by Clancy, Tom
“The church in Maun does have an E-mail address, so obviously they’re on-line,” Kline said.
Kline provided the E-mail address. He also gave Hood an up-to-date list of the pastors who held services at the chapel. Hood sent all the information to Herbert as well.
“Is there anything else you can tell me?” Hood asked.
“What are you looking for?” Kline asked.
“Details about the shooting, anything about what our people might be facing over there,” Hood told him. “Because we are in this now. Not just Op-Center but the United States. I don’t think the president will do anything except condemn the action, but you never know.”
“Paul, I don’t have any other information right now,” Kline told him. “I wish I did.”
“Can we talk to the leader of the Spanish team?” Hood asked.
“I’ll find out for you,” Kline replied. “Your agent in Maun is Spanish, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Depending on what region of the country she’s from, that could work for her or against her,” Kline said. “The soldiers are serious loyalists.”
“Maria’s not a separatist, if that’s what you’re asking,” Hood said. “She was with Interpol for years.”
“That’s good,” Kline said. “I’ll call over there. They may want to talk to her directly. I’ll let you know as soon as possible.”
Hood believed that Kline would press the soldiers to cooperate. He would want all the help he could get.
“Before you go, Edgar, there is one more thing I would like to ask you,” Hood said. “Does the Church believe that what’s happening in Botswana is the will of God?”
“That’s an odd question,” Kline said.
“Not from a doctrinarian member of the Episcopal Church,” Hood said. “We believe that God’s hand is in everything.”
“Catholics believe in free will,” Kline said. “It is the privilege of an intelligent being to act or not act. There is no compulsion from outside. God did not will the kidnappers to do what they did nor the assassin to do what he did. The choices were their own.”
“And God would not have intervened to stop either of those events,” Hood said.
“He would not have,” Kline said. “He did not save His own Son. Murder is the province of—”
Suddenly, Kline stopped.
“I have another call,” the Vatican official said. His voice was noticeably different now. It was clipped, urgent.
“Is everything all right?” Hood asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Then we’ll talk later,” Hood said.
“No, I’ll call you right back,” Kline insisted urgently.
“Why?” Hood asked. “What happened?”
“The incoming call,” Kline said. “It’s news from Father Bradbury.”
THIRTY-NINE
Washington, D.C. Friday, 9:00 A.M.
Before phoning Darrell McCaskey, Mike Rodgers needed to put in a call to his friend Lieutenant Colonel Matt Mazer at the Pentagon. Rodgers wanted Mazer to call ahead to the airport in Gaborone. He wanted to make sure the plane carrying Aideen Marley and David Battat to Maun was given a thorough security check. The airfield as well. Maybe it was an attack on the bishop himself. Or maybe someone was shooting Americans. Rodgers wanted to make sure Aideen and Battat were protected.
Rodgers had just hung up with Mazer, when Darrell McCaskey swung into his office.
“Mind if I come in?” McCaskey asked.
“No. I’m glad you’re here, Darrell,” Rodgers said. “I was just going to give you a holler.”
“What about?” McCaskey asked.
“I’ve heard from Maria,” Rodgers replied.
“And?”
“She’s doing all right,” Rodgers said.
“Just ‘all right’?”
“No, she’s fine,” Rodgers said. This was not coming out the way he wanted. Rodgers had been in combat situations that were easier than this.
McCaskey eyed the general warily. “I hear a ‘but’ there, Mike,” McCaskey said.
“What you hear is frustration, Darrell, because I feel like a genie in a goddamn bottle,” Rodgers said.
“Mike, what the hell are you talking about?” McCaskey asked.
“I’m talking about things happening on the outside that affect what we do,” Rodgers said. “The bottle gets rubbed, we jump into service with all our resources, and we have very little control over any of it.” He took a short, deep breath. “Yes, Maria is all right. But she was at the airport in Maun when a security guard, or someone posing as a security guard, killed the American bishop.”
“What?” McCaskey declared. “They killed the bishop who just flew over there?”
“Yes,” Rodgers said.
“How did it happen?” McCaskey asked as he eased into a chair. His voice was flat and professional. For the moment.
“He was killed by a gunshot at close range,” Rodgers told him. “When the killer tried to board a small plane that was apparently waiting for him, the pilot shot him.”
“A patsy,” McCaskey said.
“No doubt,” Rodgers said.
“And Maria?”
“She was on the sidelines, but she’s pretty sure she ID’ed one of the men who was on site,” Rodgers said. “She thinks it was a Brush Viper. She’s following him in a taxi.”
“Did the Brush Viper participate in any way?” McCaskey asked.
“Not that she could see,” Rodgers said.
“I see. Does Maria have backup?” McCaskey asked.
“Aideen Marley and David Battat will be arriving in Gaborone shortly,” Rodgers told him. “They’ll be in Maun in about three hours. I left a message for Aideen on her cell phone. Calls are being relayed by our consulate in Gaborone. She’ll call before they catch the connecting flight, and I’ll bring them up to speed.”
“What about local police?” McCaskey asked.
“They were not present, and she left without them,” Rodgers said. “It would have taken them about a half hour to get there.”
“But you’ll let them know where Maria is,” McCaskey said.
“She doesn’t want that,” Rodgers replied.
“Does that matter?” McCaskey asked.
“Yes, it does,” Rodgers said. “Maria is hoping the Brush Viper may lead her to Dhamballa and Father Bradbury. She doesn’t want to do anything to signal her presence.”
“Mike, it doesn’t matter what she wants,” McCaskey said. “She isn’t running this mission. The Maun police can pick up the Brush Viper and get the same information she can. Botswana peace officers can be pretty aggressive when they want to be.”
“Then how do we get the information?” Rodgers asked.
“Why do we need it?” McCaskey asked. “The police can find Father Bradbury.”
“Not if the target sees them closing in and signals ahead,” Rodgers said. “You know better than that, Darrell.”
McCaskey stared at Rodgers. The look was pure G-man: steady gaze, neutral mouth. It was an expression that agents practiced to keep adversaries from knowing whether they had touched a weak spot in a confrontation or interrogation. Or that they had let an important piece of information slip. Rodgers did not think McCaskey was trying to keep his feelings a secret, but the former FBI agent was trying to keep them in check. McCaskey could not have liked what he just heard about his wife.
“What about you, Mike?” McCaskey asked.
“I don’t follow,” Rodgers said.
“What do you want?” McCaskey pressed.
“I want Maria to be safe,” Rodgers replied. “I also want to complete the mission she undertook.”
“In that order?” McCaskey pressed.
There was something accusatory in McCaskey’s tone. Rodgers did not appreciate it.
“Very much in that order, Darrell,” Rodgers replied. “I’ve already lost my allotment of Op-Center personnel for this year.”
McCaskey looked like h
e’d been hit across the back with a two-by-four. There was an awkward, deadly silence. McCaskey lowered his eyes. Some of the anger seemed to leave him.
Mike Rodgers was still pretty pissed off, himself. But not because McCaskey had raised the subject of Rodgers’s priorities. If he were in McCaskey’s position, he would have asked the same question. And not as diplomatically. He would have done it for two reasons. First, to make sure his wife was not taking reckless chances. And second, to blow off pressure at having been left out of the decision-making process from the start.
No, what bothered Rodgers was one of the same things that bothered McCaskey. Maria was being forced to improvise an entire recon operation. There was no playbook for Maria to follow. And there was no exit strategy. The least they could do was to try to get her some blockers.
“Let’s get back on track,” Rodgers suggested.
McCaskey nodded weakly.
“One of the reasons I was going to call you is that we’ve got an orphan agent in the field,” Rodgers said. “Who do you know over there?”
“No one we can use,” McCaskey replied. “I already checked. There’s an Interpol office in Johannesburg, but that’s a dry well.”
“They don’t have anyone free, or they won’t help?” Rodgers asked.
“Interpol South Africa needs authorization from Botswana to operate within their borders,” McCaskey said. “That will take days to obtain.”
“They can’t go in unofficially?” Rodgers asked.
“They won’t,” McCaskey replied. “Unlawful police actions are code-one crimes. Federal crimes that carry a minimum of life imprisonment. South Africans don’t get very favorable treatment in Botswana courts. It’s a holdover from apartheid.”
“There’s no one else we can ask?” Rodgers asked.
“All of my dealings in that region were with ISA,” McCaskey said. “Botswana was never a hub of intelligence activity.”
“Which could be one of the reasons the perpetrators struck there,” Rodgers thought out loud.
“First rule of starting a revolution,” McCaskey said. “Always start where the resources are on your side. Speaking of which, Bob told me that the Vatican Security Organization has undercover personnel in the area. Members of the Grupo del Cuartel General.”
“That’s true,” Rodgers said.
“Can’t we get them to help Maria?”
“Paul’s going to ask Kline about that,” Rodgers replied. “We don’t know what their mandate was. I’m also not sure how far to trust them. They didn’t do a very good job protecting the bishop.”
“No,” McCaskey agreed.
“If it doesn’t work out, I need some other options,” Rodgers said. “What about newspaper offices over there? Do you know anyone in Maun?”
“I might be able to find someone who knows someone,” McCaskey said. “Why?”
“Maria took pictures at the airport right after the shooting,” Rodgers said. “I want those. We’ll need someone in the heart of town who has a computer and modem that can take Maria’s digicam software.”
“I’ll look into it,” McCaskey said. “In the meantime, you might try the local church. They’re probably hooked into the Vatican by PC. I’m sure your friend Kline can get you access.”
“Good idea,” Rodgers said. He turned to his computer and immediately sent an instant message to Hood.
“Thanks, General,” McCaskey replied. “You want another really good suggestion?”
“Sure,” Rodgers said.
“Recall Maria,” McCaskey said.
He was serious.
“Do you think she would bail if I did?” Rodgers asked. “Or would she know that you put me up to it?”
“I don’t care,” McCaskey said. “At least she’d be back here.”
“Maybe not,” Rodgers said. “You don’t divert a laser gun-sight from seven thousand miles away.”
“You do if you’re a good gunner,” McCaskey said.
Rodgers didn’t like that. But he didn’t let it get to him. McCaskey was not thinking. He was reacting. If Rodgers did the same, there would be even angrier words and probably worse.
“Look, Darrell,” Rodgers said. “No one knows that Maria is in Botswana. I’m sure she will not do anything to call attention to herself.”
“I know that,” McCaskey said. He was exasperated, and it showed in his expression, his voice, his posture. “But hell, Mike. Maria isn’t even armed. She turned in her handgun when she resigned from Interpol. Even if she had a weapon, she wouldn’t have risked packing it in her luggage. Not without a license. A scanner might have picked it up at the airport. There would have been questions, she would have had to say who she was, there might have been a leak. She’s too professional to have let that happen.”
Mike Rodgers did not know what else to say to his friend. Even if he did, there was not a lot of time to say it. Rodgers did not want to spend any more time on hand-holding. He wanted to check in with Bob Herbert and Stephen Viens. Make sure they were doing everything possible to support Maria.
“Darrell, we’re going to do everything we can to help her,” Rodgers said. “But we’re in this now, and we have to let it play out.”
“We?” McCaskey said. “She’s the one who’s out there on her goddamn own.” He rose and turned to go.
“Darrell?” Rodgers said.
McCaskey turned back.
“I heard everything you said,” Rodgers said. “I’ll get her out of there as soon as possible.”
“I know you will,” McCaskey said. He thought for a moment. “And I’m sorry if I hit you hard.”
“I can take it,” Rodgers said.
“Yeah,” McCaskey said with the hint of a smile. “Anyway, you’re in the intel-gathering business now. I needed to tell you what was on my mind.”
“Fair enough,” Rodgers said.
McCaskey left the office, and Rodgers immediately phoned Hood. Bugs Benet told him that the boss was still on the phone with Edgar Kline. Rodgers told Benet to make sure Hood looked at the instant message before ending the call.
Then he called Matt Stoll. Rodgers wanted to make sure they had conversion software to upload to Botswana. He wanted to be certain Maria’s camera would interface with whatever computer they located.
As Rodgers made the call, he had an unsettling whiff of the future. He had the very strong sense that the next wars would be fought this way. Not by soldiers looking for the correct range for their artillery. Not even by massive armies, financial institutions, and diplomats working in tandem, the way they had in the War on Terrorism. Wars of the future would be fought by people behind desks searching for the right software to fire off. A combination of cyber-hits, intelligence, and microsurgical strikes.
Mike Rodgers was not sure he was prepared for that future. A future in which, conceivably, any nation could be a superpower.
Even Botswana.
FORTY
Okavango Swamp, Botswana Friday, 4:39 P.M.
Father Bradbury had spent nearly twenty-four hours in a small hut in the center of the tiny island. The only items in the room were an aluminum-frame cot, a hanging lantern, and a straw mat. The priest’s left ankle was cuffed to the frame of the cot. He had been fed stew three times during that period. They left him with a canteen of warm water to keep him from dehydrating. The priest had been taken to the outhouse twice. The shutters were still closed, and the room was ferociously hot, though it was not as stifling as his first prison had been. He had been left with one thing to occupy himself. It was a slender pamphlet containing the reflections of Dhamballa.
Bradbury lay on his side on the canvas cot. He had sweated so much that the fabric was clammy. His outer clothes were so rank with swamp water and sweat that he had removed them. They were lying on the dirt floor, where he hoped they would dry. The ground was slightly cooler than the air.
Occasionally, people would pass the hut. It was difficult to hear anything that was said outside. Bradbury wondered if he were the
only one being held on this small island. He wondered what was happening in the outside world. How the Church and his deacons had reacted to his abduction. He hoped his friend Tswana Ndebele was all right. Now that Father Bradbury had time to reflect on what had happened, he realized how many people would be worried about him.
He also had time to reflect on the suffering of Jesus and other Christian saints and martyrs: Saint John the Evangelist beaten, poisoned, and placed in a cauldron of boiling oil; the young convert Felicitas, taken to an arena and trampled by a wild cow; Saint Blaise, raked with iron combs and beheaded; so many others. In John 16:33, Jesus warned that there would be tribulation in this world. Father Bradbury would not complain about his.
The priest also took time to read the Vodun booklet several times. He was happy to have it. Perhaps it would give him a means of communicating with the Vodun leader. When they met, nothing he said had any impact. If the Bible taught him anything about zealots, it was that reason seldom worked on them. Perhaps there was some other way they could communicate. Perhaps if he knew more about the man’s faith, he could find something they had in common.
They came for him again. There were two men, dressed in camouflage fatigues and carrying rifles. Only this time, there was an urgency Father Bradbury had not seen before. While one man unlocked his leg, the other held his arm tightly. Father Bradbury did not resist.
“Please let me get my clothes,” the priest said. He pointed to them as the second man took his other arm.
The men allowed Father Bradbury to dress. Then they pulled him toward the door.
“The booklet—” he said. He gestured to the pamphlet, which had fallen on the ground. The men ignored him.
The priest did not bother to ask where they were going. It was still light enough in the leaf-filtered twilight for him to see their faces. They seemed anxious. As they headed toward the center of the island, the priest became aware of other activity. Men were gathering things up inside huts. On the far side of the island, moss, leaves, branches, and canvas were being removed from motorboats. The vessels had been kept there under heavy camouflage. A small airplane was being stocked beyond them.
