by Clancy, Tom
Obviously, the camp was being abandoned. Quickly. The priest had seen films of occupied towns and concentration camps being evacuated. Papers, extra supplies, and evidence of crimes were destroyed. Witnesses and prisoners were executed. Father Bradbury had a sudden, strong sense that the men were taking him out to shoot him. He began to murmur through the Eucharistic prayer. He never imagined this was how it would be, administering the last sacraments to himself. So much of his life had been stable and predictable.
The men led Father Bradbury to Dhamballa’s hut. It was dark, lit with just a few candles. It seemed funereal. They brought him in and released his arms. The Vodun priest was standing in the center of the room. His posture was as ramrod straight as before. Another man was with him. A bald man, short and hefty, stood beside him. He was slouching slightly. Both men wore unhappy expressions. The smaller man, a white man, was sweating heavily. The priest could not tell if that was a result of the heat or anxiety. Probably both.
The soldiers released Father Bradbury’s arms. They left the hut and shut the door. Physically and psychologically, Father Bradbury felt stronger than he had the last two times he was here.
All right, the priest thought with some relief. The soldiers are not going to kill me.
At least, not yet. Father Bradbury wondered what Dhamballa would want him to do this time. The priest had already recalled his missionaries. He lacked the authority to do anything else.
Dhamballa stepped closer to the priest. Their faces were only inches apart. There was fierce intensity in the Vodunist’s eyes. He pointed toward the telephone on his table.
“I want you to call your diocese,” Dhamballa told him.
“The archdiocese in Cape Town,” Father Bradbury said.
“Yes,” Dhamballa replied.
Something must have happened. The Vodun leader’s voice was tense, angry. He pointed a long finger toward the phone on his table. Then he pointed toward Father Bradbury.
“What do you want me to say to them?” Bradbury asked.
“That you are alive,” Dhamballa said.
“Why would they think I am not?” the priest asked.
The other man jostled the priest. “This is not a negotiation,” he complained. “Make the damned call!”
The man had what sounded like a French accent.
Father Bradbury looked at him. They had starved and struck him so much that his body seemed to be in pieces. And when there was no body, only one thing remained: spirit. That could not be hurt from the outside.
“Why?” the priest asked.
“I will tell you,” Dhamballa said. “Your replacement was executed when he landed at the Maun airport.”
“The bishop?” Father Bradbury asked.
“Yes,” Dhamballa replied.
“Because of my call to the deacon?” he asked.
“No,” Dhamballa said. “We had nothing to do with this.”
The priest felt weak. Martyrs were a part of history. That was fact. But there was nothing inspiring about it. Not when you were living it.
He pushed Dhamballa away and stepped back. He did not want to hear any more.
“I want people to know that you are well,” Dhamballa said. “And I want you to tell them that we did not do this.”
“Of course you did it,” Father Bradbury replied. His statement bordered on accusation.
“You idiot!” said the other man. He struck the priest.
“Stop that!” Dhamballa yelled.
“He makes accusations, but he knows nothing!” the man charged.
“I know that you started a process of discrimination,” the priest went on. “You forced it upon people who love the Church. Perhaps you’ve given courage to others who do not share the views of the Church—”
“All I know, priest, is that we killed no one,” Dhamballa insisted. His tone was more moderate, yet there was menace in it. “But if we are forced, we will do whatever is necessary to preserve our heritage.”
There was often a very thin line between someone being confident and someone on the verge of being overwhelmed. The priest heard it in the confessional booth time after time. He could tell when an individual was contrite and afraid of damnation. He could also tell when a person was simply feigning atonement. Dhamballa and the other man were desperate. Father Bradbury did not know what their scheme was to extend the influence of Vodunism. In his lucid moments, he hoped it would be done by peaceful means, by what Dhamballa described in his writings as “white magic.” But that was no longer the only thing at risk. Their lives might be in jeopardy. Father Bradbury could not ignore that. Nor did he have any reason not to make the phone call and tell the truth. He was alive.
“If I make the call, they are going to ask me questions,” Father Bradbury said. “They will want to know how I am and how I have been treated.”
“You may tell them anything except where we are,” Dhamballa replied. “They must understand that while we have our differences, we are men of peace.”
“They will say that men of peace don’t take other men by force,” the priest pointed out.
“Men of your sect inflicted the Inquisition on men of peace,” Dhamballa said. “What is it that you say? Let he who is without sin judge me.”
The Vodun leader had anticipated the question. This was not the time to debate the point.
The priest looked over at the cordless phone. He looked at Dhamballa. “I read your pamphlet. There is room for everyone.”
“That is true,” Dhamballa said. “But not in Botswana.”
“We don’t have time for this,” the other man snarled. “Make the damned phone call.”
The priest went over to the small table. As he crossed the cool, damp soil, he looked at the telephone. It was covered with droplets that glistened in the dull daylight. Perspiration, no doubt. This was where the bad news had been received. As Father Bradbury walked toward the phone, he said a short, silent prayer for the murdered bishop.
“You will have no more than three minutes to deliver the message,” Dhamballa cautioned. “I will not give the authorities time to triangulate the call. We will also be listening,” he added.
Dhamballa punched the speakerphone button. A loud, strong dial tone filled the room. Father Bradbury had not noticed before, but the dial tone sounded extremely clear. The camp must have had their own uplink.
Father Bradbury’s ordeal had cost him his focus. It took the priest several moments to remember the phone number of the archdiocese. He began to punch it into the keypad. Perspiration blurred his vision. He entered the number slowly. It hurt to move his fingers. He just now noticed how severely swollen they were. No doubt that was a result of the heat and humidity. Perhaps the salt in the stew had caused it.
So many things have changed out here, the priest thought. Yet Father Bradbury did have one wondrous realization. His mind, his body, and his emotions had all undergone degrees of metamorphosis. Through the ordeal, however, his faith had remained unaltered.
“Hurry!” snapped the man who might be from France.
Father Bradbury glanced over at the European. The man’s expression was agitated. He looked at his watch.
The activity all over the island, the priest thought. The European’s urgency. Father Bradbury realized that these people were suddenly on an extremely tight timetable.
Despite the stiffness in his joints, Father Bradbury entered the numbers more quickly. He finished entering the number. Then he turned and rested against the table. Dhamballa stood directly beside him. The priest’s own sweat fell on the black receiver. As he waited for someone to answer, Father Bradbury wondered what the European was doing here. His language and demeanor did not suggest that he was a holy man. His reasons for being in Botswana had to be political or economical. Power and wealth were the only other reasons faithless men embraced religion. Even in his own Church.
A lay secretary answered the phone. Father Bradbury introduced himself and asked to be put through to the archbishop as quic
kly as possible.
“Of course, Father!” the young man practically shouted into the receiver.
In less than half a minute, the archbishop was on the phone with his heavy, distinctive Afrikaner accent.
“Powys, is it truly you?” Archbishop Patrick asked.
“Yes,” Father Bradbury replied.
“Praise to God,” the archbishop sighed. “Are you well?”
“I am—”
“Have you been released?” the archbishop pressed.
“Not yet, Your Eminence,” Father Bradbury said. “My captors are with me, in fact,” he added. The priest wanted the archbishop to know that they were not free to speak.
“I see,” the archbishop replied. “Gentlemen, if you can hear me, please talk to me. What must we do to secure the release of our beloved brother?”
Dhamballa did not respond. He stood still, glaring impatiently at Father Bradbury.
“Your Eminence, my freedom is not why I’ve called,” said the priest. “I have been asked to tell you something.”
“All right,” the archbishop said. “I’m listening.”
“My hosts insist that they were not responsible for the death of the American archbishop,” Father Bradbury said.
“Do you believe them?” the archbishop asked.
“I have no reason to doubt what they have told me,” Father Bradbury replied.
“Do you have reason to believe them?” the archbishop pressed.
The priest regarded the dark-eyed Vodun leader. “They have fed me and given me shelter and water,” Father Bradbury said. “They do not seem to want blood upon their faith.”
“I see,” said Archbishop Patrick. “If they are good men, as you say, then when may we expect your safe return?”
The priest was still looking into Dhamballa’s eyes. There was no hope, no answer to be found in them.
“Soon, I pray,” the clergyman replied.
Dhamballa took the handset from Father Bradbury. He hung it up.
“Thank you,” Dhamballa said. But the hardness in the Vodun leader’s eyes was unchanged.
“Good,” the European said. “Since that is done, I’m going out to see about the preparations.”
The French-sounding man left. Father Bradbury turned away from Dhamballa. The priest leaned on the table, his shoulders slumping. He shook his head sadly. After a moment, he slipped his hands into his pockets and turned back. When he spoke, his voice was quiet but firm.
“Please,” Father Bradbury said. “I do not know what you’re planning. I do not want to know. But I recognize fear, Dhamballa.”
The Vodun leader said nothing.
“You’re afraid, and so is your friend,” the priest said as he cocked his head toward the departing European. “Talk to me. Not as a prisoner but as a friend,” he implored.
“As a confessor?” Dhamballa asked.
“If you like.”
“I do not like,” Dhamballa replied.
“Dhamballa, I don’t care what your plans are for me,” the priest said. “But I am worried about your followers. They are my countrymen, too, and I care very much about them.”
“If you care about Botswana, then make no trouble for me,” Dhamballa replied.
“I’ve tried to be cooperative, have I not?” the priest asked.
“As the termite who looks out from your wall and says, ‘But I did not eat your table,’ ” the Vodun leader replied. “Sabot, Alfred!”
“Don’t you understand?” Father Bradbury said. “More can be accomplished through talk than through fighting. Don’t force a confrontation you cannot win.”
The soldiers came back into the room. They awaited instructions. Dhamballa looked at Father Bradbury.
“We are the ones being forced,” Dhamballa told the priest. “We’ve been forced from our roots and now we’ve been forced from a measured, peaceful plan. At the moment, Father, we have nothing to lose.”
Dhamballa told the soldiers to take the priest back to his shack. Then he left the hut.
Father Bradbury sighed as the men took hold of his arms. He did not struggle as they led him out. The sun had gone down. The men moved the priest quickly across through the thickly shadowed twilight. Activity around the island seemed more intense than it had a few minutes before. Perhaps that was because everything was now being done by lantern light. Battery-powered lanterns were suspended from tree limbs and hooks on the hut walls. Each soldier had a brilliant glow around his station. Their open jackets fluttered lightly in the gentle air that rolled in from the swamp.
The angels of Vodun at work, Father Bradbury thought.
The priest was returned to the shack. Once again, his left ankle was chained to the cot. Father Bradbury remained standing as the men left. They locked the door behind them. The priest listened. When he was sure they had gone, he reached into his pocket.
Father Bradbury had counted the footsteps from Dhamballa’s hut to his own. By his measure, it was about two hundred steps. That was about fifty yards. It might be too far.
The priest reached into his deep pocket. He would know in just a few seconds. He had to act quickly if he was going to prevent a disaster from befalling these people. The darkness in the hut had shielded his actions. But it would not be very long before Dhamballa noticed what Father Bradbury had done.
Leaning close to the light of his own lantern, Father Bradbury looked down at the telephone receiver. The priest had placed his hand on the cordless unit when he turned his back to Dhamballa. It had been easy to step close then and conceal the fact that he was slipping it into his pocket.
Now he put it to his ear. He was not too far from the receiver. There was a dial tone.
His heart pumped blood to his brain and made his senses hyperalert. Even his fingers seemed more alive than before as he hit Redial and pressed the phone to his ear.
The irony of what he was doing did not escape him. The soldiers had seemed like angels to him. Now he was a tactician, a de facto warrior. Father Bradbury did not even recognize his own somber voice as he spoke to the archdiocese secretary and asked to be put through to Archbishop Patrick.
A moment later, the priest’s feet were set on a path from which there was no turning back. He prayed it was the right one.
FORTY-ONE
Gaborone, Botswana Friday, 4:40 P.M.
As the South African Airways 747 was making its final descent into Gaborone, the chief flight attendant went to the front of the cabin. He announced gates for connecting flights. If passengers were bound for Cape Town in South Africa or Antananarivo in Madagascar, their flights would be departing on time. If they were headed to Maun, there was an indefinite delay.
As the flight attendant made his way back to the galley, Aideen stopped him.
She asked what the problem was in Maun.
“The airfield has been closed,” the middle-aged attendant informed her.
“What’s the problem?” Aideen asked.
“They did not tell us,” the attendant replied.
“We’ve got family waiting for us,” Aideen lied.
“I’m sure an announcement will be made at the terminal,” the attendant said. Smiling politely, he excused himself.
Aideen glanced over at Battat. His mouth twisted unhappily.
“Maybe they’ve got some kind of animal infestation up there,” Battat suggested. “Migrating storks or gazelles or an insect swarm. Something that will pass quickly.”
“I’m pretty good at interpreting airport-speak,” she said. “This was the kind of announcement they make when there’s an ongoing situation like a fire or a bomb threat. I was also watching the flight attendant. I really don’t think he knows why there is a delay.”
“But he would know if it were weather- or animal-related,” Battat said.
“Exactly,” Aideen replied.
Ten minutes after the jet touched down, Aideen was standing outside the gate in the big, open terminal. She accessed her cell phone voice mail. There was a messa
ge from Mike Rodgers. He had left Aideen the access code to the generalpurpose voice mail box at Op-Center. Obviously, General Rodgers had not wanted to leave information on the automated answering system of her cell phone. If someone else accidentally entered her code, they would be able to get the information. That could compromise security.
The message told Aideen why the Maun airport had been shut down. It also instructed her to get to the village as soon as possible. Maria Corneja was chasing a pair of Brush Vipers with no backup. Rodgers’s message included Maria’s cell phone number.
Aideen put the cell phone away. She quickly briefed Battat. There were security officers by the gate and along the corridors. Aideen did not want to act suspiciously. Since one airport was attacked, she assumed that others would be on heightened alert. She pointed at overhead signs while she and Battat spoke, acting as if they were discussing which way to go.
Battat did not seem surprised by the killing. Aideen asked him why.
“There seems to be a lot more to this situation than what we’ve been told,” Battat said.
“In what way?” Aideen asked.
“The Belgians, the Chinese, the Japanese, the Vatican, us,” Battat said. “There are too many people interested in a very small battleground. It’s like Vietnam.”
“A stage for superpowers,” she said.
“That would be my guess,” he remarked.
“Why?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” he replied, “but I’ll bet Dhamballa or people close to him have some of those answers.”
Aideen told Battat to go ahead and rent them a car. They only had carry-on luggage. She said that she would take the wheeled bags through customs and meet Battat in front of the airport.
The young woman pulled the two bags through the modern, air-conditioned terminal. She was edgy, unsettled, but she did not know why. It was more than just the dangerous business at hand. There was something about the environment that bothered her.
She looked around.
For one thing, she had noticed a sharpness about the security personnel that she had not seen in her travels through the United States or Europe. Their posture was perfect, and their uniforms were crisp and immaculate. They were alert, yet their expressions were calm, almost spiritual. She had read in the Op-Center files that Botswana was like the Middle East. Church and state were not separate. Religion was an integral part of the national, political, and individual character.
