrupted by a call from the outside. Rodgers told August he would be in touch later in the week. Maybe they would get together for dinner. It was long overdue.
Rodgers punched the button to switch phone lines. “General Rodgers,” he said.
“General, it’s Maria,” the woman said. She did not use her last name because she was calling on a nonsecure phone line. “The American bishop was just assassinated.”
“How did it happen?” Rodgers asked.
The general fought his first, involuntary reaction. The one that went back to stories his grandfather used to tell about jinxed platoons during World War I. Units where the new lieutenant or the guy about to be mustered out or the sergeant who just had a kid always died. Rodgers refused to believe that Op-Center was cursed.
“It was right after the plane landed,” she said. “The airport guard shot the bishop in the back of the head as he entered the terminal. A Cessna taxied over, and the killer ran toward it. Then the pilot opened the door and shot him. The guard died on the tarmac, and the plane took off. I managed to take a few digital photos of the tail markings.”
“Can you download them?” Rodgers asked.
“As soon as I can get to a computer,” Maria told him. “I’m in a taxi right now.”
“Was anyone else hurt?” Rodgers asked.
“No,” she said. “Most of the people in the terminal ducked behind chairs and counters. That’s how I was able to see what happened next.”
“Which was?” Rodgers asked.
“There were two deacons waiting for the bishop. They ran onto the field to try to stop the killer. One of the deacons had a gun.”
“Was he one of the Spanish representatives?” Rodgers asked.
>
“No,” she replied. “Both deacons were black men.”
Rodgers had seen the file on the Grupo del Cuartel General, Unidad Especial del Despliegue. None of the soldiers was black.
“I’m almost certain one of them was the man whose photograph was in the file,” Maria added.
Apart from Dhamballa, the only black man pictured in the file was Leon Seronga. “Did you get a picture of him?” Rodgers asked.
“Yes, but it’s not a very good one,” she replied. “He was facing away from me most of the time.”
“What happened to the deacons?” Rodgers asked.
“The gunman fired at one of them,” Maria went on. “The deacon was not hit, but he pretended to be.”
“Are you sure?” Rodgers asked.
“Very,” Maria said. “The two men said they were going to the hospital and left in a taxi. I am following them now.”
“What did the Spanish do?” Rodgers asked.
“They stayed at the field,” she said. “I think they believed that the two men were deacons.”
“Were there any police officers at the airport?” Rodgers asked.
“Not that I saw,” she replied.
Rodgers brought up his computer file on the Maun airfield. He looked at the map of the surrounding area. The nearest police station was back in the city itself. That meant it would be at least a half hour before authorities could get to the airfield. Anyone who had been involved in this by accident or design would have plenty of time to get away. And several routes to do it.
“What road are you on?” Rodgers asked.
Rodgers heard Maria ask the driver. “He says we’re on the Nata Road,” she told him.
“The police will be coming along the Central Highway,” he said. “Our deacons obviously know that.”
“I’m sure they do,” she said. “On the other hand, they may not be headed toward Maun.”
“True,” Rodgers said. He should have thought of that. He glanced at the computer clock. “Your associates from Washington should be reaching Maun in about three hours. Can you keep the taxicab?”
“I’ve hired a driver for the day,” she said. “He’s a good man.”
“All right,” Rodgers said. “I’ll make sure the others hook up with you along the way. Try to check in every half hour. And Maria?”
“Yes?”
“Be careful,” Rodgers said. “And thank you.”
Maria thanked Rodgers for giving her this opportunity. Then she hung up. The general did not bother to replace the receiver. He hit Paul Hood’s extension. He felt as if Maria had lit the afterburners. He collected his thoughts as Bugs Benet put the call through.
An American clergyman had been killed. Edgar Kline and the president would have to be informed. So would Aideen Marley and David Battat. Then Op-Center would have to do two things more. They would have to find out who wanted this situation to spin out of control.
And then prevent that from happening.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Maun, Botswana Friday, 3:44 P.M.
Upon getting into the taxi, Leon Seronga told the driver to head out along the Nata Road. Seronga told him they would be taking the highway toward the town of Orapa. The driver pulled away from the curb. As he drove, he used his cell phone to call his dispatcher in Maun.
Seronga was oblivious to the driver’s conversation. The air-conditioning grumbled loudly beneath the dashboard. The muffler hacked under the car. Seronga heard none of that either. His senses had shut down to everything but lingering shock over the assassination. It held him like nothing he had ever experienced. He had seen men killed before, but he had never been caught by surprise like this. And he had never been faced with a greater crisis.
Someone obviously wanted to frame Dhamballa, possibly draw him out to defend himself, Seronga thought. Until this moment, he had not realized how truly vulnerable Dhamballa was. Not necessarily to physical attack but to being undermined. His ministry could end before it had truly begun.
In time, support for the Vodun leader would have grown exponentially. That was when Dhamballa intended to take a very strong public stand on the question of outsiders influencing or controlling Botswanan religion, culture, and industry. But that would not happen for many months. At the moment, Dhamballa was not yet well enough known to become a martyr for the Botswana cause. If he were connected to the attacks against the Church and blamed for the death of the bishop, their cause would be irredeemably lost.
Protecting Dhamballa over the next few hours and days was only part of the problem. There was also the matter of finding out who was actually responsible for the killing. In Seronga’s mind, anyone from government moles to the Spanish soldiers to the Vatican itself would have had cause to kill the bishop. But whoever was behind it, the result would be the same. National opinion would come down heavily on the side of aggressive action. To show that they were still in control of the nation, the government would be forced to redouble their efforts to find Father Bradbury and crush the Vodunists. The Brush Vipers would have to try to prevent that. They would have to stop the government, find the real perpetrators, and protect Dhamballa.
There was also a separate issue: what to do about Father Bradbury. Releasing the priest would invite prosecution as well as the inevitable return of the missionaries. Their work would be undone and resistance to it strengthened. The priest might just have to disappear the way the two deacon missionaries had.
Dhamballa had always wanted his ministry to be a contest of native esteem and ideas. Not bloodshed. Seronga had hoped that would be possible. His heart told him that peace and tribal allegiances were incompatible, whether they were local tribes or international ones. Still, he had hoped that Dhamballa could unite people in a Vodun Botswana. The nation would be joined out of pride, not economic necessity or the fear of military reprisals.
The old taxi pulled onto the empty, sun-baked highway. As he sped up, the driver regarded the men in the rearview mirror. “May I ask you something, Eminences?” the driver asked.
When Seronga did not answer, Pavant gently nudged him in the side. Seronga looked at his surly companion. Pavant motioned forward with his eyes. Seronga noticed the driver’s questioning gaze in the rearview mirror. The man must have asked him something.
“I’m sorry, I did not hear you,” Seronga said. “Would you mind saying it again?”
“I said that I would like to ask you something, Eminence!” the driver said loudly.
“Of course,” Seronga replied.
“Do you need medical care?” the driver asked.
“Excuse me?”
“A doctor,” the driver said. “I only ask because I noticed that there is blood on your sleeve.”
“Oh,” Seronga said. “Thank you, no.”
“If you are hurt, I have a first aid kit in the trunk,” the driver went on.
“This isn’t my blood,” Seronga told him. “A passenger was shot by a guard. I tried to help him.”
“A passenger?” the driver said. “Was it serious?”
“He died,” Seronga said.
“Ah,” the driver said. “I wondered why people ran out. As you can imagine, I could not hear very much inside this car.”
“I do not have to imagine,” Seronga replied.
“Did you know the victim?” the driver asked.
“I did not,” Seronga answered truthfully.
“What a sad world we live in,” the driver said. He shook his head and concentrated on his driving.
“How would you make it better?” Seronga asked.
“I do not know,” the driver admitted. “Maybe everyone should have children. Then we would want to stop shooting each other. Or maybe we should spend time making children. That would keep us too busy to shoot.” He glanced in the mirror. “I am sorry, Eminence. That is something you are not permitted to do. But you are not the one who needs to learn peace.”
If he only knew, Seronga thought. The driver returned to driving, and Seronga went back t
o thinking.
He had been talking to Dhamballa a great deal over the past few weeks, learning about the Vodun faith. It just now struck the Brush Viper that they had experienced the Vodun ideal of veve. A perfect, symmetrical pattern. Death in, death out. The blood of two deacons had allowed Seronga and Pavant to get into the situation. And the blood of the American bishop had given the Brush Vipers an excuse to get away from the airport.
To get away and do what? Seronga asked himself.
That was the real question. The attempt to kidnap the American clergyman had been a disaster. Neither Seronga nor Dhamballa nor any of their advisers had anticipated this outcome. A kidnapper did not expect an assassin to hit the same target at the same time.
Seronga had never failed before. He did not like the way it felt. It was distinctive by the stillness it radiated. An individual who failed suffered a system-wide internal crash. The skin felt dead. Failure slowed the heartbeat and respiration. The mouth stayed shut, the jaw powerless. The brain sat motionless, unable to get past the event. Nothing moved, nor did it want to.
But the brain has to move, Seronga told himself. There was too much to do. And there would not be time to procrastinate.
Seronga turned back to the side window. He stared out at the flat, sun-washed fields of grass toward the distant mountains. They seemed so far away. Everything did. A half hour before, Seronga had been poised to turn up the pressure on the Church. Now the scenario had changed. Seronga wanted to talk to Dhamballa, but he could not call. They were out of range. Not that it was crucial. Louis Foote monitored radio broadcasts from Gaborone at the Okavanga camp. He would hear about this soon enough and inform Dhamballa. Hopefully, the Belgians would help put together a plan of action. Still, he would have liked to inform Dhamballa himself.
Seronga wondered briefly if he should call Njo to alert him, at least, that they would be arriving alone. He decided against it. It had always been the plan for Njo to get them out of Maun as fast as possible. The only difference now was that they would not have a captive. And they would not be running from anyone. At least, not anyone they knew about.
