Tom Clancy's Op-center Novels 7-12 (9781101644591)

by Clancy, Tom

  Now that Seronga had opened his mind, thoughts flew at him. He wondered about the plane that had taken off. Where was it going? Who owned it? He thought about going back to the tourist center and talking to the Spaniards. Perhaps they had gathered additional information. But that would be too risky. The bodies of the two deacons could have been found and identified. Or they might check with the hospital in Maun and find out that he had never gone there.

  No, he decided. It is best to get to Dhamballa.

  Beside Seronga, Pavant was simply angry. He was breathing heavily through his nose, his hands fisted in his lap. He obviously had things to say but did not want to discuss the incident in front of the driver.

  After they passed the exit for the Maun police barracks, Seronga told his driver to cut over to the Central Highway.

  “Are you sure you want to do that, Eminence?” the driver asked. He was an elderly man with white hair and sun-cracked skin.

  “I am,” Seronga replied tersely.

  “That will not take us to Orapa,” the driver said. “It will take us to Maun, Tsau, and Shakawe.”

  “I know,” Seronga replied. “I changed my mind. I’ve decided I would like to go to the church in Maun.”

  “Ah, I see,” the driver said apologetically. “I will take you there. But then I must charge you for two zones, Eminence.”

  “We will pay for the longer trip,” Seronga assured him. “Just take us there, please.”

  “Of course,” the driver replied. He called his dispatcher to let him know the change of destinations.

  After the taxi had gone a few miles, Seronga noticed the driver glancing repeatedly into his rearview mirror. A minute later, the driver picked up his cell phone. Seronga leaned forward slightly and listened. The driver called a number and spoke in colloquial Setswana. It was a language that native Botswanans used to speak with longtime friends. Otherwise, they spoke English. That was how the driver had spoken to Seronga.

  “What are you doing, Paris?” the driver asked.

  Seronga could not hear the other man’s response.

  “I know you are working,” the driver said. “But why are you taking this route?”

  The Brush Viper turned casually and glanced back. There was another taxi behind them. It was one of three other cars on the deserted road.

  “Oh,” the driver said in response. Then he chuckled. “I thought you were following me.”

  Seronga did not like the sound of that.

  The driver and his friend chatted for a few moments more. When the driver hung up, Seronga leaned closer to the front.

  “May I ask why you called the other taxi?” Seronga said.

  “Paris Lebbard turned off the Okavanga road at the same time we did,” the driver told him. “It is unusual for two people to take this route to Maun. I asked Paris why.”

  “What did he tell you?” Seronga asked.

  “He said that he was engaged to show someone around for the day,” the driver replied. “He thought this would be a scenic route. It isn’t, though. Maybe he is just trying to add extra miles.”

  “Did Mr. Lebbard say who his passenger is?” Seronga asked.

  “A Spanish woman,” the driver told him.

  Seronga did not like that, either. “Did he say anything else?” the Brush Viper asked.

  “Nothing else, Eminence,” the driver said. His voice was beginning to show some concern. As if he had done something wrong. “Do you wish me to call him back and find out more?”

  “No,” said Seronga. He did not want to risk giving her any information. “Just drive on. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Yes, Eminence.”

  Seronga sat back. The blood on his sleeve was beginning to dry. It occurred to him that he had rarely felt caked blood. When men died in the field, either they were quickly taken away or left behind. If they were left behind, they were invariably eaten by carnivores. It was strange, the things an old soldier had not experienced after all these years.

  He returned to the problem at hand. A Spanish woman, he thought. It could mean nothing. She might be a tourist. Or she could be part of the military group that had gone to the tourist center. Perhaps Seronga and Pavant did not get away as clean as they had imagined.

  Pavant obviously had the same thought as Seronga. The younger man leaned toward him. The driver would not be able to hear them over the clank of the air-conditioning and rattling muffler.

  “We should stop and let the other driver pass,” Pavant whispered.

  “No,” Seronga said.

  “What if they are following us?” Pavant demanded.

  “We can watch them better if they don’t suspect what we’re doing,” Seronga told him.

  “We can watch them better if they are in front of us,” Pavant said.

  “We will do it this way,” Seronga insisted. “If they are following us, they will stop in Maun. We will take care of them there.”

  Seronga slumped down. The back of his black shirt was thick with perspiration. It clung to the air-chilled vinyl seat. Seronga felt the coolness. It moved along his arms and up the back of his neck. He began to come back to life. But he was revived by more than that. Seronga was encouraged at having a possible target, a potential link to whoever was behind this.

  If so, there was another job still to be done.

  And this time, he would not fail.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Washington, D.C. Friday, 9:00 A.M.

  The call from Mike Rodgers was a shocker.

  Before Rodgers phoned with news of the assassination, Bob Herbert, a very tired Liz Gordon, and political adviser Ron Plummer had spent nearly an hour in Paul Hood’s office. They had been discussing the imminent arrival of the American bishop in Maun. Darrell McCaskey was supposed to attend, but he was busy talking to his Interpol connections in southern Africa. He said he would come by as soon as he was finished.

  The Op-Center brain trust agreed that there would be an attack. Hood felt that the Brush Vipers would not strike for at least two or three days. They would wait for the bishop to settle in, to establish a routine. A clean, successful abduction required that a kidnapper tap into his intended victim’s pattern. It also allowed them to study any defenses.

  “That makes sense, but not everyone is as cautious or careful as you are, Paul,” Plummer said.

  Hood had to admit he had a point.

  Herbert and Plummer thought the Brush Vipers would strike again immediately. He felt that they had to show they could come and go unhindered in their own country. They also could not allow the clergyman to reestablish a presence in Maun. If that happened, his arrival would be viewed as a successful, even defiant return of the Catholic Church to Botswana.

  Liz had a different view altogether. She did not look at the situation from a political perspective. To her, it was a question of creating what she called a “higher drama zone.” The Brush Vipers needed that.

  “They can’t use the same scenario twice,” Liz insisted. “Psychologically, to simply abduct another clergyman from the tourist center is equivalent to standing still. That would be viewed as yesterday’s soup warmed over.”

  “A one-note repertoire,” Plummer said.

  “Right,” Liz agreed.

  “Maybe they’ll just kill him,” Herbert said.

  “I don’t think so,” Liz said.

  “That goes back to what you were saying before about white magic?” Hood asked.

  Liz nodded.

  “What does the method matter, if they move closer to ousting the Church?” Herbert asked.

  “It matters to their own sense of self,” Liz said.

  “Yeah, assuming these guys will think it through the way you have,” Herbert said.

  “This isn’t something you necessarily think about,” Liz said. “It’s something you just do. Dhamballa and his people have shown good psychological instincts so far. Don’t forget, their faith includes aspects of mind control that have been refined over ten thousand years. If they
are true Vodunists, they know a great deal about human nature.”

  “If you’re right,” Hood said, “the Brush Vipers will have to hit the bishop before he reaches the church.”

  “Yes,” Liz said. “If they don’t strike quickly, if they have to follow him back to the church, then they will be forced to do something more dramatic than abduction.”

  That last statement was still hanging in the air when the phone rang. It was Mike Rodgers. Hood put the call on speakerphone. Rodgers gave Hood the information about the assassination just as Maria had given it to him. He told the group about Maria’s immediate plans.

  “Mike, this is your operation now,” Hood had replied. “You want to tell Darrell?”

  “Yeah,” Rodgers had said. “Got another call to make first. Meanwhile, you’ve got to let Lowell Coffey know what’s going on. If there were security cameras, I don’t want Maria Corneja exposed to any legal fallout from leaving the scene or pursuing Leon Seronga.”

  “Good point,” Hood said.

  Hood told Rodgers that he would call Edgar Kline in New York.

  The news about the assassination stunned everyone but Liz Gordon and Bob Herbert.

  “Is that dramatic enough for you?” Herbert asked Liz.

  She did not need to reply.

  The others left the room so Hood could phone Kline. As Bugs Benet placed the call, Hood’s reaction was deep frustration. All four of them had been wrong about the next step.

  Or had they?

  Hood and Liz had agreed that the Brush Vipers were not likely to be involved in an assassination attempt. The way Maria described it, someone other than Seronga had shot the bishop. Perhaps it was someone who was not associated with the Vodunists. Hood found that even more troubling. Time and energy would be wasted pursuing the Brush Vipers when the real adversary was elsewhere. Perhaps the enemy was attached to Beaudin and Genet in some way.

  But why would the Europeans have been supporting Dhamballa until now? Hood wondered. To ensure that he would take the blame for this killing? How did Beaudin benefit from that?

  Hood hoped that Edgar Kline would have some insights. As Hood waited to be put through to Kline, he wondered if the Vatican security operative had expected an ambush. He also wondered if that would benefit Rome in some way. The situation in Botswana was religion on the outside but politics in the center. It was a struggle for control of the nation’s soul. In politics, death was a tool like any other. A martyr could help the Church get back into Botswana. Or perhaps the Vatican felt that if the Brush Vipers attacked an American, the United States would be drawn into the struggle on the side of the Vatican.

  There were many possibilities. Unfortunately, there was not yet sufficient intelligence to support any of them.

  Edgar Kline was in an office of the Permanent Observer of the Holy See to the United Nations in New York. Hood was not surprised to learn that he already knew what had happened at the airfield in Maun. Kline said that the leader of the Spanish group had informed him. He added that he was about to phone Bob Herbert when Hood called.

  “I was extremely sorry to hear about the shooting,” Hood said.

  “We were all caught off guard,” Kline replied. “No one expected the kidnappers to ratchet things up like this. Now we have to accept that they may have killed Father Bradbury as well.”

  “Not necessarily,” Hood said. “No one here believed that the Brush Vipers would kill Bishop Max. I’m not convinced they’re behind this.”

  “Who else could it be?” Kline asked.

  “I don’t know,” Hood admitted. “Let’s talk about that.”

  “Botswana has never been on anyone’s list of security risks,” Kline pointed out. “The government prides itself on the nation’s stability. Everyone who wants a job has one.”

  “Obviously, Dhamballa and his followers feel there’s room for change,” Hood said.

  “Economy masquerading as religion,” Kline said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Botswana’s greatest asset is its diamonds,” Kline said. “They produce two hundred million dollars’ worth each year. No outside entity is going to stir things up for that. They’d go after drugs or weapons-grade uranium, something that could net them billions.”

  “What makes you think Dhamballa and the Brush Vipers are after the diamond mines?” Hood asked.

  “Someone is,” Kline remarked. “Otherwise, Dhamballa could have started this crusade in a nation with a much higher rate of indigenous religious affiliation. Mozambique, for example. Angola is half Christian, but even they have a smaller Roman Catholic population than Botswana. The fact is, no one wants to corner the cashew or banana markets.”

  Kline had a point. But Hood could not help but think this was about more than diamonds. He was not the only one who thought so. The Japanese Ministry of Foreign Affairs thought so as well.

  “Were the Spanish soldiers at the site?” Hood asked.

  “They were there,” Kline said. “At a discreet distance.”

  “Were the soldiers able to give you any insight into what happened?” Hood asked.

  “Nothing,” Kline replied. “They did not see very much. They had positioned themselves well away from the tarmac. They didn’t want to seem like bodyguards. They weren’t supposed to be there.”

  Which possibly cost the bishop his life, Hood thought. He wondered if the Spanish soldiers might somehow have been involved with the assassination. Or at least been aware of it.

  “Where are the soldiers now?” Hood asked.

  “The ones who were at the airport are still there,” Kline replied.

  “Incognito?” Hood asked.

  “No,” Kline said. “We wanted to be able to recover the body. Get a look at the bullet. See if it can give us any leads. The soldiers have identified themselves as special Vatican envoys and are talking with police. They are trying to get some background on the dead guard. Also, there is some confusion about the identity of the deacons who were waiting at the airport. Apparently, they were black men. The only black men who worked with Father Bradbury had already left Botswana and are in Cape Town now. What about your people?” Kline went on. “Were any of them there?”

  “Yes,” Hood told him. “Maria Corneja.”

  “Where was she?” Kline asked.

  “Close enough to have made a tentative identification of one of those ‘deacons,’ ” Hood said. “She believes that the man she saw was the leader of the Brush Vipers.”

  “Leon Seronga?”

  “Yes,” Hood said.

  “What else did she tell you?” Kline demanded. “Does she know where he went?”

  “She’s following him in a cab,” Hood said. “I was hoping we could get some of your people to watch out for her. She’s alone over there.”

  “I’ll get right on it,” Kline said. “Are you in touch with her?”

  “Yes,” Hood said.

  “What is her present location?” Kline asked.

  “She’s headed back into Maun,” Hood said.

  “In a taxi, you say?” Kline said.

  “Right.”

  “Maybe the soldiers can rent a helicopter at the airfield and track her,” Kline said. “Or the local police must have a small plane they can use.”

  “I do not want you to do that,” Hood said.

  “Why?”

  “If the deacons are Brush Vipers, or operatives of any ability, they’ll notice a spotter,” Hood said.

  “Does that matter?” Kline asked.

  “It does if you want to recover Father Bradbury,” Hood said.

  “Assuming he’s still alive,” Kline said.

  “He’s alive,” Hood said confidently. “If the Brush Vipers were behind this killing, they knew they would need a hostage. If they weren’t, they have no reason to kill him.”

  Kline was silent. Hood began to wonder if they had been disconnected.

  “All right,” Kline said at last. “I’ll buy that.”

  “If the
Brush Vipers think they’re being tailed, my guess is they’ll try to get their hands on the plane or chopper and its pilot.” Hood accessed the topographical map on his computer. “If they manage to do that, we’ll have a tough time picking them up again. We can tap into South African radar, but it may not be able to find them if they fly low in the Okavango Basin.”

  “That may be true, Paul, but how the Brush Vipers are tracked is out of my hands,” Kline told him. “Now they’ve killed a man. According to the leader of the Spanish team, both the local police and the national police will be moving against the assassins.”

  Hood swore.

  “Based on their conversations with the local authorities,” Kline went on, “the Botswana National Police have taken over the case from the police in Maun. Apparently, attacking a local individual remains a local matter. Once an international figure is involved, the state becomes involved.”

  Hood noticed Mike Rodgers’s instant message about the church on his computer.

  “Edgar, let me ask you something,” Hood said. “Is there a church in Maun proper?”

  “There’s a multidenominational chapel,” Kline replied. “It started out as a Catholic church. We opened it to other faiths when we established the Church of the Holy Cross at the tourist center. It was a show of good faith.”

  “Do you happen to know if the church has Internet access?” Hood asked.

  “I can find out for you,” Kline said. “Why do you ask?”

  “If the police are closing in, we may need to send our people data at a place where they won’t have to look over their shoulders,” Hood said. He did not want to tell Kline about Maria’s photographs. The Botswanans might want to confiscate the camera.

  “Hold on,” Kline said.

  “While you’re looking,” Hood went on, “what is the name of the dead security guard?”

  “Festus Mogami,” Kline said.

  “Are they sure that’s his real name?” Hood asked.

  “Pretty certain,” Kline said. “He’s been at the airport for at least two years, according to one of the ticket agents.”

  Hood instant-messaged that name over to Bob Herbert. It sounded, on the surface, like the kind of mob hits he used to see in Los Angeles. An outsider was hired to kill an important figure. Then he was shot by the backup gunmen or the people who were supposed to get him out.